Marcus: the Young Centurion | Page 8

checked by a shrill whistle from Marcus, which stopped the fierce beast
and brought him trotting slowly back, to crouch down at his young
master's feet.
"Why did you do that, lad?" cried the old soldier, staring.
"Because I didn't want Lupe to get amongst them, worrying and tearing.
What would my father have said?"
The old soldier let his crook fall into the hollow of his left arm and
pushed off his battered straw hat, to let it slide down between his
shoulders, where it hung by its string, while, with his grim sun-tanned
face as full of wrinkles as a walnut shell, he slowly swept the drops of
moisture from his brow.

"Hah, yes," he said; "I didn't think of that. He wouldn't have liked it.
He's got so soft and easy with people since he took to volumes and
skins covered with writing. Why, his sword would be all rusty if it
wasn't for me. It's all waste of time, for he'll never use it again, but I
don't like to see a good blade such as his all covered with spots. Yes,
boy," added the man, thoughtfully, "I'm glad you stopped old Lupe.
Haw-haw-haw! I should rather liked to have seen him, though, nibbling
their heels and making them run."
"Nibbling!" laughed Marcus. "Nibbling, Serge!" And the boy stooped
down, raised the great dog's muzzle, and pulled up one of his lips to
show the great, white fangs. "Not much of nibblers, these."
"Well, no, my lad," said the old soldier; "they don't look nibbley.
Nibblers wouldn't do for him, would they, Lupe, old man? He wants
good tools to tackle the wolves in winter. There, it's all over, and I don't
feel so savage now. Here, you had better go and have a good wash
while I see to the vine poles and put in a new un or two from the stack.
I expect I shall have to prune a bit too, and tie, where those young
ruffians have been at work. Let's get a bit tidy before the master comes
back, though I don't suppose he'd take any notice if there wasn't a grape
bunch left. But he'd see the dirt and scratches on your face first thing."
"Yes, of course," cried the boy, hastily, as he held up his knuckles, two
of which were minus skin, and showing traces of dried blood. "But I
say, Serge, look at my face. Is it much knocked about?"
"Well, pretty tidy, my lad. You look as if you had been in the wars.
Nose is a little bit knocked on one side."
"Oh, Serge!" cried the boy, showing real excitement now.
"Left eye looks a bit sleepy, too."
"Serge!"
"Well, you asked me, my lad--and your bottom lip has been cut against
your tooth."

"Oh, what will he say?" cried the boy, wildly.
"I dunno," growled the old soldier, grimly. "Yes, I do," and his eyes
twinkled with satisfaction and pride in the prowess his young master
had displayed.
"What will he say?" cried the boy, anxiously, and as if he placed full
confidence in the old servant's words.
"Say you oughtn't to have been fighting, but been busy scratting about
with your stylus and making marks on that wax."
"But I was busy, only it was so hot and one couldn't keep awake; and
when I heard those fellows breaking down the vines--"
"Why, you went out and walloped them, of course," cried the man.
"Quite nat'ral. What boy wouldn't who had got any stuff in him at all?
There, don't you fret yourself about it, lad. The master will grumble at
you a bit, of course, same as he does at me; but he's a right to, and it's
only his way as he's got into now since he took to his books and writing.
But there was a time--ah! And not so very long ago, my lad-- when if
he'd caught those ragged young cubs tearing down his vines, he'd have
stood and laughed and enjoyed seeing you thrash 'em, and helped you
with his stick. And done them good too, made men of them, knowing
what was right. But there, those days have all passed away. No more
marching in the legion with the men's plumes dancing in the sunshine,
and every man's armour as bright and clean as hands can make it. Ah,
Marcus, my boy, those were grand old days, when we marched out to
conquer, and came back and made grand processions, and the prisoners
carrying all the spoil. I did hope to have seen you as fine a young
centurion, growing into a general, as your father was before you. But--
but--There, don't stand staring at me with your eyes shining, your face
red, and your mouth half open