Marcus: the Young Centurion - George Manville Fenn

“Horrible!” he sighed.

“Yes, boy,” said the old warrior, gravely; “I suppose it is, in spite of all the glory and triumph and the like; but,” he continued, after a pause, as he raised his spear, whose head glimmered in the pale light as he pointed in the direction of the shining crest of one of the mountains beyond, while far away lay Rome, “our country must rule the world.”

Marcus sighed.

“And give up the bravest and the best of her sons to fight her cause!” sighed the old soldier to himself. “But I hope the general won’t forget what even a boy can do.”

Caius Julius did not, for a little later a group of mounted men appeared, and the faint cheers of the wounded soldiery greeted them as they passed.

“It was somewhere near here, Cracis,” said one of the party, and then pointing with his sword, “Ah, it must have been there. Yonder is my poor horse. Yes, there lies your brave son not dead, for he has raised and is waving his hand to you. Another great triumph for Rome, Cracis, but I’d give up all the glory I have won to possess a son like yours.”