“Yes, father. I made him do it; but I did it all as a thoughtless boy.”
“And did this old soldier do all as a thoughtless boy,” said Cracis, bitterly, “or as my trusted servant?”
“He did it as my servant as well as yours, father,” said the boy, proudly. “I told him it was his duty to obey me, his master’s son, father, and, poor fellow, he obeyed unwillingly till to-day, when he felt and I felt, that we had been doing very wrong, that it was all worse than we had ever thought, and this was the last time the teaching was to go on. Everything was to be put aside, and I was going to work hard at my writing and reading, as you wished, and try to think no more about the army and the wars.”
Cracis was silent for a few moments, during which he gazed searchingly at his son.
“Is this the very truth?” he said.
“Every word of it, master!” cried Serge, excitedly. “Tell him, Marcus boy, how it was all by chance you put on your helmet and drew your sword. I wish now, boy, it had gone through me and made an end of me, before I had to stand up like this and own all my fault.”
“What do you mean by that—the sword gone through you, Serge?”
“Yes, father. In my eagerness I made a big thrust at him, and the point of my sword almost entered his breast.”
“Dangerously close?” asked Cracis.
“Horribly close, father, and—there, I am glad you found it all out. I have no more to say, father, only that you must punish me, not Serge, and I will bear everything without saying a word.”