“Then look here, my boy. I reproved you and Serge rather harshly the other day for what you had done—Serge especially, for treasuring up and keeping in order my old war-like gear; but Marcus, one never knows what Fate has in store for us. I could not foresee, neither, for that matter, could he, what was so soon to come, but he did quite right. Now then,” he continued, sharply, “away with you at once, and get out all the arms that I shall want, for I cannot leave here as student, but as a soldier once again. You understand?”
Marcus nodded, quickly. He could not trust himself to speak.
“Go to my room then, at once, to the big, old chest. Stop!” he cried, when Marcus was half way to the door. “Serge knows better than you. Call him and take him with you to help you lay out what I shall require. That will do. At once.”
His brain whirling with excitement, his heart sinking with disappointment and despair, Marcus ran into the house, striving to make duty conquer all, his first effort being to drag his thoughts from self and condense them upon the task he had in hand.
“Where shall I find Serge?” he muttered. “He’ll be gone off somewhere in the fields. Which way had I better go?”
The question had hardly formed itself in his brain as he was hurrying across the little court where the fountain played, when the big, burly figure of the old soldier stopped his way.
“Want me, boy?” he cried, hoarsely.
“Yes, Serge. Father is going away at once.”
“With that Caius Julius?” cried the old soldier. “I know him now. It seemed to come to me like this morning when I woke. What does it mean then? The master a prisoner?”
“No, Serge; he’s going with him to the war. But come, quickly!” he added, as the man stood staring at him as if struck speechless with wonderment. “Don’t talk—don’t ask me questions. Father wants his weapons and his armour at once. Come on. You are to help me get them ready.”