Cracis was silent for a few minutes, and his voice sounded different when he spoke again.
“Where have these war-like implements been kept?” he said.
“In your big chest, master, made out of the planks cut from the big chestnut that was hewn down four years ago.”
“Place them back there, Serge,” said Cracis, gravely. “Fasten them in, and carry the chest and bestow it where it may stand beside my bed.”
“But father—” began Marcus.
“Silence, sir!” said Cracis. “I wish to think of all this, and not judge hastily. Take off those unseemly weapons, which are far from suited for my student son. Let this be done at once, Serge. You, Marcus, will follow me to my room, and be there an hour hence. I have much to say to you, my boy, very much to say.”
Cracis turned thoughtfully away, leaving his son with the old soldier, for them to gaze sadly at one another as the slow steps of the father and master died away.
“He’ll never forgive us, Marcus, my lad.”
“He will forgive us both, Serge,” said Marcus quickly; “but what would I not give if it had never been done!”
“No,” said Serge, grimly, “he’ll never forgive us.”