Chapter Nine.

The Old Armour.

When Marcus went to bed his habit was to drop his head upon his pillow, close his eyes in the darkness, and, as it seemed to him, open them the next minute to find it was broad daylight, and spring out of bed; but, almost for the first time in his life, he, that night, lay tossing about, thinking how hot it was, getting in and out of bed to open the window wider or to close it again, changing from side to side, and trying as hard as he possibly could to go off to sleep; and, even when at last he succeeded, it seemed that he had suddenly plunged into a new state of wakefulness in which he was listening to Caius Julius and then quarrelling with him.

Then his father seemed mixed up with his dream, and all kinds of the wildest imaginings came forming processions through his fevered brain. Armies of barbarians were marching to attack Rome. His father was a great warrior and general once again, fighting to save his country. Then he was the quiet student once more in his white toga, chiding him for his love of arms and armour; and, directly after, Serge seemed to come upon the scene, to catch their strange visitor by the ankle with his crook and threaten to thrash him for breaking down the fir-poles and stealing the grapes.

From dreams peopled in this incongruous way the boy woke up again and again, making up his mind that he would not go to sleep any more to be worried by what he termed such a horrible muddle.

The night, which generally passed so quickly, seemed as if it would never end, and when at last he did start up from perhaps the worst and most exciting dream of all, to find that the sun was just about to rise, he sprang off his bed with a sigh of relief, dressed, and went out into the garden to have what he called a good rest.

His intention was to go round to the back and rouse up Serge, not to make any confidence, but just to have a talk about the coming of the visitor and the surly reception the old soldier had given to his father’s friend; but, before he had gone many yards, a gleam of something white amongst the trees caught his attention, and he found himself face to face with his father.

“You out so soon?” he cried, in astonishment.

“Yes, boy; it has been no time for sleep. I have had too much to think about.”

“But, father—” began the boy.

Cracis held up his hand.

“Wait,” he said. “Our visitor, Marcus, seems to have been as sleepless as I; here he comes.” For at the same moment they caught sight of Caius Julius leaving the doorway; and, upon seeing them, he came quickly to join them, with extended hand.

The rest of that morning seemed afterwards one whirl of confusion to Marcus, in which he could recall his father’s words to their visitor, and his quiet, grave declaration of how much it meant to him to have to give up his calm and peaceful home and its surroundings to plunge at once into the toil, excitement and care of public life.

Marcus recalled too how, divining how they seemed to wish to be alone, he had left them pacing up and down beneath the shading vines, talking earnestly, while he consoled himself by joining Serge, who was in as great a state of excitement as himself and literally pelted him with questions which he could not answer, making the old soldier turn from him fiercely after telling him that he might speak out if he liked, instead of being so obstinate and refusing to trust him with what he knew.

Serge went off in high dudgeon, while, hardly giving him a thought, Marcus strolled back towards the garden in the hope that his father would take some notice of him and call him to his side.

It was then approaching mid-day, and this time he was not disappointed, for, as soon as the boy appeared, Cracis signed to him to approach.

“Come here, Marcus,” he said; and the boy noticed that their visitor smiled at him in a satisfied way.

“I am going away, my boy,” he said, “to leave our quiet little home, on very serious business.”

“Soon, father?” cried Marcus, excitedly, as his father stopped short.

“Very soon, boy—now—at once. That is, as soon as I can make my preparations.”

Marcus drew a deep breath.

“You are going to follow—him?”

“I am going with my old friend Caius Julius.”

“And you’ll take me with you, father?”

Cracis was silent for a few moments, and he sighed deeply as he laid his hand upon his son’s head.

“No, my boy; I must leave you behind. I am going to take part in a great struggle.”

“A great struggle, father? You don’t mean a war?”

“Yes, my boy, I do mean a war.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Marcus, and he turned sharply upon their visitor, looking the question he longed to put, while Caius Julius met his eyes and bowed in silence.

“You are too young,” said Cracis, slowly; “and now I want you to help me for the short time I am here making my preparations.”

“Yes, father,” cried the boy, in a choking voice; “but I should like for you to—”

“Yes,” said Cracis, interrupting him and speaking very firmly, “I know what you would say—take you with me—but it cannot be. Now, Marcus, you are only a boy, but I want you to let my old friend see that you can act like a man. Do you understand?”

“Yes, father.”

“Then look here, my boy. I reproved you and Serge rather harshly the other day for what you had done—Serge especially, for treasuring up and keeping in order my old war-like gear; but Marcus, one never knows what Fate has in store for us. I could not foresee, neither, for that matter, could he, what was so soon to come, but he did quite right. Now then,” he continued, sharply, “away with you at once, and get out all the arms that I shall want, for I cannot leave here as student, but as a soldier once again. You understand?”

Marcus nodded, quickly. He could not trust himself to speak.

“Go to my room then, at once, to the big, old chest. Stop!” he cried, when Marcus was half way to the door. “Serge knows better than you. Call him and take him with you to help you lay out what I shall require. That will do. At once.”

His brain whirling with excitement, his heart sinking with disappointment and despair, Marcus ran into the house, striving to make duty conquer all, his first effort being to drag his thoughts from self and condense them upon the task he had in hand.

“Where shall I find Serge?” he muttered. “He’ll be gone off somewhere in the fields. Which way had I better go?”

The question had hardly formed itself in his brain as he was hurrying across the little court where the fountain played, when the big, burly figure of the old soldier stopped his way.

“Want me, boy?” he cried, hoarsely.

“Yes, Serge. Father is going away at once.”

“With that Caius Julius?” cried the old soldier. “I know him now. It seemed to come to me like this morning when I woke. What does it mean then? The master a prisoner?”

“No, Serge; he’s going with him to the war. But come, quickly!” he added, as the man stood staring at him as if struck speechless with wonderment. “Don’t talk—don’t ask me questions. Father wants his weapons and his armour at once. Come on. You are to help me get them ready.”

The old soldier was standing before him with his herdsman’s staff in his hand as if ready to go off round the farm, and, drawing himself up, he grasped the stout crook in both his hands, bent down, placed one knee against it, and, with one effort of his great strength, snapped it across his knee as if it were a twig and threw the pieces from him with a gesture of contempt.

“Hah!” he cried, with a deep expiration of his breath. “At last, boy! The master is going to be himself again. There, don’t talk to me! I know! I have lain awake, boy, cursing that Caius Julius for coming here to disturb the master’s quiet life. He was his enemy always, and I could see nothing in it but ill—blind fool that I was! I can bless him now. Come on, boy! I know! Who was right now in keeping the swords sharp and the armour bright?”

The next minute the great chest had been dragged out into the middle of Cracis’ room and the old soldier was down upon his knees joyously unpacking the war-like equipments that he had so sadly stowed away so short a time before.

They were all mingled together so as to make them fit and the great chest contain them all, and as, taking the lead, Serge worked on, it was with a rapid touch that he sorted the three suits, giving each its place, his own armour and weapons, the more handsomely furnished appertaining to his master, and those of the boy, which had been fitted in.

The two former portions he laid to right and left, and, as he drew them forth, he sent pang after pang through the breast of Marcus, for it seemed to him that Serge laid his father’s offensive and defensive pieces of accoutrement together with almost reverent care, banging his own together heavily, while, as he dislodged those portions that had been prepared and fitted with such pride to suit the youth who wore them, they were pitched carelessly upon the bed to clash 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,” cried Serge, sharply, and to Marcus the man’s manner struck him as being completely changed, for he spoke shortly and bluntly, standing up as stiff and erect as before, and then in his misery and disappointment there was something very near akin to malicious triumph as his father said, sternly:

“Tut, man! Take that off! Did you think you were going too?”

Serge’s jaw dropped.

Chapter Ten.

Left behind.

“Not going too, master?” cried Serge, as soon as he could recover himself from a verbal blow which had, for the moment, seemed to crush him down; and, as Marcus heard the hopeless despair in the poor fellow’s tones, the feeling of malicious triumph in his breast died away.

“No,” said Cracis, firmly; “your duty lies here.”

“Lies here, master?” stammered Serge.

“Yes, man, here. Whom am I to leave in charge of my home? Who is to protect my son if I take you with me?”

“Home—Son?” faltered Serge. “But you, master—who is to protect you if your old follower is left behind?”

“I must protect myself, Serge,” said Cracis, and his voice lost for the moment the hard, firm sternness of the soldier. “Your duty is here, Serge, and I look to you to carry it out. I leave you a greater charge than that of following and trying to shield me.”

“No, no, master, no!” cried the old soldier, passionately. “I was with you always. I followed you through the wars, and I’ve stood by you like a man in peace. Once my master always my master while you could trust me, and it must be so still.”

“No, Serge,” cried Cracis, sternly. “I have told you your duty and now give you your orders. Protect my property; watch over my son till my return, if I ever do return,” he added, sadly; “and if I fall, your place is still here to stand by my son and follow him as you have followed me.”

“But you will not let me follow you, master!” cried Serge, passionately. “Oh, master, master! Young Marcus isn’t a suckling; he’s big and strong enough to fend himself. I’ve been waiting all these years for you to take your place as a soldier and a general once again! Don’t—pray don’t leave me behind!”

“Serge,” said Cracis, sternly, “you have led these years of peace, but recollect that you are a soldier still. Man, your officer has given you your orders—Obey!”

As Marcus gazed at their old follower he seemed to have suddenly grown old. His face was wrinkled, and the skin appeared to hang, while a piteous look of despair filled his eyes as, throwing out his hands towards one who seemed to him to be delivering his death sentence, he fell heavily upon his knees and poured forth:

“There, there, master, here’s your sword, keener and brighter than ever. Draw it and put me out of my misery at once. I won’t say a word, only give you a last look like that of a faithful hound who has died in your service. Kill me at once, and let that be the end, but now that you are coming to your rights again after all these weary years of waiting, and are going to fight for brave old Rome, don’t throw me over as if I was a helpless log. Think what it means to an old soldier who never turned his back upon an enemy in his life. Use your sword on me, master, if you feel that I’m not the man to draw my own again; but don’t—pray don’t leave me behind!”

Marcus felt ready to join his petition to that of the old soldier, but he could not speak, only stand and listen to his father’s words, as he stepped forward to lay his hand upon the man’s shoulder.

“Serge,” he said, in a voice full of emotion—“brave old follower—true old friend, I could sternly order you to obey my commands, but I can only beg of you as you do of me. Rise up, man, and hear me. I would gladly take you with me and have you always at my back, but we cannot do everything we would. In my absence, Serge, your place is here to protect my boy. It is your duty, and perhaps the last command I shall ever give you, for the Gauls are stout warriors and it is no child’s play that takes me from my home. I beg, then, as well as order. Stay and protect my son.”

“But you don’t know, master, how you may be surrounded by enemies ready to strike at you.”

“No,” said Cracis, firmly, and there was a ring of command in his tones. “Neither do I know how closely my boy may be hemmed in, and I want to leave here with the peaceful feeling that, whatever happens, my son has one beside him that I can always trust. Your duty, Serge, is here, and I leave Marcus in your charge. Now, no more save this: Rise up like my trusted servant. Duty calls me away, not only as a counsellor, but also as one of my country’s generals. Now help me with my armour, for I go forth to fight. There have been words enough. Take the example of my son. He feels the bitterness of being left behind as much as you. Now, quick! We have lost too much time already. Caius Julius awaits my coming, and my heart is burning to be free from all this suffering and mental pain. Marcus, my boy, help him. It is the first time I ever asked you to arm me as a soldier. Quick, boy, and let us get it done.”

Marcus sprang to his father’s side, while, heavy and slow, Serge, as he rose, tottered here and there as he busied himself over a task that had not fallen to him for many long years, while a faint groan of misery escaped his lips from time to time before the last metal loop had been forced over its stud and then drawn into its place, the last buckle drawn tight, and the armed cheek-straps of the great Robin helmet passed beneath the general’s chin.

These final preparations made, Cracis stood, grave and thoughtful, asking himself whether there was anything more he wished to do, anything in the way of orders to give his servant and his son before he left his home.

“Leave me now, Marcus,” he said. “I wish to be alone for a while. Well,” he continued, as the boy stood frowning and looking at him wistfully, “why do you stay? You want to ask me something before I go?”

These words stirred the boy into action, and he started to his father’s side; but, though his lips parted, no words came.

“The time is gliding away, Marcus, my boy,” said Cracis, sadly. “Come, speak out. You want to ask some favour before I go?”

“Yes, father, but after what you have said I hardly dare,” cried the boy, hoarsely.

“Speak out, my son, boldly and bravely,” said Cracis. “What is it you wish to say?”

“That there is yet time, father, before you go.”

“Time for what?” said Cracis, frowning as if he grasped what his son was about to say.

“Time for you to withdraw your command,” cried the boy, desperately. “Father, I can’t help it; I could not stay behind here with you leaving home for the wars. You must take me with you after all.”

Cracis frowned heavily.

“Is this my son speaking?” he said, harshly. “After the commands I have given you—after the way in which I have arranged for you to represent me here, and take my place in all things? Where are all my teachings about duty—have all flown to the winds?”

“No, no, father,” cried the boy, passionately; “but you cannot tell how I feel. You do not know what it is to be left alone, and for me to see you go.”

“You are wrong, my boy; I do know,” cried Cracis; “and I may answer you and say, neither do you know what it is for me to give up my happy home and all belonging to me, to go hence never to return.”

“Oh, I do, I do, father! I can feel that it must be terrible,” cried the boy, excitedly; “but there is no need for you to go alone. I know how young I am, but I could be of great help to you. I am sure I could. So pray, pray don’t leave me behind.”

“Is that all you have to say, Marcus?” said Cracis, sternly.

“Ye–e–es, father,” faltered the boy, in a despairing tone, for he could read plainly enough in his father’s eyes that his appeal had been in vain.

“Then leave me now, boy, and do not make my task harder by speaking like this again. I have my duty to do towards my country and my home. My duty to my country is to follow Caius Julius in the great venture he is about to attempt; my duty to my home and son is to leave you here and not expose you, at your age, to the horrors of this war.”

“But father!” cried the boy, wildly.

“Silence, boy!” said Cracis, firmly. “Obey me. I will hear no more. Go!”

Marcus’ lips parted to make one more appeal, but, as his eyes met his father’s where Cracis stood pointing towards the door, his own fell again, and feeling mastered, crushed in his despair, he moved slowly towards the door, his heart seeming to rise to his throat to strangle him in the intense emotion from which he suffered; but, as soon as he was outside, his elastic young spirit seemed to spring up again, and he hurried to his room, to stand there thinking, with the resolve to make one more strong effort to move his father’s determination.

“He does not—he cannot know what I feel,” he said to himself with energy. “I did not half try. I should have thrown myself at his feet and prayed to him. No, no,” said the boy, mournfully, as he felt more and more the hopelessness of his cause. “It would have been no good. Father is like iron in his will; he is so strong, I am so weak—He a great man—I only a poor, feeble boy to be left behind to mind the house, as if I were a girl! Oh, it’s of no use; I must stay—I must stay!” he half groaned, in his despair. “When perhaps I might help him so, I and Serge, when he was in the fight, or—oh, if he were wounded! Suppose he were cut down and bleeding, perhaps dying, and I not there to help him! Oh, it’s of no use to despair; I must—I will go. I know! I’ll appeal to Caius Julius; he will hear me, I feel sure.”

Full of enthusiasm once more, he hurried out of his room to seek for the visitor, who had wrought such a change in their quiet home; but, as he caught sight of him pacing slowly up and down the little inner court close to the fountain, the boy’s heart failed him again, for he recalled the angry passage that had taken place between them the previous day—their visitor’s half-mocking words, and his own burst of passion, which had roused him into forgetting the sacred rites of hospitality and raising his hand to strike.

“I can’t ask him; I dare not beg him to intercede,” thought Marcus. “He would only jeer at me for being a boy, and put me out of temper again. But I must,” he said. “It is for father’s sake. Yes, I will. Why should I mind? Let him laugh at me if he likes.”

Raising his courage he was on his way to their visitor’s side when Caius Julius turned and caught sight of the approaching boy.

“Ah, Marcus,” he said; “is your father nearly ready to go?”

“Yes,” cried the boy, “but—”

He stopped short, for the words refused to come.

“Well, what were you about to say?” said Julius, frowning.

“Your father is not going to repent?”

“Repent? About me?” cried the boy, excitedly.

“About you, boy? Why should he repent about you?”

“And let me go with him,” cried Marcus, excitedly, as, forgetting all his dislike, he caught his father’s visitor by the robe and spoke eagerly and well. “I want to go with him to the war.”

“You? To fight?”

“Yes; I know I am young and weak—Yes, I know, only a boy, but I shall grow strong, and it is not only to fight. I want to be there to help him. He might be sick or wounded. He says I must stay at home here, but I appeal to you. You can tell him how useful I could be. You will tell him, sir, for I feel that I ought not—that I cannot stay here and let him go alone.”

“Well spoken, my brave boy!” cried Caius Julius. “Spoken like a man! So you, young as you are, would go with us?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” cried Marcus, in his wild excitement, as he listened to this encouraging reception of his appeal. “I think I could fight; but even if I could not there is so much that I could do.”

“And you would not feel afraid?” cried Julius, catching the boy by the arm.

“No—yes—no—I do not know,” said the boy, colouring. “I hope not.”

“You do not know the horrors of a battlefield, boy,” said Julius, fixing Marcus with his keen eyes.

“No,” said Marcus, thoughtfully; “it must be very terrible, but I do not think I should shrink. I should be thinking so much of my father.”

“Well, honestly and modestly spoken, boy,” said Julius. “Why, you make me feel full of confidence in your becoming as brave and great a man as your father.”

“Oh no, sir,” replied Marcus, sadly. “No one could be so great and brave a man as he.”

“But you would follow us into the middle of the battle’s horrors?”

“Yes, sir, I would indeed; indeed I would,” cried Marcus, eagerly.

“I believe you, my boy, and all the more for your simple honesty of speech.”

“And you will prevail upon my father to let me go?” cried Marcus, appealingly.

“I do not know,” said Julius, thoughtfully. “You say that you have begged hard and your father says that you must stay?”

“Yes,” cried Marcus, “but you have the power, sir, and you will speak to him and tell him that he must take me?” cried Marcus.

Julius shook his head.

“Let me see,” he said; “you told me that you would try to be brave.”

Marcus felt that his hopes were vain, but he spoke out desperately:

“Yes, I would indeed try to be as brave and firm as I could.”

“I know you would, boy, but remember this: it is very brave to be obedient to those who are in authority over you,” said Julius. “A good son obeys his father, and Cracis has given you his commands to stay here, has he not?”

“Yes,” cried Marcus, desperately; “but I was sure that I could be of the greatest help.”

“I believe that you would try to be,” said Julius, gravely; “but, my boy, I cannot fight for you in this and oppose your father’s commands. Be brave and do your duty here. Put up with the disappointment and wait. Time flies fast, boy, and you will be a man sooner than you expect—too soon perhaps for the golden days of youth. No, my boy, I cannot interfere. You must obey your father’s commands.”

“Oh,” cried Marcus, passionately, “and suppose he is stricken down, to lie helpless on the field?”

Julius shrugged his shoulders, and at that moment the voice of Cracis was heard summoning the boy, who turned away hanging his head in his despair. Marcus turned to meet his father, who looked at him wondering to see him there, and bringing the colour to the boy’s cheeks, so guilty did he feel, as, with his cloak over his arm, Cracis drew his son to him to press him to his mailed breast, held out his hand to Serge, and then strode forward with heavy tread to join his old military companion, who was now slowly bending over the side of the fountain, into whose clear surface he kept on lowering the white tips of his fingers so that one or the other of the little fish that glided about within the depths might dart at them and apply its lips in the belief that something was offered to it fit for food.

Caius Julius rose up slowly as he heard the heavy tramp of his friend’s armoured feet upon the paved floor, and took in his appearance with a smile of satisfaction.

“You are ready, then?” he said.

“Yes,” was the laconic reply.

“Then nothing remains but for you to take your farewell of my brave young friend, your defender when I ventured to try his faith.”

“That is done,” said Cracis, gravely; “and as Rome awaits my coming, lead the way.”

“But I have not said my valediction to your son, Cracis, and it is this: Wait, Marcus, my brave boy. Some day perhaps I may come to you as I have come to your father to ask your help. Better still, send him, full of the honours he has won, to bring his son to Rome. Till then, farewell.”

Marcus felt the touch of their visitor’s hands and heard his words, but he could not speak, only stand side by side with Serge, who looked older and more bent than when he first learned the truth that he was to stay behind; but the boy had no thought at the moment but of the father who was going away to face peril as well as to strike for glory and his country’s welfare.

He could only follow the pair of Rome’s great men as, side by side, they passed out of the open court where the fountain played and the water that sparkled like diamonds in the bright sunshine fell back into the basin with a musical splashing sound.

A minute later and Cracis with his companion passed out through the porched entry into the tree-shaded road, the grave, white-robed leader and the well-armed general with his shield, which flashed and turned off a shower of keen darts which came from on high, as he turned once to wave his hand to his son.

At that moment there was a low, deep bay, and the great wolf-dog, which had caught sight of his master, bounded from the shadow where he had crouched to avoid the flies, and, seeing the two strangers, as they seemed to him, he leaped forward, but crouched at his master’s feet as he recognised his face and voice.

“Good dog!” cried Cracis. “No, go back and guard all here till I return.”

If the dog did not grasp the words, he did the tone and gesture, replying by throwing up his muzzle and giving vent to a piteous howl full of protest, as he turned and walked slowly back to join Marcus and Serge, 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 disturber, and he looked gently at the great dog, whose eyes were fixed enquiringly and wistfully on his. “He’s gone, old boy—gone—gone—gone—and, yes, the place does seem lonely and sad.”

The dog whined softly, and then looked sharply in his face again, before turning to the door, forcing it open and passing through.

“Who’d ever have thought a dog would feel it so?” thought Marcus. “But he does. He missed him directly, and he has gone to hunt for him.

“What, can’t you find him, Lupe?” cried Marcus, as there came a scratching at the door, which was forced open, and the dog came in again, to utter a piteous whimper which increased into a howl.

“Poor old Lupe!” sighed Marcus. “Can’t you find him, boy? No, and you never will. I dare say he will never come back here again. Good old dog!” he continued, taking hold of his ears and drawing the head into his lap, to keep on caressing him and talking to him the while. “What mistakes one makes! I used to think you such a surly, savage old fellow, and here you are as miserable as I am, Lupe. Oh, he might have let me go!”

The dog whined softly as it gazed wistfully in his eyes, and whined again.

“Where’s old Serge, Lupe? You haven’t seen him since father went.”

The dog growled.

“Oh, don’t be cross with him, Lupe. I dare say he’s as disappointed as I am; but he will have to stay,” continued the boy, bitterly, as he uttered a mocking laugh, “and take care of the house and the servants and all the things about the farm; and you will have to stay and help him too. Just as if all these things were of any consequence at all. There, get away; I can’t make a fuss over you now. I feel half wild and savage. I can’t bear it, Lupe. It’s too much—too much.”

He thrust the dog’s head roughly away, and Lupe stood up before him and shook himself violently so that his ears rattled. Then, trotting towards the door, he was stopped short, for the latch was in its place and he tried to drag it open with his claws, but tried for some moments in vain. Then showing plenty of intelligence, he trotted back to the middle of the room, looked up anxiously in his young master’s face, and barked angrily.

