“Stop, Serge!” cried Marcus, passionately, and he laid his hand upon his old comrade’s blade. “I am a Roman, if only a boy, and I have the right to appeal.”
Turning to Caius Julius, he cried:
“You refused me once, sir, when I appealed to you, saying that I was but a weak unseasoned boy—not in those words, but that is what you meant.”
Caius Julius gravely bent his head, and fixed his keen, glittering eyes upon the speaker, who went on:
“Since then I have tried hard to prove myself worthy to bear the arms I was taught by an old soldier to use.”
The general bowed his head slowly once again.
“Then help me, sir. It is from no desire to disobey, but I feel that I cannot leave my father now. Forgive me, father. I cannot obey you. Forgive me, too, for this appeal.”
“Yes,” said Caius Julius, rising from his seat and taking a step or two forward. “You both disobeyed, and came here bearers of an important despatch which means more than you, boy, can imagine, in time to save a father’s and a master’s life. Serge, old comrade,” he continued, laying his hand upon the unsheathed sword, “keep your blade for our enemies. If it prove necessary I will kneel for you to my oldest friend and ask his forgiveness for you and my brave young soldier here. Boy,” he continued, “you have confessed your fault as your father’s son, but since he left you, a simple scholar, you have become a soldier and bravely done your duty in your country’s cause. Cracis, my brother general, I grant your son’s appeal. Endorse it, man, for a fault so frankly acknowledged is half atoned.”
“I must have obedience,” said Cracis, coldly, “not defiance, at a time like this.”
“I feel with you, old friend,” said Caius Julius, slowly, “but your wounds have fevered you, and it has not been cool, calculating Cracis who has spoken, but the angry, offended general. Brother, you desire that your old servant and your son should return home at once?”