“You are going back home to your books and to take care of your father’s house.”
“And suppose I refuse?” cried Marcus.
“Won’t make a bit of difference, boy, for I shall make you.”
“Indeed!” cried Marcus.
“Now then, none of that! None of your ruffling up like a young cockerel and sticking your hackles out because you think your spurs have grown, when you are not much more than fledged, because that won’t do with me. I tell you this: you come easy and it will be all the better for you, for if you behave well perhaps I won’t tell the master, after all. So make up your mind to be a good boy at once.”
“A good boy!” cried Marcus, scornfully. “Why, you called me a brave young warrior just now.”
“Yes, I am rather an old fool sometimes,” growled Serge; “but you needn’t pitch that in my teeth. Now then, no more words, and let’s waste no more time. I want to get back.”
“But Serge—” cried the boy.
“That’ll do. You know what your father said, and you’ve got to obey him, or I shall make you. Aren’t you sorry for doing wrong?”
“Yes—no,” cried Marcus.