“Marcus, boy!” came back the next instant, as the old soldier dashed down his shield and his sword upon it with a clattering noise, before catching his deliverer in his arms and holding him to his breast.

“Well done!” he cried.  “Well done, boy!  Well done!  Hah!  Hurrah!  Think of it!  Six on ’em!  And you set ’em running.  Hah!” he panted, breathlessly, as he freed the boy, took a couple of steps backward, planted his great fists upon his hips, gazed at him proudly, and then gave a sweeping look round as if addressing a circle of lookers-on instead of blocks of stone and trees; “Hah!” he exclaimed.  “I taught him to fight like that!”

“Yes, Serge, you did ­you did!” cried Marcus.  “But you are covered with blood, and you are badly hurt.  Those wretches must have stabbed you with their knives.”

“Eh?” growled the old soldier, beginning to feel himself all over.  “Yes, how nasty!  All over my breast.  It’s a long time since I have been in a mess like this.  I felt a dig in the front, and another in my back, and another ­” Serge ceased speaking as his hands were busy feeling for his wounds, and then he exclaimed:  “Yes, it’s blood, sure enough, but ’tain’t mine, boy.  Their knives didn’t go through.  I am all right, only out of breath.  But you?  Did you get touched?”

“Oh no,” cried Marcus.  “I escaped.”

“But you made your marks on them, boy.  My marks, I call ’em.”

“Pick up your sword and shield, Serge,” cried Marcus, excitedly.  “They’ll be coming back directly perhaps.”

“Well, yes, it would be wise, boy,” said the old soldier, taking his advice.  “Look yonder; that’s the fellow I cut down,” and he pointed with his sword to the man who had been bathing his wound and, after crossing the rivulet, was also in full retreat.  “No, he’s had enough of it, and if the others came back it wouldn’t be six to one, but five to two ­two well-armed warriors, you and me,” said the old man, proudly, as he made Marcus’ shield clatter loudly as he tapped it with his sword.  “You and me, boy,” he repeated.  “Tchah!  They won’t come on again.  Why, back to back, you and me ­why, we are ready for a dozen of them if they came.  Here, I had my wash, but I must go now and have another while you keep guard over me.  Think of it! ­While you keep guard over me, boy!  No, I won’t call you boy no more, for I have made you a fighting man, and here’s been the proof of it this morning.  There’s only one thing wanted to make all this complete.  Boy!  Tchah!  I can’t call you a boy:  you are a young Roman warrior.”

“Oh, nonsense, Serge!” cried the boy, flushing.

“Nonsense, eh?  Look at you and the way you handled that spear.  Why, you are better with your sword, if you have to draw it, as I well know.  Do you remember how you nearly did for me?”

“Oh yes, I remember,” replied Marcus.

“Yes, I had to jump that time; and lucky I did, or I shouldn’t have been here for you to fight like this.  But, as I was saying, it only wanted one thing, and that was for your father, who has come to his senses at last, to have been here to see, and ­”

The old soldier stopped short, his big, massive jaw dropped, and he stood staring as he took off his heavy helmet and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

“But I say,” he cried, at last, staring at the boy with the puzzled expression upon his features growing more and more intense, “what are you doing here?”

Marcus’ sun-browned face turned scarlet, and he stood silent, staring in reply, beginning almost to cower ­he, the brave, young, growing warrior ­before the old servant’s stern eyes, and ready to shiver at the pricking of the conscience that was now hard at work.

“Look here,” cried Serge, extending his shield and raising his short broadsword to punctuate his words with the taps he gave upon this armour of defence, “your father said that you were not to use that armour any more, and I left it, being busy getting his for him to go off to the war, lying upon his bed.  It wasn’t yours any longer.  It was his’n.  You have been in and stole it; that’s what you have done.  Do you hear me?” continued the old soldier, fiercely.  “You’ve been and stole it and put it on, when he said you warn’t to.  That’s what you’ve done.”

“Yes, Serge,” said the boy, meekly.

“Hah!” cried the old soldier, gathering strength.

“And your father said you were to stop at home and take care of his house and servants, and the swine and cattle, and his lands, and, as soon as he’s gone, you begin kicking up your heels and playing your wicked young pranks.  That’s what you’ve done, and been pretty quick about it too.  Now then, out with it.  Let’s have the truth ­the truth, and no excuses.  Let’s have the truth.”

It was no longer punctuation, but a series of heavy musical bangs upon the shield, and once more, very meekly indeed, Marcus said, almost beneath his breath: 

“Yes, Serge; that’s quite right.  Everything is as you say.”

“Ah, well,” growled the old soldier, a little mollified by his young master’s frankness, “that don’t make it quite so bad.  Now then, just you answer right out.  Where were you a-going to go?”

“To join father at the war.”

“Hah!  I thought as much,” cried the old soldier, triumphantly, and looking as though he credited himself with a grand discovery.  “And now you see what comes of not doing what you are told.  I’ve just catched you on the hop, and it’s lucky for you it’s me and not the master himself.  So, now then, it’s clear enough what I’ve got to do.”

“To do?” cried Marcus, quickly.  “What do you mean, Serge?”

“What do I mean?  Why, to make you take off that coat of armour on the spot.  Well, no, I can’t do that, because you aren’t got nothing else to wear.  Well, never mind; you must go as you are.”

“Oh yes, Serge, never mind about the armour; I’ll go as I am.  But gather your things together ­that bundle of yours.”

“How did you know I’d got a bundle?” said the old soldier, suspiciously.

“I have seen you carrying it day after day.”

“What!  You’ve seen me day after day?”

“Oh yes.  I don’t know how long it’s been, but I have often seen you right in front.”

