s, 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