“Brave as a lion, strong beyond the limits of ordinary men; and yet, poor faithful Serge, what a child he is at heart! Don’t tell him what I said, boy. That is a piece of confidence between ourselves.”
“But it’s all so real, father. If you are angry with me you scold me, and it’s soon all over. I forget it all.”
“Yes, too soon, my boy, sometimes.”
“Oh, but I do try to go on right, father. But, you see, with poor old Serge it all sticks. He’s regularly wounded.”
“Yes, my boy, I know, and it’s the sort of wound that will not heal. Well, of course, that’s all absurd. He mustn’t go.”
“He will, father, if something isn’t done.”
“Yes, I am afraid he would; so something must be done. Who is in the wrong, boy—I or he?”
“It’s this—I, father.”
“Of course,” said Cracis, laughing; “but I think I am in the right. The master, if right, cannot humble himself to his man if he is in this position, Marcus. If he is in the wrong it is noble and brave to give way. Tell Serge to come to me at once. I will try to set him at one with me; the sooner this is set aside the better for us all.”
“Thank you, father,” cried the boy, excitedly; and hurrying out he made for the back of the villa, where he found Serge in his own particular den, hard at work packing the various accoutrements, but evidently finding it difficult to make them fit.