When Marcus went to bed his habit was to drop his head upon his pillow,
close his eyes in the darkness, and, as it seemed to him, open them the
next minute to find it was broad daylight, and spring out of bed; but,
almost for the first time in his life, he, that night, lay tossing
about, thinking how hot it was, getting in and out of bed to open the
window wider or to close it again, changing from side to side, and
trying as hard as he possibly could to go off to sleep; and, even when
at last he succeeded, it seemed that he had suddenly plunged into a new
state of wakefulness in which he was listening to Caius Julius and then
quarrelling with him.
Then his father seemed mixed up with his dream, and all kinds of the
wildest imaginings came forming processions through his fevered brain.
Armies of barbarians were marching to attack Rome. His father was a
great warrior and general once again, fighting to save his country.
Then he was the quiet student once more in his white toga, chiding him
for his love of arms and armour; and, directly after, Serge seemed to
come upon the scene, to catch their strange visitor by the ankle with
his crook and threaten to thrash him for breaking down the fir-poles and
stealing the grapes.
From dreams peopled in this incongruous way the boy woke up again and
again, making up his mind that he would not go to sleep any more to be
worried by what he termed such a horrible muddle.
The night, which generally passed so quickly, seemed as if it would
never end, and when at last he did start up from perhaps the worst and
most exciting dream of all, to find that the sun was just about to rise,
he sprang off his bed with a sigh of relief, dressed, and went out into
the garden to have what he called a good rest.
His intention was to go round to the back and rouse up Serge, not to
make any confidence, but just to have a talk about the coming of the
visitor and the surly reception the old soldier had given to his
father's friend; but, before he had gone many yards, a gleam of
something white amongst the trees caught his attention, and he found
himself face to face with his father.
"You out so soon?" he cried, in astonishment.
"Yes, boy; it has been no time for sleep. I have had too much to think
about."
"But, father--" began the boy.
Cracis held up his hand.
"Wait," he said. "Our visitor, Marcus, seems to have been as sleepless
as I; here he comes." For at the same moment they caught sight of Caius
Julius leaving the doorway; and, upon seeing them, he came quickly to
join them, with extended hand.
The rest of that morning seemed afterwards one whirl of confusion to
Marcus, in which he could recall his father's words to their visitor,
and his quiet, grave declaration of how much it meant to him to have to
give up his calm and peaceful home and its surroundings to plunge at
once into the toil, excitement and care of public life.
Marcus recalled too how, divining how they seemed to wish to be alone,
he had left them pacing up and down beneath the shading vines, talking
earnestly, while he consoled himself by joining Serge, who was in as
great a state of excitement as himself and literally pelted him with
questions which he could not answer, making the old soldier turn from
him fiercely after telling him that he might speak out if he liked,
instead of being so obstinate and refusing to trust him with what he
knew.
Serge went off in high dudgeon, while, hardly giving him a thought,
Marcus strolled back towards the garden in the hope that his father
would take some notice of him and call him to his side.
It was then approaching mid-day, and this time he was not disappointed,
for, as soon as the boy appeared, Cracis signed to him to approach.
"Come here, Marcus," he said; and the boy noticed that their visitor
smiled at him in a satisfied way.
"I am going away, my boy," he said, "to leave our quiet little home, on
very serious business."
"Soon, father?" cried Marcus, excitedly, as his father stopped short.
"Very soon, boy--now--at once. That is, as soon as I can make my
preparations."
Marcus drew a deep breath.
"You are going to follow--him?"
"I am going with my old friend Caius Julius."
"And you'll take me with you, father?"
Cracis was silent for a few moments, and he sighed deeply as he laid his
hand upon his son's head.
"No, my boy; I must leave you behind. I am going to take part in a
great struggle."
"A great struggle, father? You don't mean a war?"
"Yes, my boy, I do mean a war."
"Oh!" exclaimed Marcus, and he turned sharply upon their visitor,
looking the question he longed to put, while Caius Julius met his eyes
and bowed in silence.
"You are too young," said Cracis, slowly; "and now I want you to help me
for the short time I am here making my preparations."
"Yes, father," cried the boy, in a choking voice; "but I should like for
you to--"
"Yes," said Cracis, interrupting him and speaking very firmly, "I know
what you would say--take you with me--but it cannot be. Now, Marcus,
you are only a boy, but I want you to let my old friend see that you can
act like a man. Do you understand?"
"Yes, father."
"Then look here, my boy. I reproved you and Serge rather harshly the
other day for what you had done--Serge especially, for treasuring up and
keeping in order my old war-like gear; but Marcus, one never knows what
Fate has in store for us. I could not foresee, neither, for that
matter, could he, what was so soon to come, but he did quite right. Now
then," he continued, sharply, "away with you at once, and get out all
the arms that I shall want, for I cannot leave here as student, but as a
soldier once again. You understand?"
Marcus nodded, quickly. He could not trust himself to speak.
"Go to my room then, at once, to the big, old chest. Stop!" he cried,
when Marcus was half way to the door. "Serge knows better than you.
