“Oh, tut, tut, tut! Nonsense! I have forgiven it all, my boy; but he has not yet brought in the chest.”
“No, father, I have left him packing it all now, and I have told him that all that is over, and that when we have time we must amuse ourselves in some other way than playing at soldiers and talking of war.”
Cracis laid his hand upon his son’s shoulder and, with his face growing sterner, looked proudly in the young, frank face.
“Thank you, my boy,” he said. “That is very brave and right of you. It shows great respect for me. Well, there! The past is all forgiven and forgotten—nay, I will not say forgotten; that can never be. Let it always stand in your memory as a stone of warning. Well, that is all over now.”
“But it isn’t all over, father,” cried the boy. “Old Serge says what you said has cut him to the heart, and that you didn’t forgive him properly, and that he is dishonoured and disgraced as a soldier.”
“Poor brave old Serge!” said Cracis, warmly.
“Hah!” cried Marcus, excitedly. “I wish he were here to hear you speak like that.”
“Oh, nonsense, boy. Time is too valuable to waste by thinking over such troubles as that. He must understand that I have reproved him for a fault and forgiven him.”
“But he won’t understand, father. He’s as obstinate as a bull.”
“He is, and always was, Marcus,” said Cracis, smiling; “but no man is perfect, and Serge’s good qualities more than balance all his bad. But there, boy, what does he want me to do?”