“Oh, look here,” cried Marcus, “I can’t bear this. Be off!”

The dog trotted back to the door and scratched at it with his head turned towards the boy the while; but Marcus was too full of his own troubles to grasp the great animal’s meaning, and, finding that he was not understood, Lupe trotted to Marcus’ side, lifted one leg, and pawed at him.

“Get away, I tell you!” cried the boy, and the dog barked a little, and stood barking in the middle of the room for a few moments, before turning and making for the window, where he crouched a little, and then, with one effort, sprang right out into the garden, while Marcus subsided into his old attitude with his face buried in his hands.

No one disturbed him, and at last the night began to fall, the shadows in the room darkened and grew darker still, till at last the boy seemed to wake out of a deep sleep, though he had never closed his eyes.

Springing up, he went to the window, looked out at the dark and silent garden, and then uttering a low, deep sigh he crossed to the door, passed through, and made for his father’s study, to find there that all was darker still. But he knew what he wanted, and with outstretched hands made for his father’s bed, when they came in contact at once with what he wanted.

Then there arose from the place where his father rested night after night a short, sharp, clinking noise as of metal against metal, while the boy quickly and carefully gathered together the various portions of his armour and accoutrements which had been placed there by old Serge when he unpacked and sorted out the portions of the three suits.

It did not take long to clear the bed, and then, hugging everything tightly to him, Marcus crept softly out through the darkness, listening carefully the while before every movement, his acts suggesting that he was playing the part of a robber; and he thought so and laughed to himself, as he said softly, as if answering his conscience, “Yes, but I am only stealing my own,” and then made his way to his own sleeping chamber, a narrow little closet of a place which opened upon the court, where the musical tinkling of the water as it fell back into the basin could be plainly heard.

In the darkness everything was wonderfully still, save that the music of the water sometimes sounded loud, and when the boy rather roughly freed himself from his burden that he carried by casting the armour and weapons upon his own bed, he was half startled by the resulting crash, and turned back quickly into the court to stand and listen.

As he did this the low murmur of voices came to his ear, making him step cautiously across the little square court and go round to the spot from which the sounds came.

There he stood listening for a few moments, to satisfy himself that it was only his father’s servants talking together, their subject being their master’s going away.

“Oh,” he said, impatiently, “they don’t think about me, any more than old Serge does. But he might have given me a thought and come and said a word or two to show that he was sorry for my disappointment.

“But no; he wouldn’t,” continued the boy, with a sigh. “I suppose people in trouble are always selfish, and he thinks his trouble a bigger one than mine. Never mind. I won’t be selfish. I’ll go and speak to him, just a few kind words to let him see that I am sorry for him, and then—Oh, it’s very miserable work, and what a difference father could have made if he would have listened to me—and that Julius too.

“Caius Julius! Yes, of course, I have heard about him, but it never troubled me—in fact I hardly knew there was such a man in the world—the greatest man in Rome, a mighty soldier and conqueror, old Serge said more than once; but I never took any notice, for it seemed nothing to do with me. Oh, who could have thought that in a few short hours there could be such a change as this!”

The boy turned off, crossed the court again, and made his way to Serge’s den, where all was still and dark as the part of the building he had just quitted.

“You here, Serge?” he cried, cheerily, thrusting open the door. “Where are you? What have you been doing all this time?”

Marcus’ words sounded hollow and strange, coming back to him, as it were, and startling him for the moment.

“Are you asleep?” he shouted, loudly, as if to encourage himself, for an uncomfortable feeling thrilled him through and through.

“Oh, what nonsense!” he muttered. “Not likely that he would be asleep; he’d have heard me directly and sprung up. Where can he be?”

The boy thought for a few moments, and then hurried out towards the farm buildings and sheds, but stopped short as another thought struck him, and he made at once for the dark building with its stone cistern where the grapes were trodden.

The door was ajar, and he stepped in at once.

“You here, Serge?” he cried; and this time there was an answer, but it was made by the dog, which approached him fawningly and uttered a low, whining, discontented howl.

“Oh, get out! I don’t want you,” cried Marcus, angrily; and he turned to leave the place, but his conscience smote him and he stooped down and began patting the great beast’s head.

“Yes, I do,” he said, gently. “Poor old Lupe! I mustn’t be surly to my friends. Good old dog, then! But where’s Serge? Do you know where he is, boy?”

The dog growled, and pressed up against Marcus’ leg.

“No, you don’t know, old fellow. If you did you’d be with him. There, go and lie down. I daresay he’s gone into the woods to sulk and walk it off.”

The dog whined softly, and then, in obedience to his master’s commands, let himself subside upon the stones, while Marcus strolled off, stopped once or twice to think and listen, and then said, half aloud:

“There, it’s of no use, and perhaps it’s all for the best, for I’m so weak and stupid, and I daresay I shouldn’t have been able to talk to him and say what I meant without breaking down.”

He drew himself up firmly, then stood breathing hard for a few moments, as he turned and gazed through the darkness in different directions, and then made straight for his little cubicle, entered at once, and, breathing hard the while as if he had been running far, he cast off his loose every-day garment and began rapidly to put on the armour in which he had had such pride.

Practice with old Serge had made him perfect, and, in spite of the darkness, his fingers obeyed him well, so that it was not long before he stood girded and buckled up, fully accoutred, with nothing more to be done than to crown his preparations by placing his heavy helmet upon his head.

Before he began, his spirits were down to the lowest ebb, but exertion and excitement, joined with something in the touch of the war-like garb and the thoughts this last engendered, so that as he went on he gradually grew brighter, adventurous thoughts encouraged him; and, at last, taking the helmet in both hands, he placed it upon his head, drew the armed strap beneath his chin, and readjusted the hang of his short broadsword, before standing in the darkness absolutely motionless.

“Why, it makes me feel ten years older,” he said, “even if I am but a boy! And here was I, before I began, shrinking and feeling that I should repent and be afraid to go. And now I am like this!”

He lifted his shield from where it lay upon the bed, took the short spear which he had leaned in a corner of the wall, and then, stiffened by his armour and far more by the spirit that seemed to thrill through every nerve and tendon, he stepped out into the court, to bend down and place his lips to the clear water in the fountain basin, drink deeply, and then stand up in the darkness to look round.

“Good-bye, old home!” he said, aloud, and his voice broke a little; but it hardened again the next moment, as he said, quickly:

“No, it isn’t home now that he has gone away. I am coming, father, and you must forgive me when we meet, for I cannot—I dare not stay.”

There was the quick, sharp tramp of the boy’s feet as he crossed the stone-paved court, with the arms he wore, and those he carried, making a slight crackling and clinking noise, while his bronze protected feet made his steps sound heavier than of old.

The next minute he was fighting against the desire to turn and look back, and, conquering, for he felt that it would be weak, he strode off with quickened pace away along the track that had been taken by his father and Caius Julius hours before.

Chapter Thirteen.

Turning the Tables.

“Marcus, boy!” came back the next instant, as the old soldier dashed down his shield and his sword upon it with a clattering noise, before catching his deliverer in his arms and holding him to his breast.

“Well done!” he cried. “Well done, boy! Well done! Hah! Hurrah! Think of it! Six on ’em! And you set ’em running. Hah!” he panted, breathlessly, as he freed the boy, took a couple of steps backward, planted his great fists upon his hips, gazed at him proudly, and then gave a sweeping look round as if addressing a circle of lookers-on instead of blocks of stone and trees; “Hah!” he exclaimed. “I taught him to fight like that!”

“Yes, Serge, you did—you did!” cried Marcus. “But you are covered with blood, and you are badly hurt. Those wretches must have stabbed you with their knives.”

“Eh?” growled the old soldier, beginning to feel himself all over. “Yes, how nasty! All over my breast. It’s a long time since I have been in a mess like this. I felt a dig in the front, and another in my back, and another—” Serge ceased speaking as his hands were busy feeling for his wounds, and then he exclaimed: “Yes, it’s blood, sure enough, but ’tain’t mine, boy. Their knives didn’t go through. I am all right, only out of breath. But you? Did you get touched?”

“Oh no,” cried Marcus. “I escaped.”

“But you made your marks on them, boy. My marks, I call ’em.”

“Pick up your sword and shield, Serge,” cried Marcus, excitedly. “They’ll be coming back directly perhaps.”

“Well, yes, it would be wise, boy,” said the old soldier, taking his advice. “Look yonder; that’s the fellow I cut down,” and he pointed with his sword to the man who had been bathing his wound and, after crossing the rivulet, was also in full retreat. “No, he’s had enough of it, and if the others came back it wouldn’t be six to one, but five to two—two well-armed warriors, you and me,” said the old man, proudly, as he made Marcus’ shield clatter loudly as he tapped it with his sword. “You and me, boy,” he repeated. “Tchah! They won’t come on again. Why, back to back, you and me—why, we are ready for a dozen of them if they came. Here, I had my wash, but I must go now and have another while you keep guard over me. Think of it!—While you keep guard over me, boy! No, I won’t call you boy no more, for I have made you a fighting man, and here’s been the proof of it this morning. There’s only one thing wanted to make all this complete. Boy! Tchah! I can’t call you a boy: you are a young Roman warrior.”

“Oh, nonsense, Serge!” cried the boy, flushing.

“Nonsense, eh? Look at you and the way you handled that spear. Why, you are better with your sword, if you have to draw it, as I well know. Do you remember how you nearly did for me?”

“Oh yes, I remember,” replied Marcus.

“Yes, I had to jump that time; and lucky I did, or I shouldn’t have been here for you to fight like this. But, as I was saying, it only wanted one thing, and that was for your father, who has come to his senses at last, to have been here to see, and—”

The old soldier stopped short, his big, massive jaw dropped, and he stood staring as he took off his heavy helmet and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

“But I say,” he cried, at last, staring at the boy with the puzzled expression upon his features growing more and more intense, “what are you doing here?”

Marcus’ sun-browned face turned scarlet, and he stood silent, staring in reply, beginning almost to cower—he, the brave, young, growing warrior—before the old servant’s stern eyes, and ready to shiver at the pricking of the conscience that was now hard at work.

“Look here,” cried Serge, extending his shield and raising his short broadsword to punctuate his words with the taps he gave upon this armour of defence, “your father said that you were not to use that armour any more, and I left it, being busy getting his for him to go off to the war, lying upon his bed. It wasn’t yours any longer. It was his’n. You have been in and stole it; that’s what you have done. Do you hear me?” continued the old soldier, fiercely. “You’ve been and stole it and put it on, when he said you warn’t to. That’s what you’ve done.”

“Yes, Serge,” said the boy, meekly.

“Hah!” cried the old soldier, gathering strength.

“And your father said you were to stop at home and take care of his house and servants, and the swine and cattle, and his lands, and, as soon as he’s gone, you begin kicking up your heels and playing your wicked young pranks. That’s what you’ve done, and been pretty quick about it too. Now then, out with it. Let’s have the truth—the truth, and no excuses. Let’s have the truth.”

It was no longer punctuation, but a series of heavy musical bangs upon the shield, and once more, very meekly indeed, Marcus said, almost beneath his breath:

“Yes, Serge; that’s quite right. Everything is as you say.”

“Ah, well,” growled the old soldier, a little mollified by his young master’s frankness, “that don’t make it quite so bad. Now then, just you answer right out. Where were you a-going to go?”

“To join father at the war.”

“Hah! I thought as much,” cried the old soldier, triumphantly, and looking as though he credited himself with a grand discovery. “And now you see what comes of not doing what you are told. I’ve just catched you on the hop, and it’s lucky for you it’s me and not the master himself. So, now then, it’s clear enough what I’ve got to do.”

“To do?” cried Marcus, quickly. “What do you mean, Serge?”

“What do I mean? Why, to make you take off that coat of armour on the spot. Well, no, I can’t do that, because you aren’t got nothing else to wear. Well, never mind; you must go as you are.”

“Oh yes, Serge, never mind about the armour; I’ll go as I am. But gather your things together—that bundle of yours.”

“How did you know I’d got a bundle?” said the old soldier, suspiciously.

“I have seen you carrying it day after day.”

“What! You’ve seen me day after day?”

“Oh yes. I don’t know how long it’s been, but I have often seen you right in front.”

“Worse and worse!” cried the old soldier, angrily. “That shows what a bad heart you’ve got, boy. You’ve come sneaking along after me to find the way, and never dared to show your face.”

“I did dare!” cried the boy, indignantly. “But I only saw your back. I didn’t know it was you.”

“Oh, you didn’t know it was me?” growled Serge. “Well, that don’t make it quite so bad. But you knew it was me that you came to help?”

“No.”

“Oh! Then I might have been a stranger?”

“Yes, of course. I saw six men attacking one, and—”

“Oh, come, he ain’t got such a bad heart as I thought,” said the old soldier. “And you did behave very well. I did feel a bit proud of you. But never mind that; we have got something else to talk about,” said Serge, as he rearranged his armour and picked up his wallet and spear. “Now then, let’s get back at once, and mind this, if you attempt to give me the slip—”

“Give you the slip! Get back!” cried Marcus, excitedly. “What do you mean by get back at once?”

“Why, get back home to your books and that there wax scratcher to do as your father said. This is a pretty game, upon my word!”

“But I am not going back, Serge,” cried the boy, firmly. “I am going to join my father.”

“You are not going to join your father,” said the old soldier, sturdily. “You’ve run away like one of them village ragged-jacks, and I am ashamed of you, that’s what I am. But ’shamed or no ’shamed, I’ve catched you and I am going to take you back.”

“No!” cried Marcus, fiercely.

“Nay, boy, it’s yes, so make no more bones about it.”

“I am going to join my father, sir, and answer to him, not to his servant.”

“You are going back home to your books and to take care of your father’s house.”

“And suppose I refuse?” cried Marcus.

“Won’t make a bit of difference, boy, for I shall make you.”

“Indeed!” cried Marcus.

“Now then, none of that! None of your ruffling up like a young cockerel and sticking your hackles out because you think your spurs have grown, when you are not much more than fledged, because that won’t do with me. I tell you this: you come easy and it will be all the better for you, for if you behave well perhaps I won’t tell the master, after all. So make up your mind to be a good boy at once.”

“A good boy!” cried Marcus, scornfully. “Why, you called me a brave young warrior just now.”

“Yes, I am rather an old fool sometimes,” growled Serge; “but you needn’t pitch that in my teeth. Now then, no more words, and let’s waste no more time. I want to get back.”

“But Serge—” cried the boy.

“That’ll do. You know what your father said, and you’ve got to obey him, or I shall make you. Aren’t you sorry for doing wrong?”

“Yes—no,” cried Marcus.

“Yes—no? What do you mean by that, sir?”

“I don’t know,” cried Marcus, desperately. “Look here, Serge: it is too late now. I’ve taken this step, and I must go on and join my father now.”

“Taken this step? Yes, of course you have,” cried the old soldier, sarcastically, “and a nice step it is! What’s it led to? Your having to take a lot more steps back again. I know; but you didn’t, being such a young callow bit of a fellow. Soon as you do anything wrong you have to do a lot more bad things to cover it up. Lucky for you I catched you; so now then, come on.”

“But Serge,” cried Marcus, passionately, “you can’t understand how I felt—how it seemed as if I must go after my father, to be with him in case he wanted help. He might be wounded, you know.”

“Well, if he is there’ll be plenty to help him. Soldiers are always comrades, and help one another. If he is wounded he won’t want a boy like you, so stop all that. I’m not going to stand here and let you argue me into a rage. You’ve got to come back and obey your father’s commands, instead of breaking his orders. I wonder at you, boy, that I do. Did this come out of your reading and writing?”

“Serge!” cried the boy. “I did try hard—so hard, you don’t know; but I couldn’t stay. I was obliged to come.”

“Won’t do, boy,” growled the old soldier, frowning. “Orders are orders, and one has to obey them whether one likes ’em or whether one don’t. Ready?”

“No, Serge, no, I’m not ready,” pleaded the boy. “It is too late. I can’t go back.”

“Too late? Not a bit. Now then: come on.”

“I cannot, Serge. I must—I will go on now.”

“You mustn’t, sir, and you will not,” cried the old soldier, sternly. “Now then, no nonsense; come on.”

“No, no, Serge. Pray, pray take my side. It is to be with my father; can’t you see?”

“No, boy; I’m blind when it comes to orders.”

“Oh, Serge, have you no mercy?” cried Marcus, piteously.

“Not a bit, boy. Now then, once more, come on.”

“I cannot,” cried Marcus, passionately.

“Then I’m going to make you.”

“What!”

“I’m going to carry you, heavy as you’ll be, and long as it will make the road. But I’ve got it to do, and, if it takes me a month, I’m going to make you obey your father’s orders, sir, and stop at home.”

As he spoke Serge swung his shield between his shoulders, pressed his sheathed sword a little more round to his side, and with a sharp dig made his spear stand up in the earth.

“Now then,” he cried, and he caught Marcus by the wrists, and a struggle seemed to be imminent.

“Serge!” cried Marcus, angrily.

“Your orders were to stay at home, sir, and home you go,” cried the old soldier. “If you will be carried back like a scrap of a little child, why, carried you shall be. So give up. I’m twice as strong as you, and it’s your father’s commands.”

“Hah!” cried Marcus, ceasing his struggles on the instant, and leaving his wrists tightly clasped in the old soldier’s hands.

“Well, what are you ‘hah-ing’ about?” cried Serge, as he noted the suddenly triumphant tones of the boy’s voice.

“I was thinking about my father’s orders,” cried Marcus, in a state of wild excitement now.

“Good boy; and quite time. Pity you didn’t think more of ’em and much sooner. Then you’re going to mind me without more fuss, and come home like a good boy now?”

“No,” cried Marcus, fiercely. “I am going on to my father. I will not stir a step backward now.”

“What!” cried Serge, as fiercely now, for the old man was roused by the boy’s obstinacy. “You won’t obey?”

“No,” cried Marcus, catching his companion by the top of his breast armour. “It’s my turn now. Look here, sir; you talk about my father’s commands.”

“Yes, boy, I do,” roared the old soldier, looking as fierce now as one of the campagna bulls, whose bellow he seemed to emulate, “and I’ll make you obey them too.”

“Commands—obey—when I’m only going to join him?”

“Yes, that’s it, my lad. So now then!”

“Yes,” cried Marcus, giving his companion a fierce thrust which forced him a little back so that he caught his heels against a projecting stone, and as he tried to recover himself was brought down by Marcus upon his knees. “Hah!” he cried. “I’ve got you! What have you got to say about my father’s orders? What are you doing here?”

Chapter Fourteen.

Coming to Terms.

Serge was in the act of gathering himself together so as to spring up and catch his prisoner by the arms, but, as the boy questioned him sharply he sank a little lower upon his knees, and, as if all the strength had been suddenly discharged from within him, he said in quite a different tone of voice:

“What am I doing here?”

“Yes, sir,” cried Marcus, forcing him a little more back, and fixing him with his eyes, “what are you doing here?”

“Well, I—er—I—I’m here to take you back.”

“You old shuffler!” cried Marcus, in a rage. “I can see through you. My father’s orders, indeed! What were his orders to you, sir? Weren’t they to stop and take care of his house and belongings, and of me?”

“Well, they was something like that,” growled the man, softly; “but don’t drive your knuckles into my throat like that, my lad. You hurt.”

“Hurt! Yes, and you deserve it,” cried Marcus, growing stronger in his attack upon the old servant as the latter grew more confused and weak. “So this is the way you obey my father’s commands. You took upon yourself to go into his room and help yourself to the armour you have on. Confess, you did; didn’t you?”

“Well, if it comes to that, Master Marcus,” grumbled the man, “it was my armour, and wouldn’t fit no one else.”

“That’s shuffling again, Serge, and it’s no good. You took the armour, unknown to my father?”

“Course I did, my lad,” cried the man, recovering himself a little. “He wasn’t there, was he?”

“Pah!” ejaculated Marcus. “More shuffling. Now then, confess: you took the armour and disobeyed the orders given you. What is more, you forsook me and left me to myself. Speak out; you did, didn’t you?”

“Well, I s’pose it’s o’ no use to deny it, Master Marcus. I s’pose I did.”

“And in direct opposition to my father’s orders you were going to follow him to the war?”

“That’s right, Master Marcus, but how could I help it? Could I let him, as I’d followed into many a fight, go off to meet those savage Gauls without me at his back to stand by him as I’ve done many and many a time before?”

“You disobeyed him, sir,” cried Marcus.

“Well, boy, I own up,” growled the man; “but I meant to do it for the best. How could I stop at home nussing you like a baby and thinking all the while that my old master was going about with swords and spears offering at his throat? How could I do it, Master Marcus? Don’t be so hard on a man. It wasn’t to be done.”

“And yet you were as hard as iron to me, sir,” cried Marcus.

“Well, didn’t your father order me to be in the way of taking care of you? It was my duty.”

“Was it?” cried Marcus. “Then now I’m going to do my duty to you, sir.”

“What are you going to do, Master Marcus?” said Serge, quite humbled now.

“Make you go back to the old home and take care of it.”

“Master never gave you orders to do that,” cried the old soldier, triumphantly; “and now I’m started to follow him and fight for him, nobody shan’t make me go; so there!”

Marcus and Serge remained gazing in one another’s eyes, till at last the latter spoke.

“Look here, Master Marcus, I meant it for the best. Aren’t you being a bit hard on me?”

“Look here, Serge,” replied Marcus, “I meant it for the best. Weren’t you a bit hard upon me?”

“I think not, Master Marcus, boy.”

“And that’s what I think, Serge.”

“I couldn’t see my dear old master go away alone into danger.”

“And I couldn’t see my dear old father go away alone into danger.”

“Of course you couldn’t, Master Marcus. I say, my lad, you know what I used to tell you about enemies doing when they come to a check like—what they settled was best.”

“What, made a truce?” said Marcus.

“Yes, my lad. I should like one now, for that bruise you’ve made with your knuckles in my throat’s quite big enough. It’ll be black to-morrow.”

“Get up, Serge,” said Marcus, letting his hand fall.

“Thankye, my lad. I say, boy, I didn’t think you were so strong.”

“Didn’t you, Serge?”

“No, boy. My word, it’s just as if getting into your armour had stiffened you all over. My word, I wouldn’t ha’ believed that you could fight like you did this morning!”

“I felt hot and excited, Serge, and as if I could do anything.”

“Didn’t feel a bit scared like, though there was six of them?”

“No,” said Marcus, thoughtfully; “I never thought anything about their numbers, only of saving you.”

“Thinking all the time it was someone else, sir?”

“Yes, Serge; that was it.”

“And you fought fine, sir. Seems to me it’s a pity for a youngster like you to be stopping at home unrolling volumes and making scratches with a stylus.”

“Does it, Serge?”

“Yes, sir, it do; and likewise it seems a pity that such a man as me, who can do his share of fighting, should be doing nothing better than driving the swine into the acorn woods.”

“And looking after and protecting me, Serge,” said Marcus, drily.

“Oh, yes, of course; there was that, of course, Master Marcus; but I say, sir, don’t you think we’ve both talked enough for the present; I tackled you and you tackled me in a pretty tidy argument, and both on us had the best of it in turn. I’m beginning to think that there’s good clear water coming down from the mountain yonder.”

“Yes, Serge; it makes me feel thirsty after getting so hot.”

“Then, too, I’ve got a nice loaf in my wallet and a tidy bit o’ meat as I got from a little way back. What do you say to our making a bit o’ breakfast together same as we’ve done before now in the woods?”

“And settle afterwards about whether we should go back, Serge?” said Marcus.

“Yes, my lad; that’ll be the sensiblest thing to do.”

“Yes,” said Marcus, “you’ve talked about it, and it has made me feel very hungry now.”

“Well, look here,” said Serge, “we are about even, aren’t we?”

“Even!” said Marcus, staring at the man. “Do you mean about both being hungry?”

“Nay–y–y–ay! About being wicked uns. You’ve done wrong, you know, and disobeyed orders.”

“Yes,” said Marcus, with a sigh.

“So have I. Well, we are both in disgrace, and that makes us even; so, of course, I can’t bully you any more and you can’t say ugly things to me. Fair play’s the thing, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” cried Marcus.

“Well, then, as you’ve behaved uncommon fine in tackling those rough ones, and saved my life—”

“Oh no,” said Marcus, modestly.

“But I say, oh yes. Don’t you talk to me. They’d have killed me dead, stripped off everything that was worth taking, and then left my body to the wolves.”

Marcus recalled the words of the speaker of his wandering away up the mountains to lie down and die, and he felt ready to say: “Well, that would have suited you;” but he thought it better not, and held his tongue.

“As I said before, you have behaved uncommonly well over that, so I’ll forgive you for running away, and shake hands, if you’ll agree to say nothing more about it to me.”

“Oh, very well,” cried Marcus. “I don’t feel that I can say any more to you.”

“Then I won’t to you, my lad, and there’s my hand on it. Only mind this,” cried Serge, as they stood with their hands clasped, “this is only me, you know. I lose my place of looking after you, according to the master’s orders, by forsaking my post and going after him, so I aren’t no longer holding your rein, as you may say. What I mean is this—I forgive you, but I am not going to answer for what your father will say.”

“Oh, of course not,” cried Marcus. “We have both got to face that.”

“Yes, my lad,” said the old soldier, sourly, “and a nice hard time it’s going to be. I daren’t think about it, but keep on putting it off till it comes. That’ll be time enough. So now then, you and me’s going to be friends, and try to help one another out of the mud. That is, unless you think we’d better go back home together.”

“Oh, no, no,” cried Marcus. “Impossible! We must go on now.”

“Yes,” said Serge, bluntly. “Then it’s vittles.”

“Vittles?” said Marcus, staring.

“Yes. Don’t you know what vittles are? Didn’t you say you was hungry?”

“Oh!” cried Marcus.

“Have you got anything?”

“Scarcely anything,” replied Marcus.

“Yah! And after all the pains I took with you! Didn’t I always say that an army on the march must always look well after its foraging? No commander can expect his men to behave better than a bottle.”

“Look here, Serge,” cried Marcus, laughing, “why don’t you speak out plainly what you mean? What have men got to do with bottles?”

“Oh, a good deal sometimes,” said the man, chuckling. “But that’s only my way. You can’t hold a bottle up, no matter whether it’s a goat-skin or one of them big jars made of clay, and expect to pour something out of it if you haven’t first put something in?”

“No, of course not,” said Marcus, who was busy polishing the point of his spear with a tuft of dried grass.

“Well, men’s the same as bottles; if you don’t give them plenty to eat and drink you can’t get plenty of fighting out of them. Always see to your foraging when you are on the march. I always do, and I have got something ready for us both now. But look here, my lad, this isn’t at home, and I’m not going to drive out the swine, and you are not going to your wax table. We are soldiering now, and whether it’s two thousand or only two, things are just the same. We have got to keep a sharp look-out for the enemy.”

“You didn’t,” said Marcus, quickly, “or you would have seen me following you.”

“That’s right,” said Serge, “and it was because I could think of nothing else but about being such a bad un as I was and forsaking my post. I dursen’t look back either, for fear that I should see someone following me. But that’s all over now; you and me’s joined forces, and we must go on straight. I don’t think it’s necessary, but we will just take a look round for danger before we sit down to enjoy our breakfast.”

“Enjoy?” said Marcus, dubiously.

“Yes, that’s right. We shall both have company over it. It’s been precious dull to me, being all alone. So now then; take the lead, captain, and give the orders to advance for a scout all round before we sit down to our meal.”

“Very well, then,” cried Marcus. “Forward! This way first.”

“Yes, but that’s too much of it,” said the old soldier. “A commanding officer don’t make speeches to his men ’cept when he’s going into action, and not always then. What you ought to have said was just ‘forward!’ and then advanced with your troops to follow you.”

Marcus nodded and smiled, and, side by side and spear in hand, they climbed to the highest ground, carefully surveying their surroundings of wood and rock—every place, in fact, likely to give harbour to an enemy, till all at once Marcus threw out his left arm across his companion’s breast, and, stopping short, stood pointing with his spear to something half hidden behind a patch of bushes upon the other side of the stream.

Serge sheltered his eyes on the instant, and gave a satisfied nod.

“Right, captain,” he whispered; “but your force isn’t strong enough to surround the enemy. You must advance in line. It’s an ambuscade.”

The half-concealed figure was nearly a hundred yards away, and, by the time they had covered half the distance, Marcus’ keen young eyes sent a message to his brain, and he whispered to his companion in an awe-stricken voice:

“It’s that wounded man. He has lain down to die.”

The old soldier uttered a low grunt, and sheltered his eyes again.

“Looks like it,” he said, “but we had best make sure. Tell your men to level their spears and advance at a run. Dead men are dangerous sometimes.”

Recalling the lesson he had just received, Marcus lowered his spear and uttered the one word:

“Advance!”

They broke into a sharp trot, straight for the horrible-looking, stiffened figure which lay crouched together in an unnatural attitude just behind a bush; but, before they were half way, there was a quick movement, a sharp rustling of leaves, and the dead man had sprung up and was running as swiftly as a deer.

Marcus stared in astonishment, looking so surprised that Serge lowered the butt of his spear and rested upon its shaft in his familiar home attitude when the staff he carried was terminated by a crook instead of a keenly-pointed blade.

“There, you see, my lad. That’s the sort of dead man you have got to beware of after a fight. They are a very dangerous sort; like that fellow, they are crippled a bit, but they won’t stop to be buried. They don’t like the idea. What they do is to play sham till their enemy has marched by ’em, thinking they are real, and then when some poor fellow is looking forward, one of them dead barbarians lets him have it in the back. There, we will go and sit up on the top there, and I’ll lean up against your back, and you shall lean up against mine while we eat our breakfast and are busy with our teeth, and leave our four eyes to play watchful sentry till we’ve done.”

Marcus felt quite willing now that the excitement caused by the flying foe was at an end, and, soon after, Serge’s little store was drawn upon, and, quite happy and contented, the two old companions made what Marcus thought was the most appetising breakfast he had ever had in his life.

“Hah!” cried Serge, as they rose at last. “Now let’s go down to the stream for a drink. Always camp, my lad, beside a river or a lake; and if you can’t—” He stopped short.

“Well, if you can’t?” said Marcus.

“Why, then you must go thirsty, same as you must go hungry too sometimes. Didn’t I always teach you that a soldier’s first duty was to learn how to fast?”

“Oh, yes, I remember,” said Marcus, as he lay down to drink, while his companion watched, and then drank in turn, rising to say, as he drew a long, deep breath:

“There, that’s as much as I want now. Nice clear water, and we’ve left plenty for the next as comes. But a deal of trouble I used to have in the face of plenty to make you believe it was a soldier’s duty to learn how to fast. You always were the hungriest boy I ever knew.”

Marcus laughed, and looked wonderingly at his companion, who now stood up stiffly with his hands resting upon his spear.

“Well, Serge, what now?” cried Marcus.

“Only waiting, captain. Orders to advance.”

“Forward!” cried Marcus; and, the next minute, with eyes eagerly scanning the track in front, they were marching together side by side on the way to Rome.

Chapter Fifteen.

Wearing Armour.

It was some hours afterwards, when the sun was beating down hotly, that Serge suggested that they should have half an hour’s rest in the shade of a clump of huge, spiral-barked chestnuts, whose dark, glossy-green leaves were spread over a bend of the track which had evidently been slightly diverted so that those who followed it might take advantage of the shade.

The trees were approached cautiously, and the pair scouted round the clump to make sure it was untenanted before they stretched themselves amongst the mossy, radiating roots that spread far and wide.

“There seem to have been plenty of people here,” said Marcus, pointing to where the soft, moist earth was full of imprints. “There have been wheeled carriages here.”

“Yes,” grunted Serge. “Those are ox waggons. See?”

“Yes,” said Marcus. “But those others are different.”

“Yes,” said Serge. “Chariot wheels, those.”

“How do you know?” said Marcus, sharply.

“Look at ’em,” grunted the old soldier. “Can’t you see they are light? They are made to gallop. Those others were made to crawl. Why, it’s printed all about that they were chariot wheels. Look at the marks of the horses’ hoofs.”

“Oh yes, I see,” cried Marcus. “The waggons show nothing but the feet of oxen. But how come there to be chariot wheels about here?”

“How did that Roman general, Caius Julius, come to the farm?”

“I don’t know,” said Marcus, starting. “I never thought of that.”

“I did,” said Serge, with a grunt which might have been copied from one of the swine he had so often driven.

“How did he come?” cried Marcus.

“Same way as he went back to Rome.”

“Of course,” cried the boy, impatiently. “But how was that?”

“With chariots and horsemen.”

“Are you sure? I saw none.”

“Didn’t go down to the village to look?”

“No; I had too much to think of.”

“So had I,” said Serge; “but I went and looked all the same. There was a grand chariot and a lot of horsemen, and it was in that chariot that, after walking down to the village, the master went away.”

“Oh, then they must be far ahead,” cried Marcus.

“Yes; at Rome before now.”

“And I have been expecting that we might come upon them at any moment,” said Marcus, with a sigh of relief. “Then we shan’t see them till we get there?”

“And like enough not then,” said Serge, with a grim smile; “so you may make yourself comfortable about this scolding that’s got to come, for it won’t be yet.”

“But we shall see my father as soon as we get to the army.”

“Some time perhaps,” said Serge; “but the army will be miles long perhaps on the march, and it’s hard work, boy, to find one in a hundred thousand men.”

“Then we may not find him!” cried Marcus, in an agonised tone.

“Well, no, my lad, but you may make your mind happy about that. One man’s not bound to find his general, but his general’s pretty sure to find him, or the legion he is in. There, don’t you fidget about that. If you and me hadn’t done any harm we should be pretty safe, but so sure as one does what one ought not to do, one may make up one’s mind that he’ll be found out.”

The rest was pleasant, but Marcus did not feel so satisfied in his own mind when they started once again on the tramp.

It was on the evening of a hot and wearying day that Marcus sat in a shady grove, gladly resting, while Serge was relieving him of his armour and carefully hanging it piece by piece from, one or other of the branches by which they were surrounded.

“Grand thing, armour,” said the old soldier, as he watched the tired boy from the corners of his eyes.

Marcus started from a waking dream of Rome and its glories as he pictured it in his own mind.

“Oh yes,” he said, hastily; “glorious!”

“Nice and bright and shining, and makes a man seem worth looking at when it’s on, eh?”

“Yes,” said Marcus, with a faint sigh.

“How proud you felt when you’d got yours; eh, my lad?”

“Yes, very,” said Marcus.

“Nice dress to walk in.”

“But it’s rather heavy in this hot weather,” ventured Marcus.

“Heavy, boy? Why, of course it is. If it wasn’t heavy the barbarians’ swords and spears would go through it as if it was sheep skin. But yours fits you beautifully, and will for ever so long yet—if you don’t grow,” added the man, slily.

Marcus turned upon him peevishly.

“Well, I can’t help growing, can I?” he cried.

“Oh no, boy; course you can’t till you’ve done growing, and then you won’t grow any more.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” snapped out the boy.

“No. Oh no; but what’s the matter with your shoulder?”

“Nothing much,” said Marcus, sourly. “Those shoulder straps rub that one, and the back part frets my neck.”

“Does it? That’s bad; but I’ll put that right when you put it on in the morning. Don’t you mind about that: after a bit your skin’ll get hard, and what feels to worry and rub you will be soft as a duck’s breast.”

“Nonsense! How can bronze and brass get to be soft as feathers, Serge?”

“Oh, I dunno, my lad,” replied the old soldier, slowly, “but it do. I suppose,” he added, mockingly, “you get so much glory on your shoulders that it pads you out and makes your armour fit like wax. It is heavy, though, at first. Mine worried me the first day, because I hadn’t worn it for years; but it sits lovely now, and I could run and jump and do anything. Helmet too did feel a bit lumpy; but I felt it more in my toes than on my head.”

“Are you laughing at me, Serge?” cried Marcus, turning upon the man, sharply.

“Can’t you see I’m not, boy? Why, I’m as serious as a centurion with a new command.”

“But do you think I’m going to believe that you felt your heavy helmet in your toes?”

“Of course I do, boy,” said the man, chuckling. “If it’s heavy, don’t the weight go right down to the bottom and drive your toes hard to the very end of your sandals?”

“I didn’t think of that, Serge,” said the boy, a trifle less irritably.

“S’pose not, boy. You haven’t got to the end of everything that there is to know. Besides, your helmet is light.”

“Light?” cried Marcus, bitterly.

“Well, of course it aren’t as light as a straw hat as you can tilt off every time you come into the shade, and let it hang between your shoulders, same as you do your shield.”

“And I suppose that is?” said Marcus, sharply.

“What, as a straw hat, boy? Well, I don’t say that,” said Serge, drily, “because it do weigh a tidy bit. But that helmet of yours, as I took care should be just right for a boy, is too light altogether.”

“Bah!” cried Marcus. “Why, it has made my forehead and the back just behind my ears as sore as sore.”

“Pooh! That isn’t because the helmet’s too heavy; it’s on account of your head being so soft and green. It’ll be hard enough before the end of this war. Why, if it were lighter, every crack you got in your first fight would make it give way like an eggshell; and then where would you be, my lad? Come, come, cheer up! You’re a bit tired with this tramp—the first big one you’ve had. You’ll be better in the morning, and before this time to-morrow night I dare say we shall be in sight of Rome and its hills and the Tiber, and, take my word for it, you won’t feel tired then.”

“Think not. Serge?”

“Sure of it, boy. Man who’s a bit worn out feels as if everything’s wrong, and the flies that come buzzing about seem to be as big as crows; but after a good sleep when the sun rises again to make everything look bright, he sees clearer; the flies don’t seem to buzz, only hum pleasant like, and what there is of them is golden-green and shiny, and not a bit bigger than a fly should be.”

“But I’m disappointed, Serge. I hoped to see my father as soon as I reached Rome, and get this trouble off my mind.”

“Instead of which it has to wait. Well, never mind, lad. It will be easier perhaps then. Now then, you do as I say: lie down at once close up there to that dry, sandy bit, and sleep as hard as you can till morning. Then we’ll set off and get to Rome as soon as we can, and hear about the army and which way it has gone.”

“Perhaps it will not have started yet?” said Marcus, eagerly.

“Like as not, my lad, but, if it has, we can follow it up. Now then, be sharp, for I want to lie down too. We shall be fresh as the field flowers in the morning, for no one is likely to disturb us here.”

Marcus said nothing, for he knew that the old soldier’s words were meant to encourage him, and he thought so more than ever, as, free now from his heavy armour, he lay looking upward, listening to the faint hum of beetles and seeing the glint of the stars through the trees, while he thought of their journey and the disappointment he felt over Serge’s words, while it seemed to him all a part of his thinking instead of a dream—a confused dream when he fancied himself back at the old house seeking for Serge and finding the dog crouched down in the shed where the great stone cistern stood, and in the harvest time the grapes were trodden, those grown in their little vineyard and those from the neighbouring farms where there was no convenience of the kind.

But as he was about to turn away and fasten the door, it seemed strange that the place should be lit up by sunshine coming aslant through the trees, when it was late in the evening and dark. But so it was, with Lupe couching down, making no attempt to follow or pass him as he closed the door, but resting his long, fierce-looking jaws upon his extended paws, till, after trying hard to puzzle out why it was so, Marcus came fully to his waking senses and sat up suddenly, while Lupe followed his example, to burst out into a deep, joyous bark.

“What!” now came in a deep voice from behind Marcus. “Why, Lupe, dog, have you found your way here?”

Chapter Seventeen.

Too Late.

It was the beginning of a tramp that lasted days.

Rome had been soon reached, but they were too late to witness the turmoil of excitement that had preceded and accompanied the departure of the last division of the army which, Marcus and his companion gathered from a group of invalided soldiers left behind, had been tarrying and awaiting the return of Caius Julius to assume the supreme command. He, they were told, had been away upon a mission to claim the assistance of some great general who was supposed to be an old friend full of wisdom; and he, they told Serge, had been brought in triumph to the city, to place himself with Julius at the head of the waiting men.

“You should have been here then,” said one old man, “and seen the welcome they had from our gallant boys and the women who crowded the streets waiting to see them go. Ah, it made the tears come into my old eyes to think that I should be left behind.”

“Then why were you left behind?” growled Serge. “You are not an older man than I.”

“No,” said the old soldier, laughing softly, “but you have two legs to march on. I have only one and this stick.”

Marcus glanced sharply down at the speaker, and, seeing the boy’s intention, the old fellow laughed again.

“Oh, yes, you are thinking I lie. There’s two of them, my lad, and one’s as good a leg as ever stepped; but as for the other, it’s years ago now, when I was with Julius, and I got a swoop from a Gallic sword; the savage ducked down as I struck at him, and brought his blade round to catch me just above the heel. But he never made another blow,” continued the old man, grimly. “My short, sharp sword took him in the chest, and he never hurt a Roman again.”

“But you got over your wound?” cried Marcus, eagerly.

“It soon healed up, my lad, but he had cut through the tendon, and I was never fit to march again, or I shouldn’t be talking to you here. But look here, old fellow, you were ready enough to twit me about not being with the army. Why are you not there?”

“Can’t you see we are too late?” growled Serge, angrily.

“Oh yes, that’s plain enough,” said the old man, maliciously, as he rested upon his staff, “and some great fighting men who win great battles with their tongues are always too late to strike a blow. How is it you are late like that?”

“Oh, that’s what you want to know, is it?” said Serge, surlily.

“Yes,” said the old man. “A man with legs like yours ought to have been there.”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Serge. “It was like this. My chariot had gone to have new wheels. But perhaps I might have made the old ones do. But both my chariot horses were down with a sort of fever. Then the driver had gone away to get married and couldn’t be found, and so I had to walk. And now you know.”

“Bah!” cried the old man. “Look at your rough hands! You have been like me. You never had a chariot or horses of your own. You’re only a working man. All lies.”

“Every word of it,” said Serge, grinning, “’cept that it’s true about me and the youngster here having to walk like our dog. But we want to get there, brother, as soon as we can, so put us on our way to overtake the army, or by a short track to cut it off.”

“Do you mean it?” said the old soldier.

“Mean it? Of course!” cried Marcus, excitedly. “The division, mind, that’s led by Caius Julius.”

“Ho, ho, my young cockerel!” cried the old man. “Then nothing will do for you but the best?”

“Nothing,” cried Marcus, eagerly. “We want to be where that great general is that Julius went to seek. Now put us on the way.”

“That’s easily done,” cried the old man. “There’s a troop of horse that sets off to-night to follow the rear-guard, and they’ll have chariots with them too. Go and see if you can get along with them. You’ve no horses, but you might run beside the chariots, and their drivers, as soon as they see there’s stuff in you and that you want to fight, will give you a lift from time to time.”

“Run beside the chariots, eh?” said Serge, with a laugh, as he glanced at Marcus. “Running would suit you better, my lad, than it would me. I’ve got a deal more flesh to carry than you have, and running is not good in armour with a big helmet on your head. You’d have something to grumble at about feeling sore, or I’m mistaken. But never mind; we want to get there, don’t we?”

“Oh yes, we must get on,” cried Marcus, “and if we can’t run we can walk.”

“What I was going to say,” cried Serge, “so put us on the right way, old comrade,” he continued, to the old cripple, “and you shan’t want for something to pay for to-morrow; eh, Marcus, my lad?”

“Oh no,” cried the boy, thrusting his hand into his pouch; but Serge clapped a hand upon his arm.

“Wait a bit, boy,” he said. “Don’t pay for your work until it is done.”

A short time before, weary with their long tramp, the disappointment of finding that they were quite left behind had made the future look blank and dismal. But the old cripple’s words seemed to bring the sun out again, and he hobbled along by their side through street after street, chattering volubly about his old experiences with the army and his disappointment now in seeing the sturdy warriors march off, legion after legion, leaving him behind.

“Ah,” he said, “it’s lucky to be you, able to go, and luckier still for you to have met me who can lead you to the place where the last party are camping.”

“Where’s that?” said Marcus, sharply, for the man seemed to be taking them a very devious course.

“Just outside the gate, over yonder. There, you can see the wall, and in a few minutes we shall be there.”

The old soldier’s words proved to be quite true, as, at the end of a few minutes, he led them to the little camp, all astir with the soldiery preparing to start—horsemen, chariots, baggage, horses and camp followers, all were there, with the leaders fuming and fretting about making the last preparations, and eager to make the start.

The old soldier gave his new friends a nudge of the elbow and a very knowing look.

“I know what to do,” he said. “You leave it to me. I wasn’t in a marching army for years without learning something. Yonder is a big captain, there by that standard. Nothing like going to the top at once. Come along.”

The old cripple drew himself up as well as he could, and, thumping his stick heavily down, led the way to the fierce-looking captain, whose face looked scarlet with anger and excitement.

“Here, captain,” cried the old man.

The officer turned upon him angrily.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” he roared.

The old man pointed to Marcus and Serge.

“Two brave fighting men,” he cried; “volunteers, well-armed and trained, who want to join.”

“Oh, I’ve all I want,” cried the captain, roughly, “and—” He stopped short, for, as he spoke, he ran his eyes over the two strangers, resting them longest upon Serge, and he hesitated.

“Here, you,” he said, as he noted the way in which Marcus’ companion was caparisoned, “you’ve been in the army before?”

“Years, captain,” cried Serge, with military promptness. “I served with Cracis and Julius in the old war.”

“Hah! You’ll do,” cried the captain. “But I don’t want boys.”

Marcus’ spirits had been rising to the highest point, but the contemptuous tone in which these words were uttered dashed his hopes to the ground, and he listened despairingly as in imagination he saw himself rudely separated from his companion and left behind.

The thoughts were instantaneous, and he was consoling himself with the reflection that Serge would not forsake him, and anticipating the old soldier’s words, as Serge turned sharply upon his new commander.

“Boys grow into men, captain,” he said, sharply, “and I’ve trained this one myself. He can handle a sword and spear better than I.”

“Hah!” cried the captain, as he looked critically at Marcus, examining him from top to toe, whilst, as if for no reason whatever, he slowly drew his sword, while Marcus, who stood spear in hand and shield before him, in the attitude he had been taught by Serge, quivered beneath the captain’s searching eye.

“Trained him yourself, have you?”

“Yes, captain—well.”

“He can use his weapons?”

“Yes, captain.”

To the astonishment of both Serge and Marcus, and as if without the slightest reason, the big, burly, war-like captain made one step forward and with it like lightning he struck a blow with his sword right at the comb of Marcus’ helmet, such a one as would have, had it been intended, brought the boy to his knees.

But Serge had spoken truth when he said that he trained Marcus well, for, quicker in his action than the deliverer of the blow, Marcus had thrown up his shield-bearing left arm, there was a loud clang upon its metal guards as he received the sword blow, and, the next moment, the captain drew back as sharply as he had advanced, to avoid the boy’s short spear, directed at his throat.

“Good!” he cried. “Well done, boy!” And he began to sheath his sword. “Your teacher, an old hand, no doubt, could not have done better. Why, boy,” he continued, “you are a soldier, every inch,” and he grasped the lad by both arms. “But this won’t do; you must lay on muscle here, and thicken and deepen in the chest. That helmet’s too heavy for you too. Yes, you are quite a boy—a brave one, no doubt, and well-trained; but you are too young and slight to stand the hardships of a rough campaign. I should like to take you, but I want men—strong men like your companion here—and I should be wronging your parents if I took you. Whose son are you, boy?”

“My father is Cracis, sir, a friend of Caius Julius, and he is at the front.”

“Ha!” cried the officer, looking at him searchingly. “Then why are you at the rear?”

Marcus’ spirits had been rising again, and his eyes were sparkling, lit up as they were by hope; but at that question down they went directly to the lowest point.

He tried hard to look firmly in the captain’s face, but his eyes would blench. He tried to speak, but he could not answer, and he stood quivering in every nerve, shamefaced and humbled, while his trouble increased and he turned his eyes upon Serge, looking appealingly at him for help, as the big officer suddenly exclaimed, as he caught him by the shoulder:

“Why, you young dog, it’s all written in your face! You’ve run away! Ha-ha! I don’t mean from the fight, but to it. Let me see. Am I right? You being a trained young soldier, wanted to go with your father to the war, and he told you to stay at home. You’ve run away to follow him. Am I right?”

Marcus looked at him firmly now. There was no shrinking in his eyes, for he was uttering the truth.

“Yes, sir,” he said, huskily; “quite right.”

“Well, but I say, captain,” growled Serge, “that’s all true enough, every word. But the boy aren’t a bit worse than me. The master said I was to stop at home and mind him and the swine and things about the farm; but I couldn’t do it with the smell of battle in the air, being an old soldier, don’t you see, and the master gone to lead. I felt like the boy did, ashamed to stop and let one’s armour rust when Rome’s enemies were waiting to be beaten. I felt obliged to come, and so did young Marcus here. A brave boy, captain, so don’t be hard.”

“Hah!” cried the captain, frowning severely. “A nice pair, both of you! It isn’t likely, but how could I meet Cracis or Julius by and by if I took you into my following?”

“Oh, we’d keep out of sight, captain,” growled Serge.

The captain pointed mockingly at Marcus.

“He doesn’t look much like a boy who’d keep out of sight, old warrior,” he said. “Far more likely to thrust himself into the front with all the unbalanced rashness of a boy. A nice pair indeed! But I should like to have a thousand of you, all the same. No, I don’t think I ought to take you, boy,” he continued, slowly, with a very severe frown gathering on his forehead. “But look here; I don’t like to stand in the light of one of Rome’s brave sons, however young, at a time when our country needs their help. But tell me, boy; if I say to you, go back home and wait a year or two till you have grown more of a man, you will go back at once, will you not?”

“Shall you tell Serge to go back too?” replied Marcus, sharply.

“Most certainly not,” said the captain, laughing. “He has offered his services, and I have taken him. You will have to go home alone. Tell me, will you obey my orders?”

“No,” said Marcus, firmly. “I am not going to forsake old Serge.”

“You are a pretty fellow for a volunteer,” cried the captain, merrily. “Ask me to take you into my following, and, at the first command I give you, tell me flat to my nose that you won’t obey!”

“I’ll do anything else you tell me, captain, but that,” cried Marcus, quickly.

“Well, boy,” said the captain. “But stop. What shall you do now?”

“Find my way to the army alone,” said Marcus, quickly.

“You’d never do that, boy. The country ahead is in a state of war, and swarms with ruffians hanging about the heels of the army like wolves following a drove of sheep—worse, these, than the enemy. Boy, before many days had passed you’d be stripped of all your bravery, robbed for the sake of your weapons, and left dead or dying somewhere in the forest.”

“I can fight, sir,” said Marcus, proudly, “and my sword and spear are sharp.”

“Yes, boy, and I should be sorry for the one or two who tried to stop your way. But wolves hunt in packs, and can pull the bravest down. Are you heeding what I say?”

Marcus nodded. He could not speak, but stood gazing at Serge, who had taken off his helmet and with a face full of perplexity was vigorously scratching at his grizzled head.

“Well, boy,” continued the captain, “I have thought it over and I must do my duty, which is to send you back.”

“Oh!” cried Marcus, and throwing his spear sharply into his left hand he held out his right to Serge.

“But if I do that duty,” continued the captain, “it will be to expose you to greater risks amongst the marauders gathering everywhere now than if I take you with me.”

“And you will let me come?” cried Marcus.

“I am obliged to, boy,” said the captain, smiling, “for I can’t help feeling that Cracis, if we meet, would blame me more for doing my duty than for letting you come. Here, old man, you shall not tramp after our horse to come in weary and distressed at every halt. I’ll put the boy, as he is Cracis’ son, in one of the chariots, one of the light ones drawn by Thracian horses. There are several with their drivers yonder that I have not yet manned. You as his spearman may accompany him, of course. There, boy, no thanks,” continued the captain, sternly. “I have no time for more. Off with you to your place. One of my officers will see that all is right. What is that man? Away with you!” he shouted to the old crippled soldier, who had heard all and now hobbled forward to speak. But a couple of soldiers placed their spear shafts before him and drove him back.

But Marcus had seen, and sprang after him, dived under the spears and pressed a few coins into his hand before he was hurried away, babbling his thanks.

“I’d about given it up, Marcus, boy,” said Serge just then. “Here, come along; here’s a young captain waiting to show us where to go, and my word, talk about a piece of luck! I thought I was going to be taken away, never to see you again, and here we are. A chariot and pair with our own driver, and me to sit behind you and do nothing but tell you how to fight. Here, come along. Talk about a piece of luck! How old are you? Eighteen. Why, you’ll be a general at the end of another week!”

Chapter Eighteen.

The Charioteer.

“I shall never be able to do it, Serge,” said Marcus, nervously, as he stood with his old companion looking admiringly at a pair of fiery-looking little steeds harnessed to a low chariot just big enough to afford room for three.

The little pair were being held, stamping and covering their sides with the foam they champed from their bits, by a short, broad-shouldered, swarthy driver, who had his work to restrain the impatient little animals.

They were less in size than what would now be termed cobs, almost ponies, but beautifully formed, arched-necked and heavily maned and tailed, a pair that had excited admiration in the boy’s eyes as soon as he saw the chariot to which he had been led. But they were almost wild, and ready to resent the buffets given by their driver with teeth and hoofs.

“A chariot to be proud of,” Serge had growled in the boy’s ear. “Why, a captain needn’t wish for better. I don’t know what the master will say when he sees you.”

“Oh, don’t talk about the meeting, Serge. I feel so excited,” replied the boy, and then he added the words which head this chapter.

“Never be able to do what?” cried the old soldier.

“Manage the chariot. It seems too much for me.”

“Tchah!” cried Serge. “Don’t want no managing. You’ve got your driver to take you where you tell him right at the enemy, when you get your orders to advance, and cut them up. You’ll stand there in front with your spear or javelin, and I shall sit behind ready with spare ones for you to throw when you are amongst the enemy, and stop anyone who tries to come up behind if he’s foolish enough. But I don’t hold with throwing javelins. It wants a lot of practice, and those who have practised most, when they are going at full gallop, are pretty well sure to miss. I should like for you to use your spear, and keep it tightly in your hand. It means closer quarters, but your thrusts are surer, and you do better work. Besides, you don’t lose your weapon.”

“But I feel it’s almost too much for me.”

“Then don’t feel at all,” said the old soldier. “Go and do what you’ve got to do along with the cavalry when you have got your orders, and don’t think at all. What you have got to do is to skirmish and drive the enemy, and what I have got to do is to mind they don’t skirmish and drive you. There, jump in boldly, and look as big as you can.”

“Nonsense! How am I to look big?”

“By opening your mouth, boy, and speaking loud. You are not afraid?”

“Oh no, I am not afraid,” cried Marcus.

“Then don’t let that little driver chap think you are,” whispered Serge. “Act like a captain. That little fellow is only your slave, but if you put on a scared look he’ll try to play the master. Unlucky for him if he does, for, if he don’t do what he’s told, I’ll crack him like I would a nut.”

There was no time for more conversation, for the little detachment under the captain’s command had already begun to advance; an order was brought to the cavalry, and the chariot driver appealed to Serge to come and stand at the horses’ heads for a moment while he took the reins.

Serge changed places with him directly, while the driver assumed the reins, the slight touch upon the ponies’ withers making them snort and plunge as much as Serge’s strong arms at their bits would allow.

Then a trumpet rang out, Serge joined his young master in the chariot, and in a few minutes the ponies had settled down into a steady progress at the rear of the column.

Exciting days followed, during which Marcus began to learn lessons of what it meant to advance into an enemy’s country, the necessity of being constantly on the alert, where everyone was unfriendly, and to loiter behind the main body meant being cut off, leaving the loiterer’s place in the column empty.

It was all new to Marcus, as those days passed on, and his captain followed exactly in the track of the army that had gone before, working his men hard, practising various evolutions, keeping them on the alert and ready for action at a moment’s notice.

It was on one of these occasions, many days after their start, that towards evening a halt was called just after the column had moved out from a narrow mountain ravine, such a place as had presented plenty of opportunities for the enemy, had they been near, to descend from one of the side gorges and attack, to the cutting off of the column.

And all this had necessitated careful scouting and watchfulness on the part of the leader. But at last it seemed as if they had ridden out into safety, a wide, open plain stretching before them, suitable for forming camp for the night, where there was no risk of ambush or surprise.

A murmur of satisfaction ran through the column as posts were set, fires lit, and the men began settling down. Marcus’ horses had given up a good deal of their wildness and begun to form a kind of friendship with Lupe, who had narrowly escaped execution, consequent upon the effect that he had had upon Marcus’ chariot pair, who, whenever he came near, had exhibited a frantic determination to tear off at full speed, and this generally where the ground was of the very roughest character and the destruction of the chariot would have been certain.

It had been a difficulty, but, like other difficulties better or worse, it had been mastered, and, instead of meeting his death, the constant training, through which the chariots and horsemen had passed, resulted in the above-named friendly feeling, and now, at an advance, the dog took his place just in front of the fiery little steeds and trotted before them, while when they halted, he took it as a matter of course that one or other of the beautiful little animals should stretch out its arched neck, nuzzle among his bristly hairs, and at times close its teeth upon the back of the dog’s neck and attempt to raise him from the ground.

“I should never have thought he would have stood it, my lad,” said Serge; “but he has found out it means friendly, or else he’d bark and let them have his teeth in turn.”

This was said as the sturdy driver was freeing the pair from their place on each side of the chariot pole and twisting up their traces, for night was falling fast, and the men’s fires were beginning to twinkle here and there.

“Tired, boy?” said the old soldier, who was carefully removing the dust from his armour.

“Horribly,” replied Marcus. “I want to lie down and sleep. Oh, how I can sleep to-night!”

The words had hardly passed his lips when there was the blare of a trumpet, followed by another and another, with the result that it seemed as if a nest of hornets had been disturbed, for a loud buzzing filled the darkening air, leaders’ voices rose giving orders, and there was a murmur punctuated, so to speak, by the clinking of armour, the rattle of weapons against shields, and the whinnying and squealing of horses, accompanied by angry cries from those who were harnessing them again.

“And I was so tired, Serge,” said Marcus, as he finished hurrying on his armour. “What does it mean?”

“An alarm or an advance; I can’t say which, boy. But be smart. We may get our orders at any moment.”

“I shall be ready directly. There, he has done harnessing the horses. Down, Lupe! Quiet! Keep away from their heads.”

The dog crouched in front, just beyond the reach of one of the horses, waiting patiently for what was next to come.

“Ah, you are the best off, after all,” said Marcus, “You just get up on all four legs, give yourself a shake, and you are ready for anything.”

The dog looked up, gave the speaker a friendly growl, and then let his head rest again upon his extended paws, while Marcus walked to the side of his chariot horses to pat and caress their arched necks, friendly advances which were now accepted by the savage little animals without any attempts to bite, while he could pass behind them now without having to beware of a lightning-like kick.

“All ready?” growled Serge, who had just loosened the throwing spears he had laid in the bottom of the chariot.

“Oh yes, I am ready; but can’t I lie down and sleep till the order comes to advance?”

“No, you can’t,” growled Serge. “A soldier shouldn’t want to sleep when he is waiting for the trumpet to sound.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Marcus, peevishly. “I should have thought he ought to snatch a little sleep whenever he could.”

“That’s right,” said the old soldier, grumpily. “But he can’t now.”

“Why?” said Marcus, with a yawn.

“Because the foot soldiers are starting now, and the horse went scouting on ten minutes ago. I wonder we haven’t got our orders before this.”

“Why, we shouldn’t have been ready if they had come,” said Marcus.

“No,” growled Serge. “We with the chariots are horribly slow. It’s all through having to depend upon these driver fellows and our horses having to drag a clumsy car at their heels. Now look here, I am beginning to think that the enemy’s afoot coming down to surprise us, and, if so, we with the chariots shall have our turn.”

“What makes you think that?” cried Marcus, shaking off his drowsiness at these words.

“I don’t know, boy, only I do. In with you. Now we are off.”

The driver was already in his place as Marcus sprang into the chariot, and seized one of the throwing spears, to be followed directly by Serge; for an order rang out, there was a peculiar sound as the horses started at the first shaking of their reins and the guttural cries of their drivers, and then, in a fairly well-kept line, some twenty of the war-like cars, drawn by their snorting horses, advanced in line over the moderately smooth plain in the direction already taken by the foot and horse. But as they nearly came within touch, the mounted figure of the captain was seen facing them in front, where he sat ready to give a fresh order, when the line of chariots broke, as it were, in two, half passing him to left, the other half to right, to take up position on the flanks of the infantry, which was about a couple of hundred yards in advance.

The next minute from out of the darkness ahead there came faintly the sound of shouts, accompanied by the beating of hoofs, and a horseman tore up to the captain, to make some communication which caused him to set spurs to his horse and gallop forward, while Marcus, as his chariot rolled on, rested his hand on the front and peered forward over his horses’ heads into the bank of gloom which now grew more and more alive with sound.

There was the heavy tramp, tramp of armed men, followed by the sudden rush and thunder of hoofs, while where he stood there was the rattle of the chariot wheels and the cries of the drivers as they urged their horses on.

“How are you, boy?” said Serge, hoarsely, with his lips close to his young master’s ear.

“Oh, I’m well enough,” was the reply, “but I can’t see. I want to know what we are going to do.”

“Don’t you want to lie down and have a sleep?” said Serge, grimly.

“Sleep? No! I want to understand what’s going on.”

“What for?” growled Serge. “What’s it got to do with you?”

“What has it got to do with me?” cried Marcus, without turning his head.

“Yes; what’s it got to do with you? That’s the captain’s business. We are advancing slowly, and by and by when the enemy has passed through our cavalry, and delivered its attack upon our foot, and they are coming on—I can hear them hurrah, boy! This isn’t a false alarm. Hear that shouting?”

“Hear it, yes!”

“That’s the enemy, and they are very strong too.”

“How do you know?”

“I can hear them, boy.”

“Oh, then why don’t we gallop forward and attack?” cried Marcus, excitedly.

“Because it arn’t our time. There! Hear that?”

“Yes; what does it mean?” cried Marcus, as a dull, low, clattering sound was heard.

“Why, you ought to know by now. That’s our foot-men joining shields together to receive the enemy’s horse, which must have scattered ours. They are driven back, and they will come round behind us if I am not mistaken.”

“What, have they run away?” cried Marcus.

“Oh no, boy. Bent back to right and left. They were taken by surprise, I should say, and gave way. That’s the art of war. And now! Hark at them! The enemy’s coming down with a rush upon our infantry to cut them up and sweep us all away.”

“What!” cried Marcus, wildly. “And we in the chariots are ambling on like this! Oh, if I could only see something besides that line in front!”

“See with your ears, boy, as I do,” growled Serge. “This is the first bit of real work I have been in for many a year, but it’s all going right. We have got a captain over us who knows what he is about. There! What did I say? Hear that?”

It was plain enough to hear: a confused rush of galloping hoofs away in front beyond the line of infantry, another thunder of galloping horses panting and snorting as they rushed by in the darkness close at hand, and another body away to Marcus’ left, beyond the second half of the line of chariots. This ceased directly afterwards, and, as the boy glanced back, he could see a mass of horsemen forming up behind the cars, while, at the same moment from away in front, there was a terrific burst of savage yells, answered by shouts of defiance and the clatter of spears and shields, mingled with a confused clash as the enemy’s horsemen charged home upon the infantry.

Marcus’ ears rang with the confusion of sounds which followed—cries of agony, shouts of triumph, and the trampling of horses, and then a roar, above which rang out somewhere near at hand the shrill note of a clarion, whose effect was to make the chariot horses burst into a gallop.

“Now we are off,” shouted Serge into the boy’s ear. “Your spear, lad. Throw when you get a chance; I have another ready for you. But don’t waste your stroke.”

Marcus heard, but he did not heed, for his heart was beating violently, his head swimming with excitement, and he felt half stunned, half maddened, as he was borne onward, his chariot about the middle of the little line so close together that, moment by moment, it seemed as if the wheels of the cars on either side must come into collision.

But the collision was not to be there, for as, excited by the yells of their drivers, the little pairs tore on, there suddenly seemed to spring up out of the darkness ahead a confused crowd of mounted men; and then there was a shock, and Marcus felt his car leap forward on its wheels, rising on one side as if to overturn, but coming down level directly and bounding oh again at the heels of his excited steeds.

He could not see to right or left, but he was conscious that there were other chariots tearing on beside him, and there was another shock, and another, mingled with yells and cries, and then they were racing on again apparently being hunted by a body of horse, and it seemed to the boy as if his and his fellow chariots were in full flight.

But just then there were the faint notes of a trumpet, and, as they tore on, the line of chariots swung round as upon a pivot and began to tear back.

And now it seemed to Marcus that the horsemen who had been pursuing them were taking flight in turn, and, as he realised this, the boy shouted to his driver to drive more swiftly.

“No, no!” yelled Serge, furiously. “Steady! Steady! And keep in line.”

“But they will get away!” cried the boy, mad now with excitement.

“Bah! You don’t understand,” cried Serge. “Those are our horsemen.”

Another trumpet brayed out and the cavalry in front of the chariots swung round to right and left, making an opening through which they passed, slackening their speed, but careering on till Marcus made out a solid body of infantry on his right front.

A minute later the chariots had wheeled round again in the infantry’s rear, and in the distance there was, dying away, the sound of hoofs.

“Well, boy, what do you think of that?” said a voice in Marcus’ ear.

“I—I don’t know,” panted Marcus, as short of breath as if he had been running hard. “I don’t think I understand.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed Serge, hoarsely. “I don’t suppose you do. I don’t quite myself, but I should think that was a big body of the Gallic horse who came down thinking to surprise us and to snuff us out. But they found out their mistake.”

“And where are they now?” panted Marcus.

“Oh, far away. You can just hear them in the distance. They have gone off beaten, with their tails between their legs. Couldn’t you feel how we cut them up?”

“Cut them up!” said Marcus.

“Yes. Don’t you remember how we tore through them, crash into their midst, after they were broken from their charge upon our infantry, which stood together like a rock? It was splendid, boy, though it was almost too dark to see.”

“Oh yes, I recollect something of it; but it was all wild and confused and strange. I couldn’t see anything clearly.”

“No more could anyone else, boy. We, who do the fighting, never see.”

“Because it was so dark to-night.”

“It would be just the same by day. But, hallo! Where’s your spear?”

“I don’t know,” said Marcus, staring. “Oh, I think I remember, I threw it at a horseman, just before we went crash upon him and the chariot was nearly overturned. But there, don’t ask me. It seemed to be all one wild struggle and noise, and my head’s all whirling now.”

“Well, what did you expect it to be?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Marcus. “But tell me, Serge, have we won?”

“Won? Of course! We Romans always do. This was through our leader’s skill, training against an undisciplined horde of horsemen, twice our number I should think. They are in full retreat, and I expect we shall find they have left half their number upon the field.”

“Hark!” cried Marcus, excitedly. “Here they come again!”

“No, boy; not at a gentle trot like that. Those you hear are the best portion of our horsemen who have been pursuing and scattering the enemy far and wide. Rather exciting all this, my lad, eh?”

“Exciting? Yes! Only I couldn’t understand.”

“But your captain could, my boy, and won the fight. Here, catch hold of this; and next time you throw your spear, pick up another, sharp.”

“But oughtn’t you to have given me one directly? You taught me something of the kind.”

“So I did, boy; but you see I have been out of practice for many years, and forgot my duty in the hurry of the fight; but I won’t do so again.”

Chapter Nineteen.

Old Serge muses.

“Sure you are not hurt, boy?” said Serge, as they stood waiting by the chariot for further orders, their sturdy little driver taking advantage of the opportunity to carefully attend to his steeds.

“Hurt? No!” cried Marcus. “I only feel hot and excited.”

“Of course you do; but I don’t suppose we shall move now for some time, till the captain’s scouts that he must have sent out bring back news of the enemy, and then he will camp for the rest of the night. He ought to. I should, so as to give the men a rest ready for when the enemy attacks again in the morning.”

“But you said that the enemy were beaten and driven away.”

“So they were, boy, but in a war like this they will only make for the mountains and collect together again ready for a fresh attack as soon as they get the chance.”

“But will they keep on doing that?” cried Marcus.

“Of course they will whenever they feel strong enough; and when they are weak they will give up.”

“Oh, I don’t understand it a bit,” cried Marcus.

“Well, you don’t want to understand it,” said Serge. “That’s for the generals and big captains to do. All that they want of us is to fight.”

“But why is this war?” said Marcus, impatiently.

“Oh, I suppose it’s because some of the tribes have been attacking and plundering and carrying off cattle and goods of the country people, till the chiefs say: This sort of thing must be stopped, and they collect an army, talk it over with the peaceful tribes who are ready to be friends, and then with their help march into the enemy’s country, conquer it, and bring them to their senses. That’s what we do, and used to do—bring all these nations round about under the rule of Rome. These we are fighting with now are the peoples off to the north and west. They have got all sorts of names, but I suppose they are all Gauls. But now look here: a bit ago you were so tired out with your long march that you wanted to sleep. Half the night hasn’t gone, so the best thing you can do is to curl yourself up and sleep till sunrise as hard as you can.”

“Sleep!” cried Marcus, mockingly. “Who’s to sleep at a time like this?”

“A soldier, of course, and be glad to when he gets the chance.”

“Oh, I couldn’t sleep,” cried Marcus. “I feel all bubbling over with excitement, and if I were to lie down I should seem to be galloping over the fields again.”

“Nonsense! You lie down and have a sleep. You always used to mind what I said when I tried to teach you. Do so now, and get some rest.”

“But suppose they come back and attack us again?”

“Well, we shall have warning. There are scouts and sentries out in all directions, and you would have plenty of time to get up into the chariot, I dare say. There, lie down.”

“Don’t you order me, Serge,” said the boy, peevishly. “You are not my officer.”

“No, we are only comrades, and I am not ordering, only telling you for the best. There, get a sleep, boy, while you can.”

“Well, I’ll lie down, but I can’t sleep, Serge. I shall be thinking about the war, and the tribes that are coming to attack us, all the night.”

“Very well, boy, think about them, then, as you are so anxious to understand all about the war. I’d be sure and call you when you are wanted. I am not greedy about having all the fighting to myself. You shall have your share.”

“Very well,” said Marcus, and selecting a place that seemed a little less hard than the stony ground in their close neighbourhood, and where he was not likely to be trampled upon by any of the chariot horses, he threw himself down, but started up again in alarm with his hand seeking his sword, for a big lump of stone dimly-seen in the darkness suddenly seemed endowed with life, springing up to give itself a rough shake, and assuming the form of a big dog.

“Why, Lupe, you here?” cried Marcus, laughing. “Look here, Serge; he was lying here curled up, asleep. Where’s he been all the time?”

“Taking care of himself and waiting for us to come back, I suppose. There, do you want a lesson in campaigning, boy?”

“No, not to-night, thank you. You said I was to go to sleep.”

“Of course; and here’s your lesson all the same. Make Lupe lie down, and use him for a warm, dry pillow. Not a bad thing at a time like this. A deal better than a horse, for it isn’t always you can get them to lie down, and a horse’s hoofs are rather bad company if he gets restless in the night.”

Half irritably in his exalted state Marcus turned away with a gesture of annoyance.

“Down, Lupe! Lie down!” growled the old soldier; and as the dog obediently subsided on the rough ground, the boy thought better of it, sank upon his knees, and then awkwardly in his armour adjusted himself so that he could lay his face with his cheek in the rough hair about the dog’s neck.

There was something comforting and friendly in the deep, satisfied sigh Lupe gave, holding quite rigid as he stretched himself out, while Marcus said to himself:

“Oh, this is stupid! I shall never go to sleep like this;” and he lay staring right before him at the indistinctly seen chariot with its pair of horses standing together, one or the other every now and then giving an impatient stamp or whinnying softly.

Beyond them and their driver all was dark confusion, out of which came murmurs of voices, the jingling of armour, and a suggestion of people passing to and fro.

And then the darkness seemed to lighten and horses were tearing along at full gallop with the enemy in front, and Marcus gave a sudden start, his sharp movement producing a low remonstrant growl from his pillow.

“What was that?” thought Marcus. “Why, I must have been asleep. Ah, there it is again!” For from somewhere out of the darkness there came a low agonised cry which made the boy sit up and listen.

“Are you there, Serge?” he said, softly.

“Yes. What is it, boy?” came from the back of the chariot, where the old soldier had seated himself; and he rose at once and crossed the few yards which lay between him and his young companion’s resting place.

“Did you hear that?” asked Marcus.

“Oh, yes, I heard it, boy.”

“What was it?”

“A wounded man. They have been carrying some in from over yonder.”

“How horrible!” whispered the boy. “Let’s go and help him.”

“No, go to sleep. You can do nothing there.”

“Sleep!” cried the boy, reproachfully. “Who can sleep with anyone suffering like that?”

“You,” said Serge, quietly. “You have been asleep an hour, and of course there have been plenty of poor fellows carried by, enemies and friends.”

“But—” began Marcus.

“Go to sleep again, boy. You can do nothing there. We’d go together if we could help.”

Marcus was silent as he lay resting on one hand, listening and thinking what it was his duty to do, but listening in vain, for no such sound again broke the silence of the night, while after standing by him a few minutes, Serge walked away into the darkness and then returned to his seat in the chariot, where he too, utterly devoid of all inclination to sleep, sat and thought about their position there and asked himself whether it was yet too late to reverse their plans, and seeking the first opportunity to hurry his young companion away from the scenes of carnage and the dangers by which they were surrounded.

“I have done wrong all along,” he muttered to himself. “I went against my orders, and some day I shall have to face the master and answer for myself. Yes,” he muttered, “I must take him back.” And with the full intention, as he sat there leaning his left shoulder against the side of the chariot, of leaving the little rear-guard of the army as soon as he could, Serge changed his position to the other side of the chariot to rest his right side, and as he subsided against the hard iron-bound wood, listening for danger, the galloping-in of scouts, or some other warning of another night attack, a fresh current of thoughts began to chase each other through his brain.

“No,” he said, “I won’t go, and if I would he’d say again that he wouldn’t come. He’s a soldier’s son, and it comes natural to him. What am I growling at myself for? I didn’t set him to run away. He came of himself, and if I hadn’t done the same he’d have been here all alone without me to watch over him, take his part, and help him, same as he did me when I was attacked. Why, after all, everything’s gone right and happened as it should. We are in for it, and must go on. But this won’t do; I mustn’t go to sleep.” And springing up, the old soldier took a few steps up and down like a sentry, before stopping short and going down on one knee, steadying himself the while by means of his spear, and bending over Marcus, who was sleeping heavily, his breath coming regularly as he lay there deaf to everything that was going on around, while the dog uttered a low whine and lifted his heavy tail slowly, to beat with it softly upon the ground.

“He’s all right,” said Serge, and he backed away again, to march up to the horses, pat them, and then say a word or two to their driver, who was lying upon his back just in front, sleeping heavily and quite unconscious of Serge’s presence.

The latter took another turn or two up and down, thinking deeply the while.

“Yes,” he said softly, “what I told the boy’s about right, and I can tell him some more to-morrow, for out here in the darkness and silence all my old soldiering seems to be coming back. We are a sort of rear-guard, that’s what we are, and it’s our job to keep some miles behind the main army, to prevent the enemy from closing in and harassing our troops, besides seeing that they carry out the general’s orders and bring up the food and forage they as a conquered people are ordered to supply. Conquered people!” he said, with a contemptuous ejaculation. “Why, it’s like digging a channel through a bed of dry sand. I know what this country is. If we go on like this for a few days we shall be right in amongst the mountains, full of holes and hiding-places where the enemy can lurk, and as fast as they are driven off they will be like dry sand, as I said, and come running back again.”

Serge went and bent over Marcus again to satisfy himself that the boy was sleeping deeply, and uttered a low grunt that might have been learned of the swine he tended at the farm.

“Do him no end of good,” he muttered—“strengthen his legs.” And he began to walk up and down again, pausing once or twice to pat the horses and growl at the driver, who was sleeping hard with his mouth wide open.

“Yes,” muttered the old soldier, “a good sleep will do the boy good—harden his legs. I said my old soldiering was coming back; I wish my old legs would come back and be the same as they used to when I could walk for weeks, instead of aching like this when I haven’t had to walk, but have been riding all day. Hah!” he sighed, as he lowered himself down into the back of the chariot to lean against the side once more. “I can keep watch over him just as well sitting down as standing up. I don’t see that I need watch at all when the boy’s got a pillow with a set of teeth like a rat trap that will take fast hold of anyone who came to interfere with him. But there’s the master. We have got to meet some day, and I shall have to give an account of myself. ‘What were you doing away from the farm?’ he’ll say. ‘Watching over your boy, master,’ says I. That will have him on the hip. That’s my only chance, the only thing that will save me.”

Serge’s grim face relaxed, and he rolled about in his seat, chuckling softly.

“It will get me off,” he said; “it will get me off with the master. He won’t be very hard on me after that. It aren’t quite honest, for I never thought a bit about the boy when I went away. But I did mean to take him back, and I’d have done it too, and stopped with him, only he was too much for me. Ah, he’s a clever one. He’s only a boy, but he’s got a lot of man in him, and when he gets ripe, you mark my words,” he said, softly, staring hard at the dimly-seen driver the while, “he’ll be as big a man as his father. I don’t mean as to size; like as not he’ll be bigger. I mean as to his head. It aren’t quite fair, and maybe it’s a bit like deceiving the master to answer him like that when he says, ‘What are you doing there?’ and I says, ‘Watching over your boy, master,’ But I am going to watch over him, and I’ll stick to him, and I’ll die for him if I’m obliged; and you can’t say that arn’t honest.”

Serge bent forward and literally glared at the sleeping driver, who muttered something in reply.

“Ah, you may say what you like,” muttered Serge, “but that will be honest; and if you put that in one side of the balance, and my forsaking the old place when I was told to stay, in the other, they’ll weigh pretty much alike. Yes, I’ll watch over him, master, like a man, just as I would have done if he had been my own, for somehow I always seemed to like him, and I suppose I should have felt just about the same if he had been mine. It’s precious dark and quiet enough now. I don’t suppose we shall be disturbed before daylight, for the enemy got more than they expected, so I may just as well sit and rest. I can watch over him just the same, and—” Serge’s next utterance was not understandable if treated as words, but perfectly plain if considered as a snore, for he had sunk sideways till his head rested on the hard edge of the car, while at regular intervals he gave vent to a series of deep gruff tones which sounded as if his neck were bent at such a severe angle that there was not room for his breath to pass comfortably round the corner.

It was not comfortable for him, for though he was sleeping very soundly, his rest was uneasy, consequent upon which he began to dream in a troubled way about being at home; and his busy brain put its own interpretation upon the sounds that rose from his chest and interfered with the soundness of his sleep, so that, half awakened, he lay back listening to his own snoring and attributed it to something else, gradually awakening more and more the while.

“Hark at that!” he muttered. “And after all the trouble I took to mend that bit of fence! Talk about sheep always following one another through a gap, why they are nothing to swine! They want a gap, too, for the leader to go through, but an old boar big with that snout of his and them tusks, he’ll bore and bore and bore till he makes a little hole a big un, and once he gets his snout in he drives on till he gets right through. Now, I’ve mended that hole so as you’d have thought it was quite safe; but hark at that! He’s got right through into the garden, and the old sow and the young uns has followed him. But just wait a bit till I get my staff, and I’ll make such music as will bring Master Marcus out to ask me if I am killing a pig. There’s no room about the place to please them, no miles of acorn and chestnut forest so that they can fill themselves as full as sacks, but they must come into my garden and raven there! Nothing will do for them but my melons and cucumbers! Well, we’ll just see about that.”

Serge rose from his seat, after taking hold of the spear that he had rested against the side of the chariot, and with his eyes closely shut took a couple of steps forward, and then stopped short with his eyes wide open, as he stared wildly round in an absolute state of confusion and strove hard to make out where he was.

For some moments his mind was a complete blank, and the darkness seemed impenetrable, while his mind absolutely refused to answer the mental question—Where am I?

Then he knew, and there was fierce anger in the low tones of his voice, which formed the self-accusatory words:

“Why, I’ve been asleep!”

He struck a sharp blow with the staff of his spear; but it was not at the imaginary patriarch of the home herd, but at his own head, which was saved from harm by his helmet, the stroke causing a sharp sound sufficiently loud to make Lupe utter an ominous growl, and the horses where they were tethered start and stamp.

“And sarve you right too!” growled Serge, removing his helmet, which he had knocked on one side, and softly rubbing one spot that had felt the bottom edge keenly. “And here have I been going on about being honest and keeping a true watch over that boy! Here, I’m proud of myself, I am! If I go to sleep again it shall be standing up, anyhow.” And pulling himself together he shouldered his spear and commenced pacing up and down, to keep it up steadily hour after hour, only pausing to listen from time to time, to hear nothing more suspicious than the regular night sounds of a camp surrounded by sentries and scouts and on the watch for an enemy known to be near at hand.

Marcus slept well till daybreak, when the first warning of the enemy’s movements was given, and he sprang to his feet, to find himself face to face with Serge.

“What was that?” he cried.

“Trumpet, boy. Make ready. The enemy’s going to stir us up again.”

Chapter Twenty One.

A Good Companion.

It was a curious sound, that made by the snow which lay so thickly beneath sandal, hoof and wheel. As it was pressed together it literally squeaked as if it possessed feeling and remonstrated at being crushed down from light feathery snow into solid ice.

The sounds it gave forth were at times quite loud, and were repeated back from the towering rocks on either side. Farther on it would be a soft crunch, crunch, mingled with the bumping of wheels and the plunging of a horse as it struggled to drag its hoofs out of some depression into which they had sunk, while, animated by the presence of their leader, the horsemen cheered on the animals they led, and the charioteers helped their pairs to drag the heavy cars over the snow-covered track.

The pass grew more and more like some huge rift in the mountain which seemed to have been split open by lightning, whose form the deep way had in some degree assumed.

For a few hundred yards the train would be going straight, till an acute angle was reached, when for a distance the line would be forced to almost double back to another point and double back again. It was a savage kind of zig-zag which always led higher and higher, while as they neared the top, the snow grew deeper and the walls on either side closer, while these were not only perpendicular but in many cases actually overhanging.

The horses’ hoofs and the chariot wheels at last sank in so far, in spite of their being unburdened, that the leader commanded a halt for rest, and as this order was obeyed, Marcus, from where he stood panting, with one hand that had been used to push forward the chariot resting now upon its back, felt awe-stricken at the strange silence that for a moment or two dwelt deep down in the jagged furrow, before it was broken by the peculiar panting of exhausted men and steeds who were striving to regain their wind, while a mist formed by the breath rendered everything indistinct along the line, as it rose visibly on high.

For plainly now from the front came the sound of contending warriors, apparently close at hand, though far enough away as yet, but increased in power by being condensed into a narrow space, as it reverberated along the pass from wall to wall.

But not alone from the front; fainter, but minute by minute gathering strength, similar sounds came from the rear, telling plainly enough of the fight that was going on where the foot-men were holding back the advancing enemy during a steady retiring movement that could hardly be called a retreat.

“I don’t like this, boy,” whispered Serge, who was resting against the other side of the chariot.

“Are we being beaten, Serge?” asked Marcus.

“Oh, no, boy; they can’t beat us. But they have got us in this narrow gully where only a few men back and front can fight at once. Why, you know for yourself here are all our mounted troops and us with the chariots doing nothing but struggle through the snow, and never getting a spear thrust at anyone. That’s why I say I don’t like it. I want to be doing something, and when I say that it’s just what everyone feels as it makes his blood hot. I say, boy, you don’t feel cold now?”

“Cold?” cried Marcus. “Oh, no; I only want to keep going on.”

“Wait a bit, boy, and you shall have enough of that. Our captain isn’t letting us rest just to amuse ourselves. It will be forward directly, and quite soon enough for the horses, for it’s hard work for them; and I say,” continued the old soldier, jocosely, “this is a bit of a change for you, my boy. You never thought there was a place like this so near to Rome, where the people are lying grumbling now because it is so hot that they cannot sleep, and panting just like old Lupe there.”

For the dog was just between them, sitting up in the back of the car, sometimes turning his head towards one, sometimes towards the other, lolling out his vibrating tongue and sending out puffs of visible vapour-like steam from Vesuvius.

“He’s making believe that he’s been working very hard,” said Marcus, laughing, “when he’s been riding all the time. But all this does seem very strange, Serge. I couldn’t have believed this was possible at the end of summer.”

“Suppose not,” growled the old soldier. “You see, you don’t know everything yet, my boy. There’s a deal to learn, as I found out years ago when I first went to the war with the master. But it’s all doing you good, and you will like it by-and-by when you look back and think of it all, for there isn’t much time to think just now. I say, have you got your wind again?”

“Oh, yes, I am ready, and the horses are beginning to leave off panting. I shall be glad when we make a fresh start. I want to get to the top.”

“That’s what we all want, boy—to get to the top of everything—but the sooner we get to the end of this narrow crack and can expect that it will begin to open out and give us room to swing our arms, the better we shall all like it. The chief ought to be thinking of starting up afresh, for there’s a deal of fighting going on back and front.”

The sounds that came floating to their ears, echoed from the snowy walls, made this all plain enough, while the shouting from the rear grew nearer and nearer; and then it seemed that the rear-guard was coming more rapidly on, just as the order to move forward came from the front and passed along the line.

With a couple of halts for rest the troops plodded on and the horses struggled for another hour, and then, to the great delight of all, the word came back from the front that the height of the pass had been reached, that the head of the column was beginning to descend, and that not far in front their comrades were holding the enemy in check.

This intelligence was like an invigorating breath of air to the little force. The men stepped out and dragged and pushed, and the cries of the drivers had a cheering sound, as they called upon their horses in a tone of voice which made the struggling beasts exert themselves more than ever.

It was still terribly hard work, but there was no upward drag; the great strain was gone, for the descent was steep, and a great portion of the weight the chariot horses had to draw seemed to have been taken off.

The pass was still walled in by towering heights, but it was rapidly opening out, and at the end of another hour the advance force, which had contented themselves with holding one of the narrowest portions of the way, had been strengthened, and pressed back the enemy.

There was another halt of the chariots, to enable a portion of the troops from the rear to close up and pass through to the front to join the advance, a manoeuvre which the panting men, as they struggled over the beaten snow, obeyed with alacrity, eager to get into action and bring to an end the hours of suspense through which they had passed in comparative inaction while listening to the echoes of the fighting going on in front and rear.

“There, boy,” said Serge, cheerfully, as they found time now to talk as well as rest; “this don’t look like being beaten, does it?”

“I don’t know,” said Marcus, dubiously. “We seem as much shut up as ever.”

“Nay, not us! Why, the walls are ever so much farther back, and we have got more room to breathe.”

“But it’s horribly dark still,” said Marcus, rather wearily, “and the snow seems as deep.”

“Not it,” cried Serge. “And see how it’s trampled down. Then it isn’t so cold.”

“Not so cold!” cried Marcus. “Why, it’s terrible!”

“Not it! Why, since we have been coming down a bit we have got more into shelter, and that cutting wind that came up the pass isn’t whistling about one’s ears.”

“Well, no,” said Marcus. “That is better.”

“Better, yes; and so’s everything else. It won’t be long now before the pass widens ever so much, and we shall begin to leave the snow behind; and then as soon as we get on to level ground the captain will get his horse to work to drive the barbarians back towards the plains below, and then—you’ll see that our turn will come.”

“To fight, Serge?”

“Yes, boy. He’ll be letting loose his chariots then, and when he does, the fighting will be over for to-day.”

“For to-day!” said Marcus, with a faint laugh.

“Well, yes, it must be getting towards morning, and before many hours we shall be seeing the sun again, and if we are lucky have made a jump out of winter into spring. But there, keep up your spirits, boy. I can see a good breakfast ahead, and a long sleep in the sunshine waiting for us down below when we have cleared these flies out of our path. They are a worry now, but you’ll see before long.”

Marcus was destined to see more than his old companion anticipated during the next few hours, and events began to crowd rapidly one upon another’s heels.

Their advance was no sooner strengthened by the foot-men who had been so long inactive while crossing the pass, than changes began to occur, foremost among which was the progress forward, the little force now pressing steadily on downward.

It was wintry and dark and the fighting was still going on with the enemy, who were slowly giving way, while to balance this the attack on the rear was still kept up. But the pass was opening more and more, and during the next few hours the progress of the little force had been slow but steady, the first rays of the sun shining upon the jaded men and horses halted in a sterile amphitheatre surrounded by rocks which afforded a fair amount of protection, Nature having formed the hollow with but one entrance and one exit, her instrument for carving out the depression having probably been a huge river of ice descending from the heights behind towards the plains below, of which glimpses now began to appear.

Rest was imperative, and evidently feeling that his position was far from safe, their leader had set a portion of his men to strengthen the opening front and rear by means of the ample supply of scattered rocks, many of which only needed a few well-directed thrusts to partly block up the rugged track and form an adequate defence.

This done and his foot-men disposed to the best advantage for the protection of the still crippled mounted force, it was expected by all that a few hours’ rest might be obtained.

The position was bad, and their leader had intended to have pressed on downward to the plains; but the enemy in the rear had advanced so swiftly, their allies given way so stubbornly, that he was forced to seize upon the hollow which offered itself as being a natural stronghold, here to breathe his men and recruit for a few hours before making a final dash.

Chapter Twenty Two.

The Chief.

Marcus woke up that same evening to find himself lying back in the chariot with Lupe sitting watching him intently.

“Hallo, Lupe,” said the boy, thickly; “what’s the matter?”

The dog’s answer was given with his tail—just one sharp rap on the floor of the vehicle, nothing more. So Marcus looked round him, feeling confused, and wondering what it all meant, for after so much exertion and excitement his brain had taken a thorough rest from which the boy’s body was now awakened, but not his thinking powers.

“I don’t quite understand it,” he said to himself, as he caught sight of clusters of armed men, whose spears glittered in the evening sunshine, gathered together upon the mountain slopes around, and he soon satisfied himself that they were not Romans or any of the mercenaries whose appearance he knew.

It was easy to see, for nearer to him were his own people, one here and there perched upon some eminence, evidently on the look-out, and by running his eye along the edge of the rough amphitheatre he could trace nearly all the sentries, and at the same time note that beyond them in every ravine running downward there were hundreds of those who he at once concluded were the enemy.

“There are a great many of them,” said Marcus to himself coolly, for he was not yet fully awake to his position, “and they seem to be very near; but our men appear to be ready for them, and the cavalry are standing with their horses waiting, I suppose, for orders, while—yes, the chariots! The horses are harnessed in. Are mine? Yes, and the driver ready.”

Marcus had raised himself to look over the front of his chariot—a movement which excited the dog, who began to whine, and then watched his master eagerly as if to see what he would do next.

“It looks as if we are going to make a fresh start,” thought Marcus; “and a good thing too, for it is chilly and cheerless; but we can’t get away from here without fighting.”

This last thought came with a look of excitement, for the boy’s brain was growing clearer and he was rapidly grasping the fact that they were surrounded by a vast number of the enemy.

“What has become of Serge?” he said, half aloud.

The old soldier came into sight almost as he asked the question, carrying a vessel of water in one hand and something that looked like a cake of bread in the other.

“Awake, boy?” he said, as he came out. “I thought you’d be hungry when you did open your eyes, and so I managed to get this, but I’ve nigh had it snatched away three times as I came back, for our fellows are getting savage for want of food. Not that it matters much, for they’ll fight all the better to get down to the plains and plunder.”

“Then we’re going to fight, Serge?” cried Marcus, eagerly.

“Not much doubt about that, boy.”

“And start downward for the plains?”

“Ah, there’s a deal of doubt about that, my lad. I dare say the chief would like to, but we’re regularly shut up in this rocky hole.”

“But he ought not to have let the enemy shut us up, ought he?”

“It was a case of can’t help it, my boy,” growled Serge. “From the time we halted this morning the barbarians have been gathering round and streaming down from the mountains, till there they are, thousands upon thousands of them, hanging on the hills and running down the hollows till they look like human rivers. We were obliged to have a rest and refresh, for a man can’t go on fighting and marching for ever, even if he be a Roman; and ever since we’ve been resting the enemy has been collecting, till they are like you see. Well, why don’t you look round?”

“I did,” cried Marcus, “and saw all this before you came. Then we’re in a sore strait, Serge?”

“Yes, a very sore one, boy; but eat your bread.”

“Not now,” said Marcus, quickly. “Let me have a drink of water.”

He took hold of the vessel and had a long, deep draught, one which seemed to clear away the last mental cobweb from his brain.

“Now eat a bit,” said Serge, offering the cake; but the boy shook his head and swept the surroundings with anxious eyes.

“Very well,” said the old soldier. “You’ll be hungry by-and-by.” And slipping the cake into his wallet, he looked sternly at the boy, who turned to him directly.

“Then you think that we shall not be able to cut our way out, Serge?” he said.

“Sure of it, boy. They’re too many for us.”

“Then what is to be done?”

“What the chief likes, boy; but if I were he I should stand fast and let the enemy hammer at us till he grows tired of losing men.”

“Then you think we can beat them off?”

“Yes, boy, for a time; but we’ve got no stores to speak of, and even Romans can’t, as I said before, or something like it, go on fighting for ever. But we shall do our best.”

“Yes,” said Marcus, with a sigh, as he looked thoughtfully round, unconsciously playing with the dog’s ears the while, to that animal’s great satisfaction. “But I don’t like it, Serge.”

“You don’t? Well, you’re a queer sort of a boy, then,” growled the old soldier. “I never met a boy before who said that he didn’t like fighting.”

“I did not say so,” cried Marcus, sharply. “I was talking about our position here.”

“Oh, I see!” growled Serge. “What about it? Strong enough for anything.”

“Perhaps so, but here we are shut in amongst all these rocks, with no room for the horsemen or the chariots to be of any use. How could we gallop along here, or how could the cavalry attack?”

Serge took off his great helmet, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and stared hard at his young companion for some moments, till the boy noticed the heavy, fierce look, and coloured.

“Why do you look at me like that?” he asked.

“Cause you make me, boy?”

“How? What do you mean?”

“Who taught you to talk like that, boy? Anyone would think you were a young general.”

“Nonsense, Serge!” cried Marcus, with the tint upon his face growing deeper. “I spoke like that because you taught me and made me understand about the uses and movements of horse and foot. I’m sorry I was not right, but you need not laugh at me.”

“What, boy?” cried the old soldier, warmly. “Laugh at you! Why, if I grinned it was because I was pleased and proud to see what a clever fellow you are growing up to be. Why, a well-trained old soldier could not have spoken better. You’re as right as right, and it is unfortunate that our chief should be surrounded here in a place where he can’t use the best part of his troops. But there, we won’t argue about it. ’Tarn’t a common soldier’s duty to talk over what his general does. What he, a fighting man, has to do is to fight and do in all things what he is told. Do you see?”

“Yes, Serge, I see, but—”

Marcus ended by making a sign intended to mean, Hold your tongue.

But Serge did not interpret it rightly.

“Yes, I see what you mean, and it’s of no use to say ‘but’ to me. Our chief is a thoroughly good commander of men, and if he has got us into this hole of a place, where we are all shut up tightly without a chance to get out, why it’s—”

Serge stopped short, to draw himself up tightly, for all at once he understood the true meaning of Marcus’ sign, having suddenly become aware of the fact that their captain had in going from post to post stopped close to his elbow, and had heard nearly every word that had been spoken, while it was evident that he was thinking of something else at the same time, for he finished the old soldier’s sentence for him in the way he interpreted it.

“Why, it is his duty to get us out of it, eh, my man? That is what you were going to say, is it not?”

“Well, something like it, captain,” faltered the veteran; “but I didn’t mean no harm.”

“Of course you did not, but you were teaching this boy to criticise his superiors. Well, my man, you as an old soldier can see that we are in a very dangerous position.”

“Yes, captain.”

“And that if I try to cut my way out with the force I have at my command I may succeed.”

“You will succeed, captain.”

“Well, yes, I believe I should,” said the captain, quickly; “but it would only be with the loss of a great number of men that could not be spared, and my division would afterwards be of little value to the main force.”

“Yes, captain; that’s right,” growled Serge.

“Spoken like a good old fighting man,” said the chief. “Now, then, speaking with your experience, what is best for me to do?”

“Set the men to build up rough walls with the stones, twice as strong as you have already.”

“Good! Go on,” cried the chief, while Marcus stood listening with his lips apart, and quivering with excitement the while.

“Then sit fast and wait.”

“Without supplies?”

“Plenty of water from the spring yonder,” growled Serge.

“Food?” said the chief, sharply.

“Foraging parties,” continued Serge.

“Not to be depended upon in this high desert, man.”

“Capture the enemy’s provisions,” said Serge.

“Doubtful, my man,” cried the captain. “Can you propose nothing else?”

“Send off messenger at once on to the generals in front, telling how you are fixed, and asking for help at once.”

“Hah!” cried the captain. “That is what I was waiting for you to say. Now for the messenger I must send to Julius and Cracis.”

“Someone who knows the country.”

“There is no one,” said the captain, sharply. “Whoever goes must find his way by the traces left by the generals.”

“Yes, that’s right, captain,” said Serge.

“Well, man, whom am I to send?”

“Me!” cried Marcus, excitedly. “I’ll find my father and take your message.”

“You shall, boy,” said the captain, catching Marcus by the arm. “It is what I planned, for I am going to send to Cracis, who will be directing the forces and the arrangements of the campaign, while Caius Julius leads the men. You, boy, have one of the best chariots and the swiftest horses in the force. There is no need for me to write if you tell your father that you come from me. Tell him everything you know, and that I am going to hold out to the last, even if I have to butcher the horses that the men may live. Tell him I am in a perilous strait, and that help must come to save me and give the enemy a lesson that they will not forget.”

“Yes—yes,” cried Marcus; “and I start at once?”

“Not yet, only be quite ready to dash off yonder by the lower track which you can see leading downward through those hills. I say dash off, but only if the enemy make for you. If you are not followed hasten slowly for your horses’ sake. Remember that he who goes softly goes far, and I want sureness more than speed.”

“But he can’t get out yonder, captain,” growled Serge, fiercely. “You are going to kill the boy.”

“Well,” said the captain, with a peculiar smile, “could I honour the son of great Cracis more than by letting him die for the sake of his country?”

“That’s all very grand in sound, captain,” cried Serge, grasping Marcus’ other arm, “but he’s my boy as much as his father’s, and I won’t stand by and see him go alone to sudden death.”

“Serge!” cried Marcus, fiercely. “How dare you! Captain, don’t heed him; I am ready to go the moment you say the word, and—and—”

“Well, boy?”

“If I am killed,” continued Marcus, struggling hard with his emotion, “and you ever see my father again, tell him, sir, that I went to my death doing my duty, as he taught me, and praying that he will forgive me for disobeying his commands.”

“I will, boy,” cried the chief, warmly; “but it shall not come to that, for you will reach your father, I feel sure, and bring me the help I need.”

“He can’t, captain, I tell you,” cried Serge, fiercely. “Yes, you may punish me, a common soldier, for speaking as I do, but I tell you once again that I will not stand by and see my dear old master’s son butchered, for it’s nothing else. A boy like him, brave as he is, ought not to be sent, even if it is for his country’s sake, when there are plenty of stout, strong men who could do the work as well or better, because they are hard and tough.”

“Be silent, Serge,” cried Marcus, passionately. “Don’t punish him, captain; he means well, but he is half mad to speak to you like that.”

“You need not appeal, my boy,” said the captain, smiling. “I should punish no man for being brave and true to those he has served.”

“But I tell you, captain,” raged out Serge, “that it would be like murder to send the boy like that.”

“Silence, old madman,” cried the captain. “Why, I should be as mad as you even to think of doing such a thing. Listen, boy; be ready, and when the rest of the chariots are moved off towards the upper part of the track along with the rest of the force, you will keep back amongst the rocks. I shall lead the men myself and make a feigned attack as if I were going to retreat back by the way we came; and in the excitement and confusion, when the enemy yonder have drawn off to go to their companions’ assistance and take me in the rear, you will watch your chance and escape.”

“Yes, I see,” cried Marcus, excitedly; and the captain went on:

“The chances are that if you are noticed no one will try to stop you. It will be thought that you are deserting and seeking your safety in flight.”

“Yes, yes,” cried Marcus; “and now I shall be sure to succeed.”

“Yes, captain, that’s better,” growled Serge, in his deepest tones. “I like that.”

“Then take good heed to his safety, man,” cried the captain, warmly, “and die for him if there is need, for I would rather lose a hundred men such as you than one like him.”

“But—but—” stammered Serge, “you don’t mean—”

“I don’t mean!” cried the captain. “Why, the boy is right: you are an old madman to think that I would send that brave boy alone when he has such a faithful old follower as you at his side. No, no; go with him, and bring him back safely to me, along with the help I ask, or never see my face again.”

Before he had finished, rough old Serge, with the big tears standing in his eyes, was down upon one knee catching at the leader’s hand and carrying it to his lips.

“There, there, there,” cried the captain, “time is precious. No more of this. Boy, you have the safety of this force in your hands. Old veteran, I give you charge as bodyguard of this, my young despatch bearer. I do not tell you to do your duty, both of you; I only say, remember Rome. Farewell.”

The captain turned quickly away to join a knot of his chiefs who were anxiously awaiting his return, and the next minute, fixed in their positions, neither feeling as if he had the power to stir, Marcus and Serge were alone.

Chapter Twenty Three.

The Fight begun.

Marcus was the first to break the silence.

“Serge,” he panted, “isn’t he grand!”

“Grand!” cried the old soldier, excitedly. “Grand arn’t half big enough. He’s a hero, that’s what he is; and only think of me with a head like the old bull at home. Just as thick and stupid. Why, if he hadn’t been such a great, wise, clever general as he is, he’d have knocked me down with the hilt of his sword. But it’s all right after all, and look here, boy, you’ve got to do it.”

“We’ve got to do it, Serge,” cried Marcus. “Why, the idea is splendid; but I say—Lupe?”

“What about him?”

“What are we to do with him?”

“Nothing,” said Serge, promptly; “he’ll do for himself. Why, if you made up your mind to leave him behind he’d come.”

“I suppose so, Serge. There’s no press-house here in which to shut him up.”

“No, and there’s no other way of getting rid of him but cutting off his head,” said the old soldier, grimly; “and you wouldn’t like to do that.”

“Serge!” cried Marcus, taking for the moment his companion’s words as being meant seriously.

“Ah, I thought you wouldn’t, boy,” said the old fellow, smiling. “He’ll hop into the chariot, of course, and when the way’s clear we can let him down for a run, and do him good. But no more talking; we’ve got to get ready.”

“No,” said Marcus; “we’re soldiers, and all ready now. I can see nothing to do but wait till we see that it is time to go.”

“And that isn’t far away,” said Serge, “for here comes back one of the captains. Why, Marcus, boy, I feel happy enough to begin to dance. Just think of it: here we are off on quite a holiday, straight away for the Roman camp, to get to your father at once, and—Oh, my thick head! I never thought of that!”

“Thought of what?” said Marcus.

“What we’re going to do: both of us going straight to face the lion and put our heads into his mouth.”

“You mean my father?”

“Of course.”

“Nonsense! He will have no time to think of punishing us.”

“Won’t he?” growled Serge. “Trust the master for ever forgetting anything. We shall have it, and sharply too, after him and Julius have come and done what they’ve got to do in the way they know how.”

“Pst! Don’t talk,” whispered Marcus. “Look, this officer is giving his orders to the leaders of the chariots, and here he comes to us.”

The boy was right, for a few minutes later the officer came quickly to him, and his words were very short.

“You have your orders from the chief, young man?” he said. “Stand fast there among these rocks till the line of chariots has moved off, and then go down to the lower camp where the foot soldiers are as soon as they have changed their station.”

He turned away directly, and as their driver sprang up, quite on the alert as he saw that something was on the way, Marcus went to one pony, Serge to the other, to see that every portion of the harness was in proper trim; and Lupe leaped out of the chariot and then back to the front, to raise himself upon his hind legs and plant his paws on the front as if he were in command and issuing his orders, which took the form of a deep bay.

Directly after a sub-officer, who was in command of the line, gave an order, each chariot was manned, and following one another in file they began rattling and bumping in and out amongst the rocks and hollows, slowly and noisily in the direction of the highest point of the pass from which the way had been fought so short a time before.

“Look yonder, Serge,” cried Marcus, as he gazed beyond the outposts in the direction of the hills that were dotted with the enemy.

“Was looking, boy,” growled the old soldier, “It’s running all round us wherever the enemy can see. Why, it’s like putting a stick into a wasp’s nest and giving it a stir round.”

“Yes, look, look, look!” cried Marcus. “What an excitement! Does it mean that they are going to attack at once? Because if they are we shan’t get off.”

“Nay, they are only getting ready. You’ll see them settle down again directly to watch our men and make sure what we are going to do.”

The chariots moved on, one following the other till the rough line was all in motion, only one standing fast, and that one calling for the help of both Marcus and Serge, who at a word from the driver ran to the heads of the ponies to assist in controlling them. For as the last chariot started off they made a desperate plunge forward to follow, so taking the driver by surprise that the pair went on a few yards before they were stopped by Marcus and Serge hanging on to their bits and backing them to the place from which they had started.

“Don’t like being left behind,” growled Serge.

“Steady, boy, steady!” said Marcus, caressingly, as he patted the arching neck and smoothed down the wild, thick mane of the fiery little steed he held. “Wait a bit and we won’t check you. You shall go, and as fast as you like, if we can only get clear ground.”

The swarthy little driver grasped the boy’s words, and nodded and showed his teeth, while in a few minutes the spirited animals were quieted down where they stood now with their heads turned from the slowly advancing line.

“He ought to have been on the look-out,” growled Serge. “Hullo! How the chief must have been arranging all this!” And then he stood silently with his young companion, watching the changes that were beginning to take place in their little force.

The spot on which they stood was sufficiently elevated to give the pair of spectators a pretty good view of the little beleaguered camp. All at once the line of chariots was halted, while a fresh agitation commenced where the cavalry had been posted. There was a quick change where horses and men were massed together, and the light played and flashed from helmet and shield, while the men’s spears glittered like so many points of light, as they sprang on to the backs of their horses and soon after were in motion, forming into another line which moved to the front of the chariots and were stopped in due time a little in advance.

“Why, he’s making quite a show of it,” growled Serge, “and the little army looks as if it were slowly going into action just for us to see.”

“Yes,” said Marcus, eagerly, “but look out yonder too. The enemy are advancing. They are gradually coming down that deep little valley, trickling like a stream.”

“To be sure they are,” said Serge, “and they are doing the same over yonder too.”

“Well, doesn’t that mean that they are going to attack at once?”

“No, boy; I fancy it only means to close us in and sweep us before them right up into the narrow of the pass again. They are beginning to take it.”

“Take what?”

“Take what? Why, what our general means. I am not going to call him a captain any more. He’s acting like a general, and a good one too. The enemy don’t mean to attack—not yet, because you see they have got no head man to make a big plan for them all to work together. You see, they are all little bodies and tribes and bits of tribes, each under its own leader, and everyone thinks himself a general and acts just as he likes, and that’s where they often get in a muddle, good fighters as they are. Look at them now. There’s another lot yonder going slowly down from that hill into the hollow and coming creeping towards us.”

“Yes, and right away from that opposite hill there’s another tribe coming down,” cried Marcus, whose voice was husky with excitement.

“That’s right,” growled Serge, “and don’t you see, not one lot has moved towards the upper pass. Why have they left that way open?”

“I don’t know,” said Marcus. “Perhaps some of the enemy will move towards it soon.”

“Not they,” growled Serge, with a deep, low chuckle. “Our general’s laid a trap for them, and they are walking in. They know that we must be running short of provisions, and they think that we are going to retreat. It looks like it, don’t it? There goes an advance guard of the foot, marching to the front of the horse. Well done, brave boys! There are some fine men amongst them to step together like that! Yes, there they go, about a third of them straight for the upper pass, and the whole of our little army will soon be under weigh as if in full retreat.”

“And then the enemy will attack,” cried Marcus.

“Perhaps not yet. They know what it’s like up yonder amongst the snows, and they think that, tired and half starved, our poor fellows will be marching to their death, leaving their enemies very little work to do beside cutting down the stragglers. Ah, depend upon it, all these little petty generals think they have a great victory within their hands without any cost to themselves, and that none of our poor fellows will get across the pass alive.”

“Oh, don’t talk, Serge,” cried Marcus, excitedly. “Look at the enemy! There’s more and more of them getting into motion. They are beginning to come from all round.”

“Yes, as I said before, like a nest of stingers stirred up with a stick; but we are getting all in motion too,” continued Serge. “Every captain has had his orders, and he’s beginning to head his men as it comes to his turn. Look how the infantry are tramping along to lead the way! Now the horse are getting ready to start! Take it coolly, my lads. You ought to be leading those horses over that stony ground; but I suppose the general wants to make a show and let it seem as if we were in full retreat.”

“Will the chariots go next?” asked Marcus.

“Yes, boy, of course, with the baggage behind them, and all the strength of the infantry to form the rear-guard. You can see that for yourself, for the foot-men haven’t moved.”

“No,” said Marcus, “but the enemy are moving more and more into two great parties, advancing so as to meet where the pass begins to narrow. Why, Serge, if they get there first they’ll cut our retreating line in two.”

“They would,” said the old soldier, with a chuckle, “if they could, but our general will be too smart for that. He’s got it all carefully planned out, and when those two great streams of men come together out yonder they will be well in the rear. But now look at them. You can see right round the camp from here. What are the enemy doing? Trying to surround us?”

“No,” said Marcus, after a long inspection; “they are all gradually turning in the same direction and getting into motion, as if to drive us back into the pass.”

“Yes, and it looks pretty and bright up yonder with the sun shining on the snow. To see it from here, boy, no one would think it meant bitter winds and a cold that cuts through you and turns men drowsy so that they want to lie down and die.”

“No,” said Marcus, with a slight shudder. “Ah!” he added, excitedly. “Our big rear-guard is beginning to stir, and the enemy are still moving on. Why, in a short time the lower part of the camp will have none of them beyond it.”

“That’s right,” cried Serge, as he shaded his eyes and gazed long and fixedly towards the lower part of the amphitheatre far beyond which, looking green and beautiful, stretched away the sunny plains of Gaul; “and that means, boy, that things will be just as our general intended that they should, clear of the enemy and ready for us to creep cautiously down like a pack of deserters trying to save our skins.”

“Yes, but I want to be moving,” cried Marcus, who was ready to stamp with impatience. “I want to be leading the horses down through this wilderness of rocks so as to get away to the open land, where we can send them off at a gallop with the wind whistling about their ears. I want to see their manes and tails flying, Serge, and feel the chariot rock as the wheels spin round and bump over the hillocks and stones. Then on and on as fast as we can go, straight for the main army, to tear up to the guards with my message and bring them back. Oh, how slowly they move! Why doesn’t the chief hurry the men, and why doesn’t the enemy follow them at a rush? I want to be stirring; I want to go.”

“Well done, young hurry-me-up!” chuckled Serge. “That’s all very pretty. You want this and you want that, and you want to be racing the ponies along and making the chariot rock and the wheels spin round, till bump, crash, one of the wheels flies off or drops to pieces, over goes the car, sending you yesterday and me to-morrow, and the driving boy with his head knocked off, while the poor ponies stand staring and broken-winded, and no message taken to the master.”

“What are you talking about, Serge?” cried Marcus, angrily.

“You, boy, and what you want to do,” growled the old man. “That’s not the way to carry a despatch, and if we are going to get where we want, it will have to be slow and sure. It will be all very well going to the heads of the ponies as soon as the way’s clear and leading them in and out amongst the rocks, so that if any of the enemy sees us he’ll think we are sneaking away; but when that’s done and we are clear of the enemy, what then?”

“Why, we must gallop off,” cried Marcus, excitedly. “This is not a time for your slow and sure.”

“Oh, arn’t it?” grumbled Serge. “Then you want to gallop right away at once, do you?”

“Of course.”

“Which way? What way? And how?”

“What are you talking about?” cried Marcus.

“You know, and yet you don’t know. Where’s our army? Haven’t we got to find the track they left?”

“Of course.”

“Yes, of course, boy, but where’s the beginning of it?” growled Serge, as he made a comprehensive motion, sweeping round one hand. “There will be no one to ask, for the country will be cleared—all the fighting men gone to the wars, all the women and children and old folk hiding among the mountains. Our army will have made a clean sweep of everything, and we have got to eat. It all sounds very nice, my boy, but to go off at a gallop such as you speak of means riding to nowhere, and the army never found.”

“Oh, Serge, don’t talk like that.”

“Must, boy. We will gallop when we can, but lots of the time we shall pretty well have to crawl.”

“Oh!” groaned Marcus, as he felt the truth of the old soldier’s words.

“There, don’t make a noise like that, but look round here and see what’s going on. It’s a sight, boy, such as you may never see again.”

“I can’t stand and look at sights,” cried the boy, angrily.

“But you must. It’s part of the work you have on hand. You must watch for the time that is best for our start. You can’t say anything to that.”

“No,” sighed Marcus, “that’s right; but see what a time we have been waiting now. It must be hours since the general came and gave me his command.”

“Well, not hours, but it’s a long time, boy, and it will be longer yet before we shall dare to stir. Why, there are thousands of men below there, and hundreds more coming into sight just along the part we shall have to go, and we must wait till they have all marched off right and left to join the rest before we shall dare to start.”

“But you are making the worst of it, Serge,” cried Marcus, eagerly, as he glanced round from his post of observation at the magnificent sight of men in motion, glittering arms, trampling horse, and all framed in by the sterile rocks, the snow-capped hills, and the dazzling blue sky above.

“Perhaps I am, boy, and all the better for us; but it’s much the best to look troubles straight in the face and not to come to grief from being too hopeful.”

And as to time, so it proved, for after about another two hours had elapsed, with the boy bubbling over with impatience, they were able to feel that they might venture downward through the lower part of the amphitheatre, where they would be getting more into the shelter of rock and valley, and beyond the ken of the two trampling multitudes urging their way on after the little army now in full motion higher up the pass, the leading foot showing still clearly and nearly as distinctly as if close at hand, though quite a couple of miles from where the chariot stood.

“Ah,” cried Serge, at last, “now I think we will start.”

“Yes, come on,” cried Marcus. “But why did you say that?” he added, hastily.

“Because the fight’s begun, boy.”

“Where? How?” cried Marcus.

“Look yonder towards that patch of grey rock which glitters in the sun. That’s where our stout rear-guard is. If you look hard you will be just able to see something moving slowly and something like a dark cloud just behind. That’s the enemy’s, front just coming into action, driving our men on. Hark! Do you hear how the hum of the enemy’s troops’ sounds changed?”

“Yes, I think so. It comes echoing along the rocks.”

“Well, that’s the barbarians cheering the others on.”

“Oh,” cried Marcus, “the attack begun, when we haven’t even stirred to fetch the help! Serge, shall we reach the army to-night?”

“Nay, nor to-morrow night either, boy.”

“And the fight begun!” cried Marcus. “Why, before we can get to my father and Caius Julius our little force will be destroyed.”

“Bah! Don’t you get setting up for a prophet like that. Do you think our men are going to sit down and let themselves be swallowed up without striking a blow? What are you thinking of, boy? Isn’t our general marching his men into the narrow gorge again where he will be safely walled in, with only a little front to defend? You let him alone. He will stop and turn as soon as he has found a spot he likes, one that he can easily hold; and there he’ll be with his rear open for men to go over the pass and forage for food. He knows what he’s about, and we know what we have got to do.”

“Yes,” said Marcus, with a sigh; “we know, but—”

“But you needn’t watch the going on of the fight, boy, for at this distance it’s nearly all guess work and little see, and here as far as I can make out no one can notice us if we begin to move, so now’s the time to start.”

“Ah!” cried Marcus, triumphantly, as he turned to the horse’s head on his side.

Serge made for the other, and the great dog reared himself up with his paws upon the front of the chariot and his jaws parted, to send forth one of his deep, barking volleys.

But at a cry from Marcus he sank down as if abashed, and the only sounds that were heard above the deep, low hum of the trampling army of barbarians, were the soft rattling of the chariot wheels, and the beat of the horses’ hoofs upon the stony ground, as they began cautiously to make for the end of the amphitheatre and its labyrinth of rocks.

Chapter Twenty Five.

A Narrow Escape.

To have the horses turned, and gallop back along the narrow river bed for their lives, was Marcus’ first thought. His second, braver and better, was to shout to the driver at his elbow to urge the horses on at their greatest speed.

The man hardly needed telling, for as the first words of command were buzzing in his ear he was shaking the reins and calling upon the brave little beasts to exert themselves to the utmost.

“Forward, my beauties,” he yelled, “or the barbarians will have you, and before to-morrow you will be roasted and eaten. Gallop—gallop away!”

There was no time for Serge to talk, but he acted, and acted well. Picking up instantly two of the spears which hung at the chariot side in loops, he thrust one into Marcus’ hand, retained the other, and stood ready to thrust. Marcus followed his example. Neither thought of using their shields, but stood fierce and staring of aspect, watching the party of men barring their way and shouting to them to stop.

It seemed like the next moment that the enemy, who fully expected the strangers in the chariot to surrender, found that to give up was the last thought in their expected prisoners’ breasts, and thereupon some dropped their spears, others were in the act of turning to fly, when with a dull, strange sound the chariot horses were upon them. Literally upon them, for the gallant little beasts obeyed their natural instinct, as they galloped and rose to leap the pale of human obstacles and spears in front, but only to come down quite short, trampling and spurning down the enemy, over whom the chariot rolled, bumping, leaping and splashing, and directly after, untouched by the long spears held by the uninjured, the driver turned the horses slightly, and their next bounds were upon dry land, rough and rugged enough, but free from any great impediments. Then away and away as hard as they could go, while the more active of those who were not hurt, recovering themselves a little from the shock and scare, came after the charioteers in chase with levelled spears.

“Splendid, Marcus, boy!” cried Serge. “Bah! You need not look back; they’ll give up running directly. You did not think they would catch us up?”

“No,” replied Marcus, breathing hard, “but stop! Stop! Lupe is fighting with them, and they’ll spear him if we don’t go to his help.”

“Eh? Go back, boy? To certain death!” cried the old soldier, fiercely. “It couldn’t be done if it was to save the finest dog in the world.”

“Oh, Serge!” cried Marcus, wildly.

“The message to Julius and your father, boy. We must not think of either ourselves or the dog at a time like this.”

“You are right, Serge,” said Marcus, bitterly. “But poor old Lupe!” he continued, as he held on to the side of the chariot with his left hand and gazed back. “He’ll kill no more wolves when they come down from the mountains over the wintry snow.”

“Why not?” growled Serge.

“Because the enemy are spearing him.”

“I haven’t heard him yelp,” cried the old soldier, “but I can hear somebody shouting as if Lupe was spearing him.”

“Do you think so?” cried Marcus.

“Ay, that I do, boy. It wouldn’t be an easy job to stick a long-handled spear into old Lupe when he is bounding about attacking legs, and waiting his chance to tackle throats. Like as not we shall find him coming after us, scratched and bleeding perhaps, but not hurt more than I can doctor him and set him right again, same as I’ve done more than once when he has had a turn with the wolves.”

“Ah, look, look!” shouted Marcus, joyously. “Why, here he comes!”

For all at once Lupe, who had been lost to sight, hidden as he was by those of the enemy who had not taken up the pursuit, and who had resented the dog’s attacks by endeavouring to pin him to the earth with their long spears, now dashed into sight, proving that he was uninjured by the bounds and springs he kept on making, barking furiously the while at those who were keeping up their pursuit of the chariot, but whose attention was now diverted so that they turned the points of their spears to repulse the dog’s attack.

“Yah! Just like him!” cried Serge, angrily. “You ugly old idiot, you! Whether it’s men or wolves, you always would have the last bite. Come away, stupid! Come here!” he roared again, quite oblivious of the fact that even if the distance had not prevented the dog from hearing, the noise of the horses’ beating hoofs would have effectually drowned Serge’s voice.

“Ought we not to stop and help him, Serge?” cried Marcus.

“No, boy; you know we ought not. We’ve got to get on with that message, and we must think of nothing else now we are clear. We must not even slacken while the path is so good; so keep on. You wanted a big gallop, so take it and be content, for the horses are going fast enough to satisfy anyone.”

“Yes,” sighed Marcus. “But poor old Lupe!”

“He must take care of himself, boy,” growled Serge. “Look at him, charging at the enemy as he is, when he is doing no good and running the risks for nothing.”

“He has stopped the pursuit,” said Marcus.

“Yes; but why can’t he be content now he has done it, and come on, instead of asking them as plainly as a dog can speak, to thrust a spear through his ribs?”

“But he knows no better,” pleaded Marcus, who was watching all that was going on, and feeling proud of the dog’s bravery in charging the enemy furiously from time to time, and escaping every thrust as if by a miracle. “I don’t want to lose time, Serge,” cried Marcus, raising his voice so that his companion could hear, “but I am going to check the horses for a few moments so that I can shout to Lupe. If he hears my voice calling him he will come.”

“He’s coming without, boy,” cried Serge, angrily. “Oh! Poor old fellow! But it’s his own fault. I knew he’d get it at last, and he has. That thrust has been too much for him. Look!”

Marcus was already looking sharply enough to have seen, at the same moment as his companion, Lupe make a rush at the halting enemy, whose spears flashed in the bright light; and then the dog rushed away again, to stand apparently barking furiously at his enemies, before dashing off after the chariot for about a hundred yards, and then stopping short to roll over and over.

“Killed!” cried Marcus, in a voice full of anguish.

“No,” said Serge, hoarsely; “he’s up again and tearing after us.”

But the next minute the dog had dropped again, and as far as those in the chariot could make out in the increasing distance, was busily engaged in licking his flank, and Marcus said so.

“Not sure,” cried Serge, “but I’m afraid he has got an ugly dig. Is he going to lie down and die?”

“Surely not!” cried Marcus, excitedly. “No, he is up again, and here he comes.”

“Then perhaps it is not so bad as I thought, boy. Yes, here he comes as hard as he can pelt. He can’t be very bad, unless this is his last struggle to get to your side.”

“And yours, Serge,” said Marcus, mournfully.

“No, boy; it’s you that he wants to reach,” said the old soldier, with a grim smile. “He likes me, but you need not talk—he loves you; and if he’s very badly hurt he is putting all the strength he has left in him to get here to you.”

“Oh, Serge,” cried Marcus, as the ponies tore on, with the dog in full pursuit, “it can’t be so bad as you think!”

“Well, boy, I’m beginning to think you’re right. He can’t be so very bad, or he wouldn’t be able to stretch himself out like that and come over the ground faster than the horses are going, and that isn’t slow. Look at the brave old fellow; that’s just the stride he takes—”

“Stride!” cried Marcus, proudly. “He’s coming on in bounds.”

“So he is, boy, and as I was going to say, that’s just his way when he wants to overtake a pack of ravaging wolves who have been after our sheep. Well done, dog! Talk about muscles in his legs! I don’t call them muscles; he has legs like springs.”

The chariot horses still tore on at a fast gallop, the sturdy little driver guiding them with admirable skill as they neared obstructions; but fast as they swept over the open ground, with the heavy chariot leaping and bounding behind, their speed was far out-paced by the great dog which stretched out like a greyhound of modern times, and lessened the distance between them more and more, till he was so near that Marcus uttered a cry of horror upon making out as he did that the dog’s flank was marked by a great patch of blood.

“Yes,” said Serge, gravely, “I see, boy, and I could find it in my heart to stop the ponies and take him into the chariot; but there is no need for it. Can’t be a serious wound, and he’ll be close up to us in another minute.”

“To reach us exhausted,” cried Marcus, bitterly; “and I shall always feel that we might have saved his life.”

Serge made no reply, but, frowning heavily, he watched the final efforts the gallant animal was making. For gathering himself together for every spring and putting all his strength in his efforts, Lupe bounded on till he was close behind the chariot, and Marcus uttered an encouraging shout as he went down on one knee, while the next minute Lupe made a tremendous spring, from which he landed in the middle of the rapidly-going vehicle, and then couched down, bent his head over as he let himself fall over on his left side, and began licking his wound as calmly as if nothing had happened more than the receiving of a big scratch.

“Why, Lupe, Lupe, old dog!” cried Marcus, as he knelt beside the wounded animal hard at work over his natural surgery.

Upon hearing the boy’s voice the dog ceased his task, looked up in Marcus’ face with his big intelligent eyes, beat the floor of the chariot a few times heavily with his tail, and then went on again with his dressing of his wound.

“There,” cried Serge, after looking back at the distant Gauls, “they’re not likely to pursue us, so make him ease the ponies down a little. We must not wear them out at the start. That’s better,” he continued, as Marcus touched the driver on the shoulder and signed to him to moderate their speed.

This done, Serge placed his spear in the loops and Marcus’ beside it, before sinking down upon his knees on the other side of the wounded dog.

“Now then,” he said, “let’s see whether it’s very bad or not,” and he laid his great hand upon the dog’s head.

Lupe ceased the licking upon the instant, and raised his head to gaze intelligently in the old soldier’s eyes.

“Good dog!” said the latter, speaking with gruff gentleness. “I won’t hurt you more than I can help.”

As if he comprehended the old soldier’s words and placed full confidence in his knowledge and power, Lupe stretched himself out fully upon his left side, extended his head, and, half closing his eyes, lay perfectly still as if dead.

“Poor old Lupe!” said Marcus, softly, and he took hold of the dog’s right forepaw, with the result that the poor animal winced, but only whined a little and did not try to withdraw his leg, but at the same time began again to beat the floor of the chariot with his tail, keeping up the latter, as Serge carefully examined the injury.

“Nasty place!” growled Serge.

“Not dangerous?” cried Marcus, anxiously.

“Dangerous? No, not it. He had got himself into the right position when the spear thrust was made. It’s bad enough, of course—”

“Oh, Serge!” cried Marcus.

“But there’s no likelihood of its being dangerous. The spear caught him on the flank and went right in alongside his ribs, from the thick hair above his shoulder right away to the front of his hind jumper.”

“Deep in the flesh, Serge?”

“No, no; only just under the loose skin.”

“Has it bled much?” said Marcus, anxiously.

“Plenty, my lad, but he won’t die of it. Do you hear, Lupe, old boy? Your doctor says he is not going to do anything in the way of tying you up, for this is the sort of wound that has done bleeding and will heal up without any more help than you can give it with your tongue; so go on and do what you like to it, just the same as you began when you were stopped.”

The dog ceased beating the floor of the chariot as Serge went on talking to him, and as soon as the old soldier had given him a final pat or two he resumed the application of Nature’s remedy, paying no heed to those in the chariot, which was now rolling steadily on and leaving the scene of the late encounter farther and farther behind.

Chapter Twenty Six.

In the Track of an Army.

It was not easy to quiet down the half wild steeds. They had been going through a long period of inaction since the fierce charge made on the night of the encounter before crossing the snowy pass, and once their driver had, to use the horsey phrase, given them their heads, and urged them on to their top speed, their hot, wild blood had been bubbling through their veins, making them snort and tear along heedless of rock, rut, and the roughest ground. Marcus had told the driver to check them twice over, but as soon as Lupe was in the chariot and both Marcus and Serge busy seeing to his wound, the speed began to increase, till the chariot was bumping over the open plain faster than ever; and though the charioteer strove his best it was some time before he managed to get his little pair into hand again so that the pace grew moderate and the progress was made at a gentle canter, instead of a wild gallop which threatened wreck over some projecting stone.

“They were half mad with excitement,” cried Marcus, who was breathing hard.

“Yes,” grunted Serge. “I thought we were going to be upset over and over again. Feel a bit frightened, boy?”

“Frightened?” said Marcus, looking wonderingly at his companion. “No! I liked it. Why, it was glorious to rush over the plain like that.”

“Wouldn’t have been very glorious if one wheel had come bump against a stone, flown all to pieces, and we two had gone flying one way and the chariot the other.”

“No,” said Marcus, laughing; “but that wheel did not, and we are all as right as can be, with the enemy left behind.”

“Yes, that’s all very true, boy,” said Serge, who was pressing his helmet a little farther back and holding it there so that he could get a good uninterrupted look all round.

“You didn’t like it, then?” said Marcus, smiling at his companion’s perplexed expression.

“Course I didn’t,” growled Serge.

“Lupe did. Just look at him. He has curled himself up to go to sleep. That’s a good sign, isn’t it, that he is not badly hurt?”

“Yes, he’s not going to be bad,” said Serge, without so much as a glance at the sleeping animal. “Dogs always do curl up when they are hurt;” and he kept on staring anxiously ahead.

“What are you looking for, Serge? More enemies?” asked Marcus.

“No,” replied the old soldier, though it was more like a grunt than a reply.

“What are you watching for, then? Not stones? It’s getting smoother, and we’re going on at a nice steady rate now.”

“Yes, boy, we’re going along at a nice steady rate, but I want to know where to?”

“Where to?” cried Marcus, quickly. “Why, to find the main army, and deliver the message.”

“Yes, boy,” growled the old soldier; “but where is the main army?”

Marcus stared at his companion for a few moments in complete astonishment, before gazing straight in front between the tossing manes of the cantering ponies, and then looked to right and left.

“I don’t know,” he said, at last. “Somewhere in front, I suppose.”

“Somewhere in front, you suppose!” grumbled Serge. “But where’s that? Nowhere, I say. We shall never come up with them if we go on like this. We may be getting farther away at every stride.”

“Oh, Serge!” cried the boy, excitedly.

“And it’s O, Marcus!” growled the old fellow, sourly.

“What’s to be done Serge?” cried the boy, despairingly. “Why, we may be losing time.”

“Most likely,” said Serge.

“And I was thinking that in flying along as we have been we were getting nearer and nearer to the army. Now, then, what is to be done?”

Serge was silent for a few moments, and then said slowly:

“Well, boy, it seems to me that the best thing we can do is to bear off to the right.”

“But that may take us wrong,” said Marcus, excitedly. “Why not go to the left?”

“Humph!” grunted Serge. “Because that may take us wrong, boy. You see, there’s a lot of chance in it, and we must use our brains.”

“Of course. That’s what I’m trying to do, Serge.”

“Don’t seem like it, boy. We’ve got to track the army, haven’t we?”

“Yes,” cried Marcus, “but they’ve left no traces.”

“Not that we have found as yet, boy, but they must have left some wounded men, or sick, belonging to the army or the enemy. If they’re fighting their way, as is most likely, we may be sure that a good many men have fallen.”

“Yes, that’s reasonable enough, Serge, but we have seen no signs of one.”

“Not one,” said the old soldier. “So as there have been no traces, we must go by guesswork, mustn’t we?”

“Yes, of course,” cried Marcus. “Well, you guessed and I guessed, and I think my guess will be the better one.”

“I know you do; but I don’t, boy.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s no reason in yours and there is in mine.”

“I can’t see that,” said Marcus, stubbornly. “Show me how your way can be better than mine.”

“That’s soon done, boy,” said Serge. “Caius Julius will have a big army with him, won’t he?”

“Yes, of course; a very large one.”

“With plenty of mounted soldiers and chariots.”

“Yes,” said Marcus.

“Well, would he pick out the roughest part of the country all among the rocks, like you have, or the lower and more even way like mine?”

“You are right and I’m wrong, Serge,” cried Marcus, frankly. “Let’s go your way.”

The old soldier nodded, the order was given, and the driver turned his horses’ heads more to the right; but before they had gone far Marcus caught his companion by the arm.

“But suppose, Serge, that the army did not come this way at all? We do not know that it did.”

“How’s that?” asked the old soldier.

“Why, it might have gone by some other way.”

“Which?” growled Serge.

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied the boy. “There must be plenty of ways through the mountains by which an army could go.”

“No, there mustn’t, and there arn’t, without you go a long journey round, and that a general is not likely to do. Passes through the mountains are a long way apart; and besides, of course our new captain knew the way that Caius Julius was going, and this is the way he meant to follow if he had come on.”

“Are you sure?” said the boy, doubtingly.

“Certain, my lad, or I wouldn’t go this way.”

Serge had struck for the right, and he proved to be right indeed, for before an hour had passed the adventurers had good proof, the old soldier suddenly giving vent to a grunt of satisfaction.

“What is it, Serge?” cried Marcus, eagerly, seeing that the old man was smiling.

“I’m right,” he said.

“What! Can you see anything?”

“Yes; look yonder, boy.”

Marcus gazed in the direction the old man pointed, carefully scanning the distance, but seeing nothing save the undulating stony plain with here and there a stunted tree, and in one part a depression like an old river bed.

“Well,” he said; at last; “I can see nothing.”

“Not looking right,” said Serge.

“I’ve looked right and left, and down that hollow too,” said Marcus.

“That’s what I say. You haven’t looked right up. Look up.”

“Up?” cried Marcus, who felt puzzled. “I do wish you would speak. There is nothing to see there but those crows circling slowly round and round.”

“That’s right,” grunted Serge; “you have seen what I mean.”

“What, the crows?”

Serge grunted, and Marcus stared.

“I don’t know a bit what you mean,” said Marcus, irritably. “Don’t, pray don’t, waste time.”

“I’m not wasting time. I say we’re on the right track, boy. Look at the crows.”

“What for?” cried Marcus, angrily.

“What for?” growled Serge. “S’pose you and me was at home and were out among the pastures and up the lowest slopes of the mountains where we drive the goats.”

“Well, what then?” cried Marcus, impatiently.

“And suppose we saw crows flying round and round. What would you say then?”

“That there was a dead lamb or a kid lying somewhere about, or that the wolves had been down and killed a sheep.”

“Well?” said Serge, with a dry look on his wrinkled face.

Marcus was silent for a few moments, and then, “Oh, Serge,” he cried, with a look of horror, “you don’t think—”

“Yes, I do, boy. Nay, I feel sure. There’s been a big fight yonder where those crows are flying about.”

“Yes: I see,” cried Marcus. “But—but which side has won?”

“Ah, that we are going to see, my boy, and before long too. Turn a bit more to the right, my man,” he continued, laying his hand upon the driver’s shoulder, and their direction was a trifle altered, with the result that before long they were passing by the side of a portion of the plain where it was evident that a desperate encounter had taken place from the large number of ghastly relics of the engagement that lay scattered about, spread over the space of quite a mile.

The scene was passed in silence, Marcus pressing their driver to urge on the ponies till they were well ahead, after grasping the fact that a stubborn stand must have been made, and that the action had been continued onward to where they stood.

“Well,” said Serge, “you see all clearly enough now, don’t you, boy?”

“I’m not quite sure,” said Marcus, thoughtfully, “though I think our army must have won the day.”

“There’s no doubt about that, boy, and in such a fight as it has been they could not help losing heavily; but I haven’t seen the body and arms of a single Roman soldier, and that is a sure sign that they won the day, and then stopped to carry away their wounded and bury their dead.”

Marcus shuddered, and they rode on for a time in silence, passing here and there a little mound, and as soon as they had cleared one the old soldier swept the distance with his eyes in search of another.

Marcus looked at him questioningly.

“Yes, boy,” said the old fellow, softly; “an ugly way of tracking our road, but a sure. Those hillocks show where they’ve laid some of our poor fellows who fell out to lie down and die, and there their comrades found them.”

“War is very horrible,” said Marcus, after a pause.

“Well, yes,” replied Serge, “I suppose it is; but soldiers think it’s very glorious, and as a man’s officers say it is, why, I suppose they’re right. But there; that’s not for us to think about. It’s not horrible for our Roman soldiers to stop and bury their slain, and their doing this has made it easy for us to follow the track of the army.”

“Yes,” said Marcus, who was gazing straight before him; “and look there.”

Serge shaded his eyes, and gazed in the direction pointed out.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s another sign-post to show us our way, and I dare say we shall come upon some more, ready to prove that we are on the right track. The crows seem to have been pretty busy there, boy.”

“The crows and the ants,” said Marcus.

“Yes, and maybe the wolves have been down from the mountains to have their turn.”

“Whoever would think, Serge, that those scattered white bones had once formed a beautiful horse, just such a one as these we have in the chariot?”

“Ah, who indeed?” replied the old soldier. “But I don’t know that we want to think about it, boy. Let’s think about your message and getting on to deliver it. We must make the best of our way while the light lasts, so as to get on as far as we can, as we know now that we’re going right. I should like to get down to some hilly or mountainous hit.”

“What for, Serge?”

“To climb up when it’s dark.”

“Because you think it will be safe to sleep there?”

“No, boy; I was not thinking of sleeping till we get our message delivered. I was wondering whether we should be lucky enough to get so far that after dark, if we climbed up high enough, we might be able to see our people’s watch fires twinkling like stars in the distance.”

“Oh, Serge, that would be capital!” cried Marcus, excitedly. “Do you think we shall be so fortunate?”

“Don’t know, boy,” growled the old soldier; “but hurry the ponies along while we can see that we are on the right track. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t be fortunate.”

“Oh, we must be, Serge,” cried Marcus. “It’s horrible to think of our general and all his men shut up in that bitter snowy pass, fighting hard for life, and always watching for the help that does not come. Forward!” shouted the boy, and at his word the driver seemed to make the horses fly.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Marcus’ Plan.

“Steady, steady!” cried Serge to the driver. “Mind that great block.”

For as they tore on, with more and more traces of an engagement teaching them that they were going right, the driver seemed to be sending the fiery little pair he drove straight for a low mass of stone, contact with which must have meant wreck.

Startled by the old soldier’s angry shout, the driver drew one rein sharply, making the ponies swerve right for another far more dangerous obstacle and but for Marcus’ readiness in snatching at the other rein, a worse mishap would have occurred.

They were saved from this, but the shouts had scared the fiery little steeds, sending them dashing frantically off in quite a fresh direction, while to Marcus’ horror, he saw that it was into another danger in the shape of a vast body of the enemy who, as the flying ponies drew near, sprang to their feet from where they were lying behind a ridge.

Getting the ponies once more well in hand, the driver, who saw nothing but death for himself if they were taken, wrenched the heads of the pair round once more, just when they seemed about to plunge into the thick ranks of the enemy, along whose front they tore in the intent of sweeping round their line.

But the hope was vain, for another body of men came into sight, rising from the earth where they had been lying, to form up at right angles to the first body, and once more the direction of the chariot had to be changed, then altered again and again, for to Marcus’ horror foes sprang up in every direction they took, the country seeming alive with the enemy, and all prospect of getting through them and continuing their dash for the Roman army at an end.

“What’s to be done, Serge?” cried the boy, at last.

“Steady the ponies and let them get their wind again.”

This was done, the gallop being turned into a gentle trot and from that into a walk, while the fugitives watched the slow, steady advance of the barbarians, who in their way, in spite of the name they received, appeared to be nearly as civilised as the Romans themselves.

Their intent now seemed to be to make sure of the capture of the chariot and its occupants as they kept on closing up and gradually narrowing the extent of the open plain about which the galloping evolutions had taken place.

“It’s just as if they knew that we were the bearers of an important message, Serge,” said Marcus.

“Seems like it, boy, but it is not,” was the reply. “We’re enemies and invaders on their lands, and they mean to take us at all costs. It looks bad too.”

“What does?” said Marcus, sharply.

“The country being up like this. It looks bad for our army, boy. I’m beginning to think that Julius has had to fight every step of the way he has come, and if our message was not what it is I should say it was our soldierly duty to give up attempting to get through with it.”

