Marcus: the Young Centurion | Page 9

like that. Be off at once and have a good
wash, and bathe those cuts and bruises till they look better."
"Yes! I had better go," said the boy, with a sigh. "It was a great bother
for those boys to come. I meant when you came back for us to have
some practice with the shield and spear, and then for you to show me

again how to use the sword."
"Hah, yes," growled the old man, drawing a deep breath through his
dilating nostrils, and unconsciously he whirled up his crook with one
hand, and as he dropped into a picturesque attitude with one foot
advanced and let the stout staff drop into his extended left hand, "that's
the way," he cried. "Fancy, boy, a thousand spears presented all at once
like that to the coming barbarians, and then the advance slowly and
steadily, driving them scattered back, while the trumpets sounded and
the ground quivered like a coming earthquake beneath the army's tramp.
That's how we conquered and made the fame of grand old Rome. Bah!
What an old fool I am!" he cried, as he stamped the end of his crook
down once more, "I forget I'm not a soldier now, boy, only Cracis' man
who tends his farm and keeps his swine."
"Never mind, Serge; we are very nice and happy here. The place is so
beautiful. Father likes you."
"Bah! Not he! He only looks upon me as a slave."
"That he doesn't!" cried the boy, indignantly. "Why, only the other day
he was talking about you."
"About me?"
"Yes, and saying what a happy, peaceful place this was."
"Peaceful! Bah!"
"And that it didn't matter what came to pass, he had me with him."
"Of course! Spoken like a father."
"And you," continued the boy, "a true old friend in whom he could
trust."
"What!" cried the old soldier. "What! Friend? Did he say that?"
"Of course. He often talks like that."

"A friend in whom he could trust!" muttered the old soldier. "And here
have I been listening to you and doing what I know he'd hate."
He gripped the boy sharply by the wrist as he spoke.
"Why, Serge, what do you mean?" cried the boy, wonderingly.
"Mean! Why, what have I been doing? Doesn't he want you to grow up
as one who hates fighting, and a lover of peace? And here have I been
teaching you how to use the sword and spear and shield, making of you
one who knows how to lead a phalanx to the fight--a man of war. What
would he say if he knew?"
Marcus was silent.
"I have done wrong, boy," continued the old soldier, "and some day
he'll find us out."
The boy was still silent for a few moments. Then quickly--
"I must tell him some day, Serge, that it was all my doing--that I
wouldn't let you rest until you had taught me what I know."
"That's true, boy," said Serge, in a sombre tone, "and it all comes of
letting you see me take so much care of his old armour and his sword
and spear. Yes, like my own old arms and weapons, I have kept them
all bright and ready for use, for it's always seemed to me as if the time
might come and bring the order for us to march to tackle some of
Rome's old enemies, or to make new conquests--perhaps to Gaul--and
that we must be ready for that day. I oughtn't to have done it, boy, but I
was an old soldier, one who loved to see his weapons ready for the
fight, and somehow I did. There, off you go! It's no use to think now of
what is done."
CHAPTER FOUR.
CAUGHT.

It was the next day, under a brilliant blue Italian sky, that Marcus, after
spending the morning with his father in the room he devoted to his
studies, hurried out with a sense of relief to seek out the old soldier,
whom he expected to find repairing damages amongst the vines. But
the damages were repaired, and very few traces remained of the
mischief that had been done; but several of the upright fir-poles looked
new, and there were marks of knife and bill-hook upon some of the
fresh cross-pieces that had been newly bound in their places. But a
freshly tied-in cane and the careful distribution of the broad leaves
pretty well hid the injured places, and Marcus walked away smiling as
he thought of the encounter he had had, while passing his fingers
daintily over bruise and cut, and feeling gently a place or two that were
tender still. He walked down one path and up another of the garden, his
eyes wandering about to see if Serge were