The boy stood thinking for a few minutes, and then he sighed.
“My poor old sword and shield,” he said, half aloud; “and the helmet and armour too! Oh, how grand it was! When I had them on I used to feel as if I was marching with a successful army coming from the wars, and now it’s all over and I must sit and read and write, and the days will seem so dull with nothing exciting, nothing bright, no war in the future—Yes, there will be,” he cried; “there’ll be those boys. They’ll be coming on again as the grapes turn black. Yes,” he went on, with a merry laugh, “and if they come I’ll make some of them turn black. No war! I’ll make war with them, with old Serge and Lupus for allies. And then the winter will come again, and there’ll be the wolves. Why, there’ll be plenty to think of, after all.”
Chapter Seven.
Company Comes.
“I want to go out,” said Marcus to himself, one morning, as he sat at the little table exclusively his.
There was a small volume, a double roll tied round by a band of silk, his tablets and stylus were before him, the latter quite blank, and the window was open, giving him a glorious view of the distant, sunlit mountains, while the air that was wafted in through the vine leaves was rich in delicious odours that came gratefully to his nostrils.
“But I can’t go out,” he said; “I have all that writing to do, and the first thing when father comes back will be to ask me how much I have done. And here have I been sitting for long enough and have not scratched a word. I wonder how soon he will come?”
The boy sat silently for a few minutes watching some twittering young birds that were playing in the garden trees, chasing one another from twig to twig in the full enjoyment of their life in the transparent atmosphere.