“But he can’t get out yonder, captain,” growled Serge, fiercely. “You are going to kill the boy.”
“Well,” said the captain, with a peculiar smile, “could I honour the son of great Cracis more than by letting him die for the sake of his country?”
“That’s all very grand in sound, captain,” cried Serge, grasping Marcus’ other arm, “but he’s my boy as much as his father’s, and I won’t stand by and see him go alone to sudden death.”
“Serge!” cried Marcus, fiercely. “How dare you! Captain, don’t heed him; I am ready to go the moment you say the word, and—and—”
“Well, boy?”
“If I am killed,” continued Marcus, struggling hard with his emotion, “and you ever see my father again, tell him, sir, that I went to my death doing my duty, as he taught me, and praying that he will forgive me for disobeying his commands.”
“I will, boy,” cried the chief, warmly; “but it shall not come to that, for you will reach your father, I feel sure, and bring me the help I need.”
“He can’t, captain, I tell you,” cried Serge, fiercely. “Yes, you may punish me, a common soldier, for speaking as I do, but I tell you once again that I will not stand by and see my dear old master’s son butchered, for it’s nothing else. A boy like him, brave as he is, ought not to be sent, even if it is for his country’s sake, when there are plenty of stout, strong men who could do the work as well or better, because they are hard and tough.”
“Be silent, Serge,” cried Marcus, passionately. “Don’t punish him, captain; he means well, but he is half mad to speak to you like that.”
“You need not appeal, my boy,” said the captain, smiling. “I should punish no man for being brave and true to those he has served.”