“Serge! Serge!” cried Marcus, excitedly. “Mind what you are saying! This is a stranger, and a noble gentleman from Rome.”
“I don’t care who he is,” replied the old soldier, fiercely. “He’s no business to be coming here and talking like this. Now, look here, sir,” he continued, turning upon the visitor, who sat smiling coldly with his eyes half closed, “this lad’s father, my old officer—and a better never stepped or led men against Rome’s enemies—gave me his commands, and they were these: that young Marcus here was to give up all thoughts of soldiering and war, and those commands, as his old follower, I am going to carry out. So, as you have eaten and are rested, the sooner you go on your journey the better, and leave us here at peace.”
“Serge!” cried Marcus, firmly; and he drew himself up with his father’s angry look, “you mean well, and wish to do your duty, but this is not the way to speak to a stranger and my father’s guest.”
“He’s not your father’s guest, my lad, but yours, and he’s taken upon himself to say to you what he shouldn’t say, and set you against your father’s commands.”
“Even if he has, Serge, he must be treated as a guest—I don’t know your name, sir,” continued the boy, turning to the visitor, “but in my father’s name I ask you to forgive his true old servant’s blunt, honest speech.”
The visitor rose, grave and stern.
“It is forgiven, my boy,” he said; “for after hearing what he has said I can only respect him for his straightforward honesty. My man, I am an old soldier too. I regret that I have spoken as I did, and I respect you more and more. Rome lost a brave soldier when you left her ranks. Will you shake hands?”
Serge drew back a little, and looked puzzled.
“Yes, give me your hand,” said the visitor. “I am rested and refreshed, but I am not yet going away. I am going to stay and see Cracis, who was once my dear old friend.”
“You knew my master?” cried Serge, with the puzzled look deepening in his eyes.