at fell
from the other's lips.

"Yes, that's what Serge says," he cried, "and that it is a great and
noble thing for a man to be ready to die for his country if there is any
need."

"But it is pleasanter to live, my boy," said the visitor, smiling, "and
to be happy with those we love, with those whom we are ready to defend
against the enemy. You must be a soldier, then--a defender of your
land."

"No," said the boy, quickly, and he gave his head a quick shake. "It
can never be."

"Why?"

"Because my father says `no.'"

The visitor raised his brows a little, and then, leaning forward
slightly to gaze into the boy's eyes, he said, softly:

"Why does your father say that?"

"Because people are ungrateful and jealous and hard, and would ill-use
me, the same as they did him and drove him away from Rome."

The visitor tightened his lips and was silent, sitting gazing past the
boy and through the window, so full of thought that he broke off another
grape, raised it to his lips, and then threw it through the opening into
a tuft of flowers beyond.

"Ah!" he said, at last, as his eyes were turned again towards the boy.
"And so you are going to live here then, and only be a student?"

"Of course," said the boy, proudly. "It is my father's wish."

"And you know nothing, then, about a soldier's life?"

"Oh, yes, I do," cried the boy, with his face lighting up.

"Hah! Then your father has taught you to be a soldier and man?"

"Oh, no; he has taught me to read and write. It was some one else who
taught me how to use a sword and spear."

"Hah!" cried the visitor, quickly. "Then you are not all a student?"

"Oh, no."

"You know how to use a sword?"

"Yes," said Marcus, laughing, "and a spear and shield as well," and,
warming up, the boy began to talk quickly about all he had learned,
ending, to his visitor's great interest, with a full account of his
training in secret and his father's discovery and ending of his
pursuits.

"Well, boy," said the guest, at last, "it seems a pity."

"For me to tell you all this?" cried Marcus, whose face was still
flushed with excitement. "Yes, I oughtn't to have spoken and said so
much, but somehow you questioned me and seemed to make me talk."

"Did I?" said the visitor. "Well, I suppose I did; but what I meant was
that it seems a pity that so promising a lad should only be kept to his
books. But there, a good son is obedient to his father, and his duty is
to follo