“He doesn’t look much like a boy who’d keep out of sight, old warrior,” he said. “Far more likely to thrust himself into the front with all the unbalanced rashness of a boy. A nice pair indeed! But I should like to have a thousand of you, all the same. No, I don’t think I ought to take you, boy,” he continued, slowly, with a very severe frown gathering on his forehead. “But look here; I don’t like to stand in the light of one of Rome’s brave sons, however young, at a time when our country needs their help. But tell me, boy; if I say to you, go back home and wait a year or two till you have grown more of a man, you will go back at once, will you not?”
“Shall you tell Serge to go back too?” replied Marcus, sharply.
“Most certainly not,” said the captain, laughing. “He has offered his services, and I have taken him. You will have to go home alone. Tell me, will you obey my orders?”
“No,” said Marcus, firmly. “I am not going to forsake old Serge.”
“You are a pretty fellow for a volunteer,” cried the captain, merrily. “Ask me to take you into my following, and, at the first command I give you, tell me flat to my nose that you won’t obey!”
“I’ll do anything else you tell me, captain, but that,” cried Marcus, quickly.
“Well, boy,” said the captain. “But stop. What shall you do now?”
“Find my way to the army alone,” said Marcus, quickly.
“You’d never do that, boy. The country ahead is in a state of war, and swarms with ruffians hanging about the heels of the army like wolves following a drove of sheep—worse, these, than the enemy. Boy, before many days had passed you’d be stripped of all your bravery, robbed for the sake of your weapons, and left dead or dying somewhere in the forest.”
“I can fight, sir,” said Marcus, proudly, “and my sword and spear are sharp.”