“Oh,” he said, impatiently, “they don’t think about me, any more than old Serge does. But he might have given me a thought and come and said a word or two to show that he was sorry for my disappointment.
“But no; he wouldn’t,” continued the boy, with a sigh. “I suppose people in trouble are always selfish, and he thinks his trouble a bigger one than mine. Never mind. I won’t be selfish. I’ll go and speak to him, just a few kind words to let him see that I am sorry for him, and then—Oh, it’s very miserable work, and what a difference father could have made if he would have listened to me—and that Julius too.
“Caius Julius! Yes, of course, I have heard about him, but it never troubled me—in fact I hardly knew there was such a man in the world—the greatest man in Rome, a mighty soldier and conqueror, old Serge said more than once; but I never took any notice, for it seemed nothing to do with me. Oh, who could have thought that in a few short hours there could be such a change as this!”
The boy turned off, crossed the court again, and made his way to Serge’s den, where all was still and dark as the part of the building he had just quitted.
“You here, Serge?” he cried, cheerily, thrusting open the door. “Where are you? What have you been doing all this time?”
Marcus’ words sounded hollow and strange, coming back to him, as it were, and startling him for the moment.
“Are you asleep?” he shouted, loudly, as if to encourage himself, for an uncomfortable feeling thrilled him through and through.
“Oh, what nonsense!” he muttered. “Not likely that he would be asleep; he’d have heard me directly and sprung up. Where can he be?”
The boy thought for a few moments, and then hurried out towards the farm buildings and sheds, but stopped short as another thought struck him, and he made at once for the dark building with its stone cistern where the grapes were trodden.
The door was ajar, and he stepped in at once.