“You had to defend my father?” said Marcus, turning pale, and with a strange sensation rising in his breast. “What for?”
“Why, there was that charge of cowardice—the retreat he headed from the Gaulish troops,” continued the visitor, watching the boy intently all the while. “He was charged with being a coward, and—”
“It was a lie!” cried the boy, fiercely. “You know it was a lie. My father is the bravest, truest man that ever lived, and you who speak so can be no friend of his. Old Serge was right, for he saw at once what kind of man you are. How dare you speak to me like that! Go, sir! Leave this house at once.”
“Go, boy?” said the visitor, coldly, and with a look of suppressed anger gathering in his eyes. “And suppose that I refuse to go at the bidding of such a boy as you?”
“Refuse?” cried Marcus, fiercely. “You dare to refuse?”
“Yes, boy, I refuse. And what then?”
“This!” cried the boy, overcome with rage, and, raising his hand, he made a dash as if about to strike, just as a step was heard, and, calmly and thoughtfully, Cracis walked out into the piazza.