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 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."

"Peace