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,