“Serge,” said Cracis, sternly, “you have led these years of peace, but recollect that you are a soldier still. Man, your officer has given you your orders—Obey!”
As Marcus gazed at their old follower he seemed to have suddenly grown old. His face was wrinkled, and the skin appeared to hang, while a piteous look of despair filled his eyes as, throwing out his hands towards one who seemed to him to be delivering his death sentence, he fell heavily upon his knees and poured forth:
“There, there, master, here’s your sword, keener and brighter than ever. Draw it and put me out of my misery at once. I won’t say a word, only give you a last look like that of a faithful hound who has died in your service. Kill me at once, and let that be the end, but now that you are coming to your rights again after all these weary years of waiting, and are going to fight for brave old Rome, don’t throw me over as if I was a helpless log. Think what it means to an old soldier who never turned his back upon an enemy in his life. Use your sword on me, master, if you feel that I’m not the man to draw my own again; but don’t—pray don’t leave me behind!”
Marcus felt ready to join his petition to that of the old soldier, but he could not speak, only stand and listen to his father’s words, as he stepped forward to lay his hand upon the man’s shoulder.
“Serge,” he said, in a voice full of emotion—“brave old follower—true old friend, I could sternly order you to obey my commands, but I can only beg of you as you do of me. Rise up, man, and hear me. I would gladly take you with me and have you always at my back, but we cannot do everything we would. In my absence, Serge, your place is here to protect my boy. It is your duty, and perhaps the last command I shall ever give you, for the Gauls are stout warriors and it is no child’s play that takes me from my home. I beg, then, as well as order. Stay and protect my son.”
“But you don’t know, master, how you may be surrounded by enemies ready to strike at you.”
“No,” said Cracis, firmly, and there was a ring of command in his tones. “Neither do I know how closely my boy may be hemmed in, and I want to leave here with the peaceful feeling that, whatever happens, my son has one beside him that I can always trust. Your duty, Serge, is here, and I leave Marcus in your charge. Now, no more save this: Rise up like my trusted servant. Duty calls me away, not only as a counsellor, but also as one of my country’s generals. Now help me with my armour, for I go forth to fight. There have been words enough. Take the example of my son. He feels the bitterness of being left behind as much as you. Now, quick! We have lost too much time already. Caius Julius awaits my coming, and my heart is burning to be free from all this suffering and mental pain. Marcus, my boy, help him. It is the first time I ever asked you to arm me as a soldier. Quick, boy, and let us get it done.”
Marcus sprang to his father’s side, while, heavy and slow, Serge, as he rose, tottered here and there as he busied himself over a task that had not fallen to him for many long years, while a faint groan of misery escaped his lips from time to time before the last metal loop had been forced over its stud and then drawn into its place, the last buckle drawn tight, and the armed cheek-straps of the great Robin helmet passed beneath the general’s chin.
These final preparations made, Cracis stood, grave and thoughtful, asking himself whether there was anything more he wished to do, anything in the way of orders to give his servant and his son before he left his home.
“Leave me now, Marcus,” he said. “I wish to be alone for a while. Well,” he continued, as the boy stood frowning and looking at him wistfully, “why do you stay? You want to ask me something before I go?”