“Why, I feel prime, my boy, ready for anything; ten years younger than when we started. Why, I have got into regular fighting condition again. Did you see how I jumped into the car yesterday when the ponies started without me?”
“Yes, I saw you run ever so far and jump,” cried Marcus.
“And you begin talking to me about being haggard and worn! Isn’t a sword all the sharper for being a bit worn?”
“Yes, of course.”
“So’s a soldier. Look here, boy; we are getting seasoned, and I’m proud to say that I am what a man’s officer would call a veteran, and that’s the finest title there is in an army. Then, too, look at our lad here. See what a splendid driver he’s turned out, and how he can send that chariot in and out among the rocks so close as almost to shave them, and right in between pairs of them where you or I would think there wasn’t room to pass. And then there’s the ponies! They are a bit thin, certainly, but they are as fine as bronze, and can gallop farther and better than ever. Now then! Speak out honest! Did you ever before see such a splendid pair?”
“No, Serge, never.”
“And yet you say that everything’s wrong and hopeless and bad. Why, boy, if I didn’t know it was all through your being young and anxious and eager to do your duty, I should be ashamed of you.”
“But you are not, Serge?” cried the boy, excitedly.
“’Shamed of you? No, boy. I feel proud.”
“There, Serge,” cried Marcus, leaving the pony, to go and lay his hand upon the old soldier’s shoulder, “I’ve done, and I will try and never complain any more. I do see now what a lot we have to be thankful for. Now then; what’s the next thing we ought to do?”