ing to cut you down."

In an instant Marcus had drawn back with all his weight upon his right
foot, as he slightly raised the shield to cover his head and left
breast, before throwing himself forward again, bringing up his right
hand, sword-armed as it was, and delivering a thrust which, in the boy's
excitement, lightly touched the folds of the thick woollen garment which
crossed his breast, while the receiver smartly drew himself aside.

"Gently, boy!" he shouted. "I didn't mean you to do that!"

"Oh, Serge!" cried Marcus, flushing scarlet. "I didn't mean to touch
you like that! I haven't hurt you, have I?" he cried.

"Well, no," said the old fellow, smiling grimly; "but it was very near,
and the point of that sword's as sharp as I could grind it."

"I'm so sorry," cried Marcus. "I didn't think."

"Lucky for me I did," said Serge, with a laugh. "Did you think I was an
enemy?"

"No," cried Marcus, hurriedly; "I thought--no, I didn't think."

"Of course you didn't, boy, but--"

"What is the meaning of this?" said a stern voice, and a bare-headed
figure draped in the folds of a simple Roman toga stood looking
wonderingly at the pair.

CHAPTER FIVE.

THE TROUBLE GROWS.

"There!" muttered Serge. "We've done it now!"

"My old arms and weapons! Yours, Serge! And these?--How came you to be
possessed of those, my boy?"

The new-comer pointed, frowning the while, at the boy's weapons, and
then turned his eyes upon Serge, who turned as red as the detected boy,
and made signs for him to speak; but, instead of speaking out, Marcus
signalled back for his companion to explain.

"I am waiting very patiently for one of you to give me some explanation,
though I see plainly enough that I have been disobeyed by you, my son,
as well as by my old servant, in whom I thought I could place
confidence. Marcus, my son, do not disgrace yourself further by
behaving like a coward. Speak out at once and confess."

"Yes, father," cried the boy, making a desperate effort to speak out
frankly. "I want to tell you everything, but it is so hard to do."

"Hard to speak the truth, boy?"

"No, father, I did not mean that. I--I--"

"Well, sir?"

"I've done wrong, father, and I am ashamed of it."

"Hah! Come, that is more like my boy," cried Cracis, very sternly, but
with the frown upon his brow less deeply marked. "There, go on."

"It was like this, father. One day I found Serge cleaning and
burnishing the old a