“Burn my old straw hat, Marcus, when I am gone. This fits me again like a shell does one of the old white snails, and makes me feel like a soldier and a man again, instead of a herdsman and a serf.”
He had hardly finished speaking when the door was thrown open, and as if imbued by his old follower’s feelings, Cracis, no longer in his movements the calm, grave student, but the general and leader of men once more, strode quickly into the room and stopped short as the old soldier drew himself up motionless in his helmet, stiffly awaiting his officer’s next command.
It seemed to Marcus, too, no longer his calm, grave father who, the next moment, spoke as he raised one hand and pointed at the helmet his man had donned.
“What is the meaning of this, Serge?” he said, sternly.
“Only the thought of old times, general,” cried Serge, sharply, and to Marcus the man’s manner struck him as being completely changed, for he spoke shortly and bluntly, standing up as stiff and erect as before, and then in his misery and disappointment there was something very near akin to malicious triumph as his father said, sternly:
“Tut, man! Take that off! Did you think you were going too?”
Serge’s jaw dropped.