“I do,” said Marcus, “laughing always, and have. I’ll show you if you tell me where you want to go.”
“Thank you,” said the stranger, gravely and quietly; and the boy thought to himself once more that he was no dealer or trader, but some patrician on his travels, and he noted more particularly the clear skin, and clean-cut features of a man thoughtful and strong of brain, who spoke quietly, but in the tones of one accustomed to command.
“You have a beautiful place here, my boy,” he continued, as he looked round and seemed to take in everything; “fields, woodlands, garden. Fruit too—vines and figs. An attractive house too. The calm and quiet of the country—a tired man could live very happily here.”
“Yes, of course,” cried Marcus and with a merry laugh, “a boy too!”
“Hah! Yes,” said the stranger, smiling also, as he gazed searchingly in the boy’s clear eyes. “So you lead a very happy life here, do you?”
“Oh yes!”
“But not alone?” said the stranger.
“Oh no, of course not,” cried Marcus. “There’s father, and old Serge, and the labourers and servants.”
“Yes, a very pleasant place,” said the stranger, as he once more wiped his dewy face.
“You look hot,” said the boy. “Come in and sit down for a while and rest. It’s nice and shady in my room, and you get the cool breeze from the mountains.”