Chapter Six.
Making the Best of it.
Cracis was deep in thought, seated by the open window, with the double roll of a volume in his hands, reading slowly line by line of the old papyrus Romano-Grecian writings of one of the philosophers, and, as he came to each line’s end, it slowly disappeared beneath the upper roll, while the nether was opened out to leave the next line visible to the reader’s eye.
Marcus dashed in loudly, but stopped short as he saw how his father was occupied, and waited for him to speak; but Cracis was deep in his studies and heard him not, so, bubbling over with impatience, the boy advanced and laid his hand upon the student’s arm.
Cracis looked up, wonderingly, and seemed to be obliged to drag his attention from the book, smiling pleasantly in the flushed face of his son, and with every trace of anger missing from his own.
“Well, boy,” he said, gently, “what is it? Something you can’t make out?”
“Yes, father—old Serge.”
“Ah, Serge!” said Cracis, with his brow clouding over. “I am sorry all that happened, but it was your fault, my boy. You regularly led the brave, old, honest fellow astray.”
“Yes, father, I did,” cried Marcus, eagerly, “and now he has taken all your angry words to heart.”