Left behind.
“Not going too, master?” cried Serge, as soon as he could recover himself from a verbal blow which had, for the moment, seemed to crush him down; and, as Marcus heard the hopeless despair in the poor fellow’s tones, the feeling of malicious triumph in his breast died away.
“No,” said Cracis, firmly; “your duty lies here.”
“Lies here, master?” stammered Serge.
“Yes, man, here. Whom am I to leave in charge of my home? Who is to protect my son if I take you with me?”
“Home—Son?” faltered Serge. “But you, master—who is to protect you if your old follower is left behind?”
“I must protect myself, Serge,” said Cracis, and his voice lost for the moment the hard, firm sternness of the soldier. “Your duty is here, Serge, and I look to you to carry it out. I leave you a greater charge than that of following and trying to shield me.”
“No, no, master, no!” cried the old soldier, passionately. “I was with you always. I followed you through the wars, and I’ve stood by you like a man in peace. Once my master always my master while you could trust me, and it must be so still.”
“No, Serge,” cried Cracis, sternly. “I have told you your duty and now give you your orders. Protect my property; watch over my son till my return, if I ever do return,” he added, sadly; “and if I fall, your place is still here to stand by my son and follow him as you have followed me.”
“But you will not let me follow you, master!” cried Serge, passionately. “Oh, master, master! Young Marcus isn’t a suckling; he’s big and strong enough to fend himself. I’ve been waiting all these years for you to take your place as a soldier and a general once again! Don’t—pray don’t leave me behind!”