“I don’t know, father. He thinks what you have said can never be undone, that he can never be the same here again as he was, that he has lost your confidence and you won’t trust him again, and—”
“Well, and what?” said Cracis, smiling tolerantly.
“Oh, it’s too stupid to tell you, father.”
“One has to hear stupid things in life, my boy, as well as wise, so tell me all the same. You see, poor Serge, with all his noble qualities, has never been a man to read and learn wisdom from the works of the great. Simple, matter-of-fact and straightforward, he is not one who reflects and balances his acts before he makes them live. I don’t think Serge ever said to himself: ‘shall I? Shall I not?’ before he did a thing, and I suppose he has not been reflecting now. I am sorry I hurt his feelings, but I am the master. He is my servant, just as in old days I was his officer, he my legionary. It was his duty to obey. Now then, what is he doing?”
“Putting the armour together to go in the chest.”
“Well, quite right.”
“But it’s what he’s going to do next, father.”
“And what is he going to do next?”
“Pack up his bundle, and then tramp up into the mountains to lie down and die, for the wolves to pick his bones.”
It is impossible to put in words the young speaker’s tones, mingled, as they were, of sadness, ridicule and mirth, while Cracis drew a deep, long breath and said, softly: