well, boy, and you look nearly a man in it.”

“Do I, Serge?” cried the boy, flushing, as he put off the helmet with a sigh, and set it aside; then, catching up the sword and belt, he went out on to the Piazza to buckle them on, his fingers trembling with excitement the while.

“Do you, boy? Yes, and a regular soldier too,” said Serge, following.

Marcus threw his hand across and grasped the scabbard of the short sword blade with his left, the hilt with his right, and, the next moment, the keen, two-edged weapon flashed in the sunlight.

“Good! Brave boy!” cried the old soldier excitedly, and, forgetting all the words that had passed, he fetched the oblong, round-faced shield from the table and held it ready for Marcus to thrust his left arm through the loop and then grasp the hand-hold firmly, and draw the piece of defensive armour before his breast. “Well done! Now think that I’m going 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.