ge, dropping at the former's feet just as the departing pair
disappeared at a turn of the road.

Then there was a pause for a time, before the dog slunk off to his
kennel; Serge hung his head and moved away in silence towards the back
of the villa and the room that Marcus playfully called his den, while
the boy, feeling that all was over and hope dead and buried in his
breast, went slowly and sadly to his seat in the study, where his stylus
and waxen tablets lay, to slowly scratch upon the smooth surface the
words:

"Gone. Left behind."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

GOOD-BYE, OLD HOME.

There was a strange solemnity about the Roman villa as soon as Marcus
was left alone. All seemed to have grown painfully still. It was
fancy, no doubt, but, to the boy, the birds had ceased to sing and chirp
among the trees, the sounds from the farm were distant, and though more
than once Marcus listened intently he did not hear Serge go to or from
his room, nor his step anywhere about the road.

"Poor old Serge," thought Marcus; "he is as miserable as I am--no, not
quite, because he does not feel so guilty nor ready to disobey. He
heard what my father said, bowed his head, and went away."

And how slowly the time glided away. The hottest part of the afternoon
came, when, as a rule, the boy felt drowsy and ready to have a restful
sleep till the sun began to get low; but this day Marcus felt so alert
and excited that he never once thought of sleep, though he more than
once longed to see the sun go down so that it might be darkness such as
would agree with the misery and despair which kept him shut in his room
hating the very sight of day.

Marcus took up his stylus to write a dozen times over, but he did not
add a word to those which he had written as soon as he was alone, and he
threw the pointed implement down each time with a feeling of disgust.

"I feel as if I shall never write again," he said, bitterly. "Oh, it is
too hard to bear!"

He buried his face in his hands, resting his elbows upon his knees,
feeling at times almost stunned by his misery, quite ignorant of the
lapse of time, and so wretched that he did not even wonder how far his
father and the great Roman general had got by this time upon their
journey to Rome.

"Is it never going to be night?" groaned the boy at last, and then he
started violently, for something cold and moist touched one of his
hands.

"You, Lupe?" he said, with a sigh, as he realised his di