Call him and take him with you to help you lay out what I shall require.
That will do. At once."
His brain whirling with excitement, his heart sinking with
disappointment and despair, Marcus ran into the house, striving to make
duty conquer all, his first effort being to drag his thoughts from self
and condense them upon the task he had in hand.
"Where shall I find Serge?" he muttered. "He'll be gone off somewhere
in the fields. Which way had I better go?"
The question had hardly formed itself in his brain as he was hurrying
across the little court where the fountain played, when the big, burly
figure of the old soldier stopped his way.
"Want me, boy?" he cried, hoarsely.
"Yes, Serge. Father is going away at once."
"With that Caius Julius?" cried the old soldier. "I know him now. It
seemed to come to me like this morning when I woke. What does it mean
then? The master a prisoner?"
"No, Serge; he's going with him to the war. But come, quickly!" he
added, as the man stood staring at him as if struck speechless with
wonderment. "Don't talk--don't ask me questions. Father wants his
weapons and his armour at once. Come on. You are to help me get them
ready."
The old soldier was standing before him with his herdsman's staff in his
hand as if ready to go off round the farm, and, drawing himself up, he
grasped the stout crook in both his hands, bent down, placed one knee
against it, and, with one effort of his great strength, snapped it
across his knee as if it were a twig and threw the pieces from him with
a gesture of contempt.
"Hah!" he cried, with a deep expiration of his breath. "At last, boy!
The master is going to be himself again. There, don't talk to me! I
know! I have lain awake, boy, cursing that Caius Julius for coming here
to disturb the master's quiet life. He was his enemy always, and I
could see nothing in it but ill--blind fool that I was! I can bless him
now. Come on, boy! I know! Who was right now in keeping the swords
sharp and the armour bright?"
The next minute the great chest had been dragged out into the middle of
Cracis' room and the old soldier was down upon his knees joyously
unpacking the war-like equipments that he had so sadly stowed away so
short a time before.
They were all mingled together so as to make them fit and the great
chest contain them all, and as, taking the lead, Serge worked on, it was
with a rapid touch that he sorted the three suits, giving each its
place, his own armour and weapons, the more handsomely furnished
appertaining to his master, and those of the boy, which had been fitted
in.
The two former portions he laid to right and left, and, as he drew them
forth, he sent pang after pang through the breast of Marcus, for it
seemed to him that Serge laid his father's offensive and defensive
pieces of accoutrement together with almost reverent care, banging his
own together heavily, while, as he dislodged those portions that had
been prepared and fitted with such pride to suit the youth who wore
them, they were pitched carelessly upon the bed to clash and jingle as
if in protest at being looked upon now, when reality ruled the occasion,
as toys and of no account.
"Ah!" cried the old soldier, as, when he had nearly finished, he drew
out from the bottom of the chest the smallest of the shields and pitched
it so that it fell upon Cracis' pillow, suggesting to Marcus that the
man meant that it should lie there in his master's absence and sleep;
but Serge saw nothing of Marcus' agitated countenance, for he was gazing
into the future.
"Here we are," he cried, as he lifted out his own and Cracis' shields
together, to stand them up on edge so that he could separate them, for
the loops and handles were tightly wedged together so that they seemed
loth to come apart. "How soon will he be coming here for me to gird him
up?"
"Directly, he said, Serge," replied the boy.
"Then you look sharp, my lad, and put those things of yours back into
the chest out of the way. I shall be wanting him to sit there while I
fasten some of his buckles and straps. To think of its coming to this
again!" he cried, joyously. "Why, how many years is it since I did it
last? Why, you were a little toddling boy, and here you are getting on
to be a man--man enough, Marcus, to help me and buckle on and hitch
together some of the slides and studs when I dress myself."
Marcus nodded, with a look of despair and envy in his eyes, while the
old soldier bent down, caught up his old legionary helmet from the
floor, gave it a slap with one hand, and then placed it upon his head,
to draw himself up proudly before the boy, and give his foot a stamp, as
he struck an attitude and cried:
"Burn my old straw hat, Marcus, when I am gone. This fits me again like
a shell does one of the old white snails, and makes me feel like a
soldier and a man again, instead of a herdsman and a serf."
He had hardly finished speaking when the door was thrown open, and as if
imbued by his old follower's feelings, Cracis, no longer in his
movements the calm, grave student, but the general and leader of men
once more, strode quickly into the room and stopped short as the old
soldier drew himself up motionless in his helmet, stiffly awaiting his
officer's next command.
It seemed to Marcus, too, no longer his calm, grave father who, the next
moment, spoke as he raised one hand and pointed at the helmet his man
had donned.
"What is the meaning of this, Serge?" he said, sternly.
"Only the thought of old times, general," cried Serge, sharply, and to
Marcus the man's manner struck him as being completely changed, for he
spoke shortly and bluntly, standing up as stiff and erect as before, and
then in his misery and disappointment there was something very near akin
to malicious triumph as his father said, sternly:
"Tut, man! Take that off! Did you think you were going too?"
Serge's jaw dropped.