“What!” cried Marcus, with a look of horror, as he turned from watching the approaching enemy spreading out more and more over the open plain.

“I said if it wasn’t what it is,” said Serge, quietly.

“But you wouldn’t give up, Serge, come what may?”

“Do I look the sort of man to give up when I have work to do?”

“No, no,” cried Marcus, warmly. “It was wrong of me to think it even for a moment. But now, Serge, our way lies away to the left.”

“No, boy; I’ve been watching every turn we took, and if we kept on as we are now we should about be in the line our army took.”

“Then we must make a brave dash now and with lowered spears gallop right through them.”

“And come down before we were half through their line, boy.”

“Oh, don’t oppose what seems to be the only plan, Serge!” cried the boy, appealingly.

“I oppose it because it means being killed or taken prisoners.”

“Then what can we do?” cried Marcus.

“I’ll tell you what’s best, boy,” said the old soldier, thoughtfully. “They’re a long way off us, both in front and on the left.”

“Ah, try and trick them?” cried Marcus. “I know!”

“That’s right, then, boy,” said Serge, with a smile. “How would you do it?”

“Why like this,” cried Marcus, excitedly—“Pull up!” he cried to the driver.

The man obeyed, and the ponies stopped short, looking full of go, but with their sides marked heavily with sweat and foam.

“Now,” cried Marcus, laying down his spear and leaping out of the chariot, “out with you both. Lie down, Lupe! Quiet, sir!”

The driver and Serge sprang from their places and followed Marcus to the heads of their steeds, to begin patting and caressing them in the full sight of the army.

“Now,” continued Marcus, “you get back into the car,” and the driver stepped into his place.

“Take hold of the reins and hold them ready, but sit down as if your work was done. You, Serge, lead one pony; I’ll lead the other, and we’ll walk them slowly towards the enemy away here to the left.”

“So as to let them think we have given up trying to escape, and are going to surrender?” said Serge, quickly. “Well done, boy! That’s just about what I was going to say.”

“Then,” continued Marcus, “when we have slowly walked the ponies as near to the enemy as we dare, resting them all the while, I’ll give the word to gallop off, and as the ponies are turned we two spring into the chariot as it passes, and we’ll tear away for liberty. No stopping this time, but use our spears.”

“That’s right,” said Serge, rubbing his hands softly; “and I think they will be so taken by surprise that we shall get through; and if we don’t—”

“Well, Serge, finish what you were going to say,” said Marcus, sadly.

“It will be because it couldn’t be done.”

“But it must be done.”

Just then a faint burst of cheering came to the adventurers’ ears and began to run along the line upon their left, towards which they now began to move at a walk.

The next instant it was taken up in front to their right and rear.

“They think we’ve surrendered, Marcus, boy,” said Serge, with a chuckle. “Here, do as I do; take off your helmet and pitch it into the chariot. It will look better.”

Marcus followed his companion’s example, and leading the ponies, the adventurers advanced slowly towards the enemy on their left, still about a quarter of a mile away, and Marcus had the satisfaction of seeing that the men had all halted, and those on the left were awaiting their approach, while all ideas of order or discipline were at an end, the lines breaking up and becoming so many loose crowds of armed men, instead of roughly-formed Greek-like phalanxes ready for action.

Those were exciting moments, and as the time neared for giving the order for action, Marcus’ heart did not fail, for it beat as strongly as ever, but a feeling of doubt began to grow as he glanced along the line of the army he was approaching, and then at the loose mass standing or moving about at right angles, and thought how impossible it would be to dash through them.

At last, when the chariot was about fifty yards from the line, and a couple of the enemy who seemed to be leaders stepped forward as if to take their weapons, Marcus, without turning his head, whispered softly:

“Ready, Serge?”

“Ready!” was the reply.

“Then drop your rein when I say Now. You, driver, turn their heads at the same moment and gallop away.”

For answer the charioteer gathered up the reins a little, when, startled at the touch, the ponies threw up their heads.

What followed looked so natural upon the movement of the steeds that when Marcus gave the word, and he and Serge stepped back together it seemed to the enemy as if the horses had snatched the reins from their hands, and when the chariot was turned rapidly, to dash off, the actions of Marcus and Serge in catching at the sides and swinging themselves in were looked upon as attempts to help the driver check the endeavours of a restive pair of horses which had taken fright and galloped away at full speed.

Consequently a burst of laughter arose, to travel down the line, every man watching the progress of the supposed runaways with delight, while the body of men, now a disorderly crowd, instead of taking the alarm and closing up with presented spears to receive and impale the runaways, caught the contagion of laughter and separated, tumbling over one another in their haste to escape the expected shock, and leaving a wide opening through which the horses tore, urged to their utmost speed by their driver’s excited cries.

Seeing this, Marcus shouted to Serge, who was ready with the spears and holding out one to Marcus.

“No, no,” he cried, and seeing no danger he bent over the front of the chariot, making believe to snatch at the reins, and grasping his idea Serge seemed to be seconding his efforts as they tore by, and it was not until the last of the enemy was left behind that any attempt was made to follow, while even then the idea that it was a ruse went home but slowly.

“Hurrah!” said Marcus, softly, for he did not dare to shout. “They may think what they like now; we have got the start and ought to be able to drive clear away for the army again, eh, Serge?”

“I hope so, boy, but after what I’ve seen I’m afraid that the passage of our army has roused up the whole country, and that we shall be meeting enemies every step of the way.”

“Oh, don’t say disheartening things after this escape, Serge,” cried the boy, excitedly. “That’s right, lad; keep them going for a bit longer, and then steady down again to give them breath. Look at the beautiful beasts, Serge. I wish we were mounted upon them, instead of letting them drag this heavy chariot.”

“I’m looking at the enemy, my boy,” cried Serge. “They don’t seem to know the truth yet, but scores of them are coming after us at a run. I don’t think they’ll catch us though, for we are going four feet to their one.”

“Yes, but we must not distress the horses. Steady! Steady! An easy gallop now. That’s better. A quarter of an hour like this, and we can laugh at them, unless old Serge is right and enemies are ready to spring up everywhere in our way.”

“Ah!” shouted Serge, at that moment, and the ponies took his cry to mean faster, and increased their speed. “No, no,” he cried. “Steady, steady! Look, Marcus, boy, we are going right,” and the old soldier pointed to another of the grim traces of war in the shape of an overturned chariot, with the skeletons of the horses that had drawn it looking ghastly and strangely suggestive of what might have been their fate, or might happen even yet.

Before long the crowded together lines of the enemy began to grow more and more confused; then the idea of distance manifested itself more and more, and those who had pursued melted away into the main body, while the gallant little steeds, whose pace had been slackened down into a steady hand gallop, were eased more and more, to proceed at a gentle trot such as they could easily keep up, till they were checked in the midst of a green slope that ran along by a pine wood, pleasant indications of the mountain land being left behind.

Here a clear cool stream ran prattling along, towards which the ponies stretched out their necks and were allowed to drink, their example being followed by those they had drawn, a short distance higher up, and Marcus rose looking eager and refreshed.

“We shall do it, Serge,” he cried; “but I have seen no signs lately of the army having passed this way. Have you?”

Serge gave him a peculiar look.

“Yes,” he said, roughly; “there has been fighting just yonder, if you look for it; but don’t, boy. I want to get on gently again, and to find some sign of a farm, or peasants’ hut. We must have food of some kind if we are to do our work. Let’s get a little farther on, and then I must forage.”

“Yes,” said Marcus, sadly. “It seems waste of time, but it must be done, I suppose. But why not let the ponies browse a little here? See, they have already begun.”

“Because it will be of no use for us to look about here.”

“Of course not,” said Marcus, hastily, and he stood looking hurriedly round, to see for the first time that all along the edge of the forest which should have been bordered with fresh green bushes, was broken down and trampled, while not far from where he stood fire had been doing its work, and a large portion was blackened stump and skeleton-like stem.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Marcus’ Promise.

“Seems to me, my lad,” said Serge, “that we ought to have been started on this journey two days earlier.”

“Yes, Serge,” replied Marcus, in a despairing tone. “It’s maddening. Here have we gone on, almost starved, never getting a proper night’s rest—”

“Well, but that’s nothing to grumble at, my boy. That’s soldiering; that is what I always told you. A soldier must be ready to fast and go without sleep, and be always prepared to fight. Now, didn’t I teach you that?”

“Yes, Serge, but I didn’t quite understand it then.”

“But you do now?”

“Oh, yes, I know now; and I wouldn’t care a bit if we could only overtake them. Three times over during the past week we have been so close that half a day’s march must have brought us to the army.”

“That’s true,” said Serge; “and each time we were cut off by parties of the enemy, and driven back, just as we thought we could march in, find the master and Caius Julius, and deliver our message. Fortune of war, my lad; fortune of war.”

“Misfortune of war,” cried Marcus, angrily. “Here, I don’t know how many days it is since we started, for days and nights and time all seem to have grown mixed up together.”

“Yes, we have had rather a muddled and worrying time of it, Marcus, lad.”

“And now we are just as far off as ever.”

“Well, not quite, my lad.”

“I feel weak for want of food, and confused for want of sleep.”

“Not you! You only fancy that because you’re down in the dumps. You’ll be all right as soon as ever there’s anything wants doing and we have tumbled by accident near to one of those parties of the enemy, who all seem to be moving the same way as we are to surround the army.”

“Yes, Serge, and that’s what I am afraid they are doing, and keeping us outside. It’s all desperate and bad.”

“Oh, I don’t know. We shall get to them some time,” said Serge.

“Some time!” cried Marcus, mockingly. “Our poor general with his followers must have been utterly destroyed by this time.”

“Tchah! Not he! You don’t know what a Roman general can do. He’ll hold out for months, or kill those who are attacking him. Give it up your fashion!”

“What do you mean by my fashion?” cried Marcus, sharply.

“Give it up in despair sort of way when there’s no need.”

“No need!” cried Marcus, bitterly. “You seem to be blind to the danger. Why, the main army, as you must see perfectly well, has penetrated so far into the enemy’s country that it is completely surrounded by the tribes that have gathered together, and are only now waiting for a favourable opportunity to fall upon it and crush it.”

“Well, the army’s no worse off than we are. They’ve surrounded us—parties of them—only we wouldn’t be crushed. It’s just the same with the Roman army; it won’t be crushed. I’ve taught you times enough, boy, what our generals can do—lock their men together, shield to shield, cohort to cohort, all facing outwards and bristling with spear and sword. These barbarians are brave enough and they rush at our men meaning to crush them and sweep them out of the country; and so they keep on at it, losing more and more, before they roll back beaten.”

“Yes, Serge, but only to try again.”

“Oh, of course. That’s right enough, but it only means to be rolled back again. Now, look here, my boy; you have got your message to deliver.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” cried Marcus, despairingly.

“And you are a bit disappointed because it’s not done. Everything’s bad, you say. It’s been all misfortune since we started, and we may as well give up at once.”

“Well, isn’t it all true?” cried Marcus, as he stood unconsciously caressing one of the chariot horses as the pair stood ready to make another dash at a moment’s notice, their driver busying himself the while with seeing to and examining the different parts of the harness.

“True! Hardly a bit of it,” cried Serge. “I ought to give you a good drilling and bullying for what you said; but somehow I can’t, for we have had some very hard work, and all through you have been such a brave boy.”

“Oh, nonsense, Serge! You are only saying that to comfort me. You will praise me so.”

“Oh no I won’t,” said the old soldier, gruffly. “I won’t give you a bit more than’s good for you, boy. When I say you have done well it means you have done well. You won’t get any flattery out of me. All this trouble that we are going through is no more than you must expect. Look what we are doing, and how we stand.”

Serge was sitting down on a stone, busily employed as he talked polishing and sharpening his sword as it lay across his knees, and he did not trouble himself to look up at his young companion, but kept on lecturing him in a bluff, good-humoured way, smiling to himself with satisfaction all the time.

“Now here we are, trying to overtake our army, which had some days the start of us. If I say what you think isn’t right, you stop me. Well, our army has invaded the country of these Gallic tribes. The Gauls are no fools. They know Caius Julius has come to conquer them, and they don’t want to be conquered. Their idea is to invade Rome and conquer us. Well, my boy, we have come into their country, and every man who can fight has been called upon to come and fight against us, so that like a big crop in a cultivated land, what has been planted has come up all over. And this crop is fighting men with swords and spears. Now we—you and me and the driver, and we ought to put the horses in, bless ’em, for they’ve done wonders—have come after the army, marching through this bristling crop, and you, without taking any account of what a hard job it is to get through, keep on grumbling and saying everything is bad.”

“And so it is, Serge.”

“It arn’t, boy!” cried the old soldier, firmly, and letting his sword rest, brightly polished and sharp as it was, he now raised his head and looked smilingly in the boy’s face. “Haven’t you got proof of it that things are not as bad as you say?”

“No,” cried Marcus, angrily. “I was entrusted with a message to my father and Caius Julius, and I have not done my task.”

“Not yet, boy, but you are going to at the first chance. Why, look here, my lad, if things were half as bad as you say they are we shouldn’t be here. If we have escaped once from being taken or killed we have got through a dozen times. Look at us. Why, we haven’t got a scratch, and here we are, better, ever so much, than when we started.”

“Better?” cried Marcus.

“Yes, better. We are a bit hungry.”

“I tell you I’m half starved,” cried Marcus.

“Take your belt up another hole, then, boy. That’s a splendid tightener. Hungry! Why, you talk about it as if it was a disease, when it’s a thing you can cure yourself the first time you get hold of a big cake and a bowl of goat’s milk.”

“Oh, how you talk!” cried the boy, holding out his arm and trying to span his wrist with his fingers. “Look how thin I am getting.”

“Thin!” cried Serge. “Why, you look prime. You have got rid of a lot of that nasty fat that was filling out your skin through doing nothing but sit on a stool all day making scratches with a stylus on a plate of wax. What does a soldier want with fat? Your armour’s quite heavy enough to carry, without your being loaded up with a lot of fat. That’s right enough for women and girls; makes ’em look smooth and nice and pretty, and fills up all the holes and corners; but a soldier wants bone and muscle—good, hard, tough muscle and sinew, and that’s what you have got now. Look at me.”

“Yes, I have looked at you time after time, Serge, and you look hollow-cheeked and haggard and worn.”

“Why, I feel prime, my boy, ready for anything; ten years younger than when we started. Why, I have got into regular fighting condition again. Did you see how I jumped into the car yesterday when the ponies started without me?”

“Yes, I saw you run ever so far and jump,” cried Marcus.

“And you begin talking to me about being haggard and worn! Isn’t a sword all the sharper for being a bit worn?”

“Yes, of course.”

“So’s a soldier. Look here, boy; we are getting seasoned, and I’m proud to say that I am what a man’s officer would call a veteran, and that’s the finest title there is in an army. Then, too, look at our lad here. See what a splendid driver he’s turned out, and how he can send that chariot in and out among the rocks so close as almost to shave them, and right in between pairs of them where you or I would think there wasn’t room to pass. And then there’s the ponies! They are a bit thin, certainly, but they are as fine as bronze, and can gallop farther and better than ever. Now then! Speak out honest! Did you ever before see such a splendid pair?”

“No, Serge, never.”

“And yet you say that everything’s wrong and hopeless and bad. Why, boy, if I didn’t know it was all through your being young and anxious and eager to do your duty, I should be ashamed of you.”

“But you are not, Serge?” cried the boy, excitedly.

“’Shamed of you? No, boy. I feel proud.”

“There, Serge,” cried Marcus, leaving the pony, to go and lay his hand upon the old soldier’s shoulder, “I’ve done, and I will try and never complain any more. I do see now what a lot we have to be thankful for. Now then; what’s the next thing we ought to do?”

“Same as usual, my lad,” said Serge, rising and sheathing his sword, which went back into its scabbard with a quick glide till the hilt was nearly reached, when it required a firm thrust to get it close into its place. “Well, to begin with, forage first. I often think it’s a pity a man wasn’t made like a horse. Look at those two ponies! How their coats shine in the sunshine! They began eating their breakfast before it was light, for I was watching and wakeful, and I got thinking like this as I heard them busy at it, crop and blow, crop and blow, and after they had eaten all they wanted they had a drink of water, and there they are fit for the day, while we three have got to find out some place or another where we can buy, or frighten them into giving us some bread and milk. We always have been lucky enough so far, and I don’t see why we shouldn’t be again to-day.”

“But which way shall we go, Serge? It’s of no use to try to follow up the army as we did yesterday, and then have to turn back because the enemy are between us and it.”

“No, boy; I think the best thing we can do is to leave that till we have done foraging, for we must have something to eat. Then we’ll try if we can’t creep round these tribes, or get in between them somehow. Perhaps we may have a bit of luck to give us a little help. Anyhow, we are not going to despair.”

“No, Serge,” cried Marcus, firmly; “anything but that.”

“Hah!” cried Serge. “That’s spoken like Cracis’ son.”

Chapter Thirty.

What Serge thought.

The silence seemed to be awful to the listeners, who were prepared to give the word for the ponies to dash away as soon as the approach they expected commenced.

“Our people?” whispered Marcus at last, with his lips close to Serge’s ear.

“No,” was whispered back, and the next moment there was the heavy trampling of feet, but not towards them; and they had proof directly that they were no friends by the strange yell of defiance which suddenly rang out in response to a challenge given in the unmistakable Roman tongue.

“Oh!” whispered Marcus, excitedly. “Our people, and so near! We must go forward now.”

“No, not yet, boy. Hark! Yonder are our people speaking out, and the fight is beginning.”

“A night attack,” whispered Marcus, hoarsely, and with his heart beating heavily.

“Yes, boy, and as far as I can make out the hill and camp have been surrounded. Now, then, the darkness may prove to be our friend. What do you say? Shall we try to join our people, or fall back till morning, when we can see what is best for us to do?”

“Try and join the army,” said Marcus, firmly. “If the hill is surrounded we shall be getting into fresh danger by attempting to fall back.”

“Yes,” said Serge, in a low, deep voice, and no further word was uttered. Lupe gave vent to an impatient growl, and the ponies from time to time stamped uneasily as if eager to advance, while away to right and left rose, all the more horrible for the darkness, the clash of arms and roar of voices, mingled with the loud braying of trumpets, followed by the responsive shouts of the soldiery. There were moments when the tide of battle seemed to flow in the direction of the chariot, but only to be beaten back and sway to and fro.

Then, Marcus never afterwards knew how it happened—all he could recall was a fragment or two of their situation—Serge had just almost shouted in his ear, having to raise his voice to make himself heard, that they must at all costs make a dash to get away, and he himself had laid his hand on their driver’s shoulder to bid him drive on, when he found that he was too late. For all at once he discovered that the battle was raging close at hand, right in front of the horses’ heads, and directly after as they were swung round in the opposite direction for the occupants of the chariot to seek safety, there was a rush of armed men. These came into contact with another body, and so it was that whichever way they turned there was the wild turmoil and fury of the fight going on, while as far as Marcus could make out, one minute the Roman soldiers were driving the barbarians back and carrying all before them, but only to be overwhelmed in turn by some tremendous wave of the enemy in the shape of reinforcements, which raged and swirled round the more disciplined men, carrying them back by sheer weight of numbers in the direction from which they had come.

Both Marcus and Serge seemed to bear a charmed life. They made no attempt to use their weapons, and their position in the car had something to do with their escape from injury as they held on to the front, to be borne here and there by their frantic horses, while naturally enough Roman and Gaul, where they were crowded together in contention, yielded and made way for the plunging and rearing steeds, whose hoofs seemed to them for the time being more dangerous than the weapons of a foe.

How long all this lasted Marcus never knew.

It was enough for his brain to take in the wild horrors of the fierce fight and its many changes till all at once in the dim light shed by the stars the chariot horses had borne him and Serge partly out of the fierce crowds of fighting men.

Encounters were taking place all around in single combat, and charges and counter charges made by little parties who were separated from the main body crowded together in the central portions of the battlefield; and snatching at the opportunity, Serge, spear in hand, leaned over to Marcus and, pointing forward to an opening in front, shouted to him to bid their driver make for that gap in the human wall.

Marcus planted his spear shaft sharply down upon the floor of the chariot to steady himself, as he leaned down to the driver to utter his commands, and the next minute the fiery little steeds were tearing away at full gallop along the open space, as if in their wild excitement they were eager to escape from the savage scenes and bloodshed going on around.

But before a hundred yards had been traversed, the sea of human beings closed in again, completely filling up the opening, and seeming about to entirely stop the fugitives’ course.

Serge and the driver, both now as excited as the horses, burst forth into a wild cry of command, and this and the sight of the dimly-seen approaching steeds thundering along had their effect. The crowd opened out again just as the driver’s efforts were rewarded and he was able to check the furious gallop of his steeds and save them from plunging into the mass of friend and foe alike.

The gallop became a trot, the trot a gentle amble, as the chariot now rolled slowly on to where about a score altogether of Romans and Gauls, each party headed by an officer, were just in the act of meeting, pretty evenly balanced, in deadly combat.

As with wild shouts they rushed together with sword and spear clashing loudly against helmet, shield, or the protecting body armour they wore, the driver of Marcus’ chariot dragged upon his left rein to try and swing round to avoid the contending foes. But in the darkness he did not grasp that which was on his left, and Marcus became aware by a sudden jerk that their further progress was at an end, the chariot being wedged in between a couple of trees, while the horses were plunging wildly to escape from a tangle of bush and branch, and the driver had leaped out to seize them by their heads.

“Look, look!” shouted Serge just then.

Marcus, who had had to cling to the sides of the chariot to save himself from being thrown out, turned sharply to learn the meaning of his old comrade’s cry, and he was just in time to see him throw himself over the chariot’s side, evidently to hurry to the help of the Roman officer and his few men, who, completely outnumbered, were being beaten down by two or three times their number of Gauls.

Serge said no more in words; his acts spoke for themselves, and grasping that he meant at all costs to go to the help of the Roman officer, Marcus stood for a moment spear in hand and hurled it with all his might at four of the barbarians who were attacking the Roman leader, who was cut off from his companions and faring badly, in spite of a valorous defence, at his enemies’ hands.

It was pretty nearly momentary, but Marcus took all in at a glance. He saw that their coming and the dash of the chariot had had their effect upon a portion of the Gauls, who turned and fled, while some of their fellows were beating back the few Roman soldiers left unhurt.

There were enough still, though, of the Gauls to rush at spear-armed Serge with a yell of triumph, and Marcus, as he saw the sturdy old soldier making furious play with his spear, snatched out his sword to rush to his help; but his course was diverted by that which he saw just beyond, dimly enough, but with sufficient vividness to go straight to his heart.

It was the Roman officer staggering back with his helmet falling from his head from a blow he had just received from one Gaul, while, taking advantage of his momentary helplessness, a second rushed at him with his spear, bore him down backwards, and with a yell of triumph planted one foot upon his chest and drove his spear with all his force right at his throat.

There was a curious crashing sound as the spear point was turned aside by the finely-tempered gorget the Roman wore, and with a snarl the Gaul raised his weapon again for a second blow.

He made the thrust, but it was caught midway by the sword of Marcus, who ended his rush to the Roman’s help with a bound; his keen sword met the descending spear shaft, cutting it right through as if it were a twig, while he who wielded the sword came with all his weight full upon the Gaul’s chest and sent him rolling over and over upon the ground.

Marcus, too, came heavily to earth, but it was upon hands and knees, and, still retaining his sword