“Help shall be sent at once,” said Cracis, firmly; “or better still, Julius,” he continued, “our work being so far completed, with yesterday’s victory, we will march to his help ourselves.”
Caius Julius bent his head without saying a word, and then sat back in his seat, attentively watching father and son.
“But your message did not answer my question, boy,” said Cracis, coldly. “Marcus, my son, how came it that you were with the little army that at my orders was to follow in our wake, crushing down the Gauls who would be sure to gather after we had passed? Speak out, sire: how came you there?”
“I could not bear it, father: something seemed to tell me that you would be in danger, and I followed you to Rome, and then on here.”
“Then you disobeyed my commands, boy,” said Cracis, sternly; and Marcus sank upon his other knee, clasped his hands, and held them out before him. Closing his eyes then he threw back his head and was silent while one might have slowly counted ten. Then in a low, distinct tone, full of sorrow and despair, he said slowly:
“Yes, father; I disobeyed your command.”
“And you, Serge, my old and trusted servant, old soldier though you were,” continued Cracis, in tones that sounded icy, “as soon as my back was turned you plotted with my son to follow me and forsake your post.”
“Nay, master,” cried Serge, quickly; “there was no plotting. I deserted first.”
“Hah!” ejaculated Caius Julius again, and his clearly-cut face looked as if it were formed of marble.
“Worse and worse,” cried Cracis, angrily. “Then you set the example which my weak son followed?”