“Serge?” said the stranger.
“Yes; our man who superintends the farm. He was an old soldier, and knew Rome well. He was in the wars.”
“Ha!” said the stranger. “And they are both away?”
“Yes; but you are tired, sir, and look faint. I’ll come back directly.”
Marcus hurried from the room, but returned almost immediately, laden with a cake of bread, a flask and cup, and a bunch or two of grapes lying in an open basket.
“Ha, ha!” said the visitor, smiling. “Then you mean to play the host to a tired stranger?”
“Of course,” said the boy. “That is what father would do if he were at home.”
“And the son follows his father’s teaching, eh?”
Marcus smiled, and busied himself in pouring out a cup of wine and breaking the bread, which he pressed upon his guest, who partook of both sparingly, keenly watching the boy the while.
“The rest is good,” he said, as he caught the boy’s eye, “the room cool and pleasant, and these most refreshing. You will let me rest myself awhile? I might like to see your father when he comes.”