“And that is—?” said Caius Julius.
“Where would you like to be, my boy?”
Marcus flushed deeper than ever as he replied:
“Serge always taught me, father, that the place of honour was in the front.”
That morning, as the army moved off in perfect order from their camp upon the hill, a message came to where Marcus was marching on one side of his father’s horse, Serge limping stiffly along on the other, that the boy was to come forward to join his cohort at once, by the general’s orders; and Marcus started upon seeing that the messenger, at the head of ten stern-looking veterans, was the young officer who had fetched him to the general’s tent.
There was a brief and soldierly leave-taking, and then Marcus was hurrying forward with his guide, who began at once to falter out hurriedly his apologies for his former treatment of the boy.
“I didn’t know,” he said. “I couldn’t tell who you were. I thought you were to be a prisoner brought in as a traitorous Roman who had been fighting on the enemy’s side.”
“Don’t say a word more,” cried Marcus, holding out his hand, and, the best of friends directly, the young officer began to tell him how all that he had done was known in the cohort, and how proud the men were to have Cracis’ son appointed to join their ranks.
“Ah,” said Serge, as soon as he could get an opportunity to speak to Marcus alone, “do you see how I am marching now, my lad?”
“Oh, I have been watching you all the way,” cried Marcus, “and pitying you.”