“Worse and worse!” cried the old soldier, angrily.  “That shows what a bad heart you’ve got, boy.  You’ve come sneaking along after me to find the way, and never dared to show your face.”

“I did dare!” cried the boy, indignantly.  “But I only saw your back.  I didn’t know it was you.”

“Oh, you didn’t know it was me?” growled Serge.  “Well, that don’t make it quite so bad.  But you knew it was me that you came to help?”

“No.”

“Oh!  Then I might have been a stranger?”

“Yes, of course.  I saw six men attacking one, and ­”

“Oh, come, he ain’t got such a bad heart as I thought,” said the old soldier.  “And you did behave very well.  I did feel a bit proud of you.  But never mind that; we have got something else to talk about,” said Serge, as he rearranged his armour and picked up his wallet and spear.  “Now then, let’s get back at once, and mind this, if you attempt to give me the slip ­”

“Give you the slip!  Get back!” cried Marcus, excitedly.  “What do you mean by get back at once?”

“Why, get back home to your books and that there wax scratcher to do as your father said.  This is a pretty game, upon my word!”

“But I am not going back, Serge,” cried the boy, firmly.  “I am going to join my father.”

“You are not going to join your father,” said the old soldier, sturdily.  “You’ve run away like one of them village ragged-jacks, and I am ashamed of you, that’s what I am.  But ’shamed or no ’shamed, I’ve catched you and I am going to take you back.”

“No!” cried Marcus, fiercely.

“Nay, boy, it’s yes, so make no more bones about it.”

“I am going to join my father, sir, and answer to him, not to his servant.”

“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.

“Yes ­no?  What do you mean by that, sir?”

“I don’t know,” cried Marcus, desperately.  “Look here, Serge:  it is too late now.  I’ve taken this step, and I must go on and join my father now.”

“Taken this step?  Yes, of course you have,” cried the old soldier, sarcastically, “and a nice step it is!  What’s it led to?  Your having to take a lot more steps back again.  I know; but you didn’t, being such a young callow bit of a fellow.  Soon as you do anything wrong you have to do a lot more bad things to cover it up.  Lucky for you I catched you; so now then, come on.”

“But Serge,” cried Marcus, passionately, “you can’t understand how I felt ­how it seemed as if I must go after my father, to be with him in case he wanted help.  He might be wounded, you know.”

“Well, if he is there’ll be plenty to help him.  Soldiers are always comrades, and help one another.  If he is wounded he won’t want a boy like you, so stop all that.  I’m not going to stand here and let you argue me into a rage.  You’ve got to come back and obey your father’s commands, instead of breaking his orders.  I wonder at you, boy, that I do.  Did this come out of your reading and writing?”

“Serge!” cried the boy.  “I did try hard ­so hard, you don’t know; but I couldn’t stay.  I was obliged to come.”

“Won’t do, boy,” growled the old soldier, frowning.  “Orders are orders, and one has to obey them whether one likes ’em or whether one don’t.  Ready?”

“No, Serge, no, I’m not ready,” pleaded the boy.  “It is too late.  I can’t go back.”

“Too late?  Not a bit.  Now then:  come on.”

“I cannot, Serge.  I must ­I will go on now.”

“You mustn’t, sir, and you will not,” cried the old soldier, sternly.  “Now then, no nonsense; come on.”

“No, no, Serge.  Pray, pray take my side.  It is to be with my father; can’t you see?”

“No, boy; I’m blind when it comes to orders.”

“Oh, Serge, have you no mercy?” cried Marcus, piteously.

“Not a bit, boy.  Now then, once more, come on.”

“I cannot,” cried Marcus, passionately.

“Then I’m going to make you.”

“What!”

“I’m going to carry you, heavy as you’ll be, and long as it will make the road.  But I’ve got it to do, and, if it takes me a month, I’m going to make you obey your father’s orders, sir, and stop at home.”

As he spoke Serge swung his shield between his shoulders, pressed his sheathed sword a little more round to his side, and with a sharp dig made his spear stand up in the earth.

“Now then,” he cried, and he caught Marcus by the wrists, and a struggle seemed to be imminent.

“Serge!” cried Marcus, angrily.

“Your orders were to stay at home, sir, and home you go,” cried the old soldier.  “If you will be carried back like a scrap of a little child, why, carried you shall be.  So give up.  I’m twice as strong as you, and it’s your father’s commands.”

“Hah!” cried Marcus, ceasing his struggles on the instant, and leaving his wrists tightly clasped in the old soldier’s hands.

“Well, what are you `hah-ing’ about?” cried Serge, as he noted the suddenly triumphant tones of the boy’s voice.

“I was thinking about my father’s orders,” cried Marcus, in a state of wild excitement now.

“Good boy; and quite time.  Pity you didn’t think more of ’em and much sooner.  Then you’re going to mind me without more fuss, and come home like a good boy now?”

“No,” cried Marcus, fiercely.  “I am going on to my father.  I will not stir a step backward now.”

“What!” cried Serge, as fiercely now, for the old man was roused by the boy’s obstinacy.  “You won’t obey?”

“No,” cried Marcus, catching his companion by the top of his breast armour.  “It’s my turn now.  Look here, sir; you talk about my father’s commands.”

“Yes, boy, I do,” roared the old soldier, looking as fierce now as one of the campagna bulls, whose bellow he seemed to emulate, “and I’ll make you obey them too.”

“Commands ­obey ­when I’m only going to join him?”

“Yes, that’s it, my lad.  So now then!”

“Yes,” cried Marcus, giving his companion a fierce thrust which forced him a little back so that he caught his heels against a projecting stone, and as he tried to recover himself was brought down by Marcus upon his knees.  “Hah!” he cried.  “I’ve got you!  What have you got to say about my father’s orders?  What are you doing here?”