“But I shall want to look at it all sometimes, Serge.”
“Well, I don’t see no harm in that, my boy. Only no more fighting lessons.”
“No,” sighed Marcus; “no more fighting lessons. You are right, Serge, and I’m going to forget all about it if I can; but I shall always feel that I should have liked to be a Roman soldier.”
“Ah, you can’t help that, boy, of course.”
“No, I can’t help that,” sighed Marcus, and, stretching out his hands, he picked up the heavy brazen helmet, looked at it round and round before turning it with the back towards him, and then, slowly raising it, he balanced the heavy head-piece on high for a few moments before slowly lowering it down upon his head; the scaled cheek-straps fell into their places, and he drew himself up erect with his eyes flashing and face lighting up, as he gazed half defiantly at the old soldier.
“Hah!” cried the latter. “It do fit you well, boy, and you look nearly a man in it.”
“Do I, Serge?” cried the boy, flushing, as he put off the helmet with a sigh, and set it aside; then, catching up the sword and belt, he went out on to the Piazza to buckle them on, his fingers trembling with excitement the while.
“Do you, boy? Yes, and a regular soldier too,” said Serge, following.
Marcus threw his hand across and grasped the scabbard of the short sword blade with his left, the hilt with his right, and, the next moment, the keen, two-edged weapon flashed in the sunlight.
“Good! Brave boy!” cried the old soldier excitedly, and, forgetting all the words that had passed, he fetched the oblong, round-faced shield from the table and held it ready for Marcus to thrust his left arm through the loop and then grasp the hand-hold firmly, and draw the piece of defensive armour before his breast. “Well done! Now think that I’m going to cut you down.”