“It isn’t, Serge,” cried Marcus, “for, as I told father, it was all my doing. It was my stupid vanity and pride. I took it into my head that I wanted to be a soldier the same as father and you had been, and it has brought all this down upon you. I shall never forgive myself as long as I live.”
“Nay, but you will, boy, when I’m gone and forgotten.”
“Gone and forgotten!” cried Marcus, angrily. “You are not going, and you couldn’t be forgotten. I shall never forget you, Serge, as long as I live.”
“Shan’t you, boy?” said the man, smiling sadly. “Well, thank ye. I don’t think you will. I like that, boy, for you never seemed like a young master to me. I’m old and ugly, while you’re young and handsome, but somehow we have always seemed to be companions like, and whatever you wanted me to do I always did.”
“Yes, that you did, Serge,” cried Marcus, laughing.
“I don’t see nothing to laugh at, boy,” said the old soldier, bitterly, as he half drew Marcus’ blade from its scabbard, and then thrust it fiercely back with a sharp snap.
“No, but I do,” said Marcus, “sad as all this is. It seems so droll.”
“What does?” cried the man, fiercely.
“For you to talk about being old and ugly—you, such a big, strong, manly fellow as you are. Why, you are everything that a man ought to be.”
“What!” cried the old soldier, gazing wonderingly at the boy, a puzzled look in his eyes as if he was in doubt whether the words to which he listened were mocking him.