“No, my lad, not obstinate; only doing what’s right. I can’t help what’s done, nor what’s said.”
“But don’t stop talking, Serge. Father wants to see you at once.”
The old soldier shook his head and went on packing with increased vigour.
“Well, why don’t you go?” cried Marcus, impatiently.
“I daren’t,” said the man, frowning.
“Then that’s because you feel you’re in the wrong, Serge.”
“Yes, boy, that’s it; I’m in the wrong, and the master knows it, so it’s of no use for me to go.”
“Oh, Serge,” cried Marcus, “you do make me so angry when you will keep on like this. Look here, Serge.”
“No,” said the man, sourly, “and it’s of no use for you to talk, boy, because my mind’s made up. You want to talk me round, same as your father, the master, would. I’ve done wrong, and I told him so. It’s all because I tried to make a good soldier of you, as is what Nature meant you to be, and he can’t forgive me for that. He couldn’t even if he tried. There, that’s better—you lie there, and that’ll make more room for the boy’s helmet. Yes, that’ll do. Swords lie on each side under the shields and keep them steady,” he continued, apostrophising the different portions of the military equipment, as he worked very rapidly now in spite of Marcus’ words, till the whole of the war-like pieces were to his liking and the chest quite full, when he closed the lid and sat upon it as if to think, with his eyes fixed upon one corner of the place.
“There, now are you satisfied?” cried Marcus. “Fortunately, father is reading, and he will not notice how long you have been. You’ve made me horribly impatient. Now go in to him at once and get it over.”