“What!” cried Marcus. “Why, I should have killed you. That sword point is so horribly sharp. You don’t know what a shudder ran through me when I saw what I had nearly done.”
“Yes, you would have killed me, boy, and that’s what I wish you had done.”
“Serge, do you know what you are talking about?” cried Marcus. “Are you going mad?”
“Oh yes, I know what I’m talking about, and perhaps I am going mad. What else can you expect of a poor fellow who, all at once, finds himself dishonoured and disgraced?”
“You are not. I tell you I don’t believe that my father will ever say another word when all the things are put away.”
“Yes, because you don’t know him, boy. There, it’s no use to talk. I have made up my mind to go.”
“What nonsense!” said Marcus. “When my father as good as said he was going to look over all the past.”
“Ah, but that won’t do for me, boy. I am dishonoured and disgraced, and I can never hold up my head again.”
“Oh, Serge, this comes hard on me,” cried the boy, passionately.
“Nay, boy; it’s all on my unfortunate head.”