In an instant Marcus had drawn back with all his weight upon his right foot, as he slightly raised the shield to cover his head and left breast, before throwing himself forward again, bringing up his right hand, sword-armed as it was, and delivering a thrust which, in the boy’s excitement, lightly touched the folds of the thick woollen garment which crossed his breast, while the receiver smartly drew himself aside.
“Gently, boy!” he shouted. “I didn’t mean you to do that!”
“Oh, Serge!” cried Marcus, flushing scarlet. “I didn’t mean to touch you like that! I haven’t hurt you, have I?” he cried.
“Well, no,” said the old fellow, smiling grimly; “but it was very near, and the point of that sword’s as sharp as I could grind it.”
“I’m so sorry,” cried Marcus. “I didn’t think.”
“Lucky for me I did,” said Serge, with a laugh. “Did you think I was an enemy?”
“No,” cried Marcus, hurriedly; “I thought—no, I didn’t think.”
“Of course you didn’t, boy, but—”
“What is the meaning of this?” said a stern voice, and a bare-headed figure draped in the folds of a simple Roman toga stood looking wonderingly at the pair.