It was bright with the early sunshine outside the tent, where Marcus now found himself face to face with a stern-looking man in the dress of a general, who sat with his hand resting upon his helmet.
But he was not alone, for another officer was lying upon a rough couch, evidently, from his bandaged head, wounded; but he was fully dressed, and his helmet and sword were upon the rolled-up cloak at the side of his averted head.
“You are welcome,” began the sitting general, warmly. “I have sent for you to give you the thanks of my injured friend, whose life—Why, what is this! My severe young friend Marcus here!”
“What!” came from the couch, and its occupant sprang into a sitting position.
“Father!” cried Marcus, and Serge, who had doffed his helmet, now in his astonishment let it fall upon the skins which covered the ground with a heavy thud.
As Marcus spoke he ran to his father’s side and sank down upon one knee to gaze anxiously in his face.
“Are you much hurt?” he said, hoarsely.
“No, no, not much, my boy,” said Cracis; “but in the excitement I did not know you, Marcus. Oh, it seems impossible that you could have been my preserver!”
“It was more Serge than I, father,” cried Marcus, quickly.
“Nay, nay, nay!” growled the old soldier, in his hoarsest tones. “Speak the truth, boy.”