The old soldier got up from the shut-down lid of the chest, walked to the corner of the room, and took his crook-like staff, to which a rough bundle was already tied, and then he stepped back to where Marcus was seated upon the edge of the table which had so lately borne the armour carefully spread out.
“Good-bye, Marcus, boy,” he said, holding out his hand.
The lad sprang from the table and made for the door.
“Won’t you say good-bye, Marcus?” cried Serge, pitifully.
“No,” was the short, sharp reply. “What’s the good? But stop a moment. I’d better go and shut up Lupus, or he’ll come bounding after us and we shan’t get rid of him again.”
“Oh!” roared the old soldier, angrily, and he dashed his bundle and staff across the room to the corner from which they had been taken. “You’re both of you too much for me.”
“Come on, Serge, old fellow,” said Marcus, softly, as he took his old companion by the arm. “Shall I come in to father with you?”
“No!” growled Serge. “I’m going to be beat, and I’ll go alone.”
The next minute his steps were heard plodding heavily towards his master’s study, and, as he listened Marcus burst out into a merry, silent laugh.
“Poor old Serge!” he said. “How father hurt his feelings! He’ll never leave us while he lives, but I believe if he had gone away it would have broken his heart. Well, that’s all over, and things will be all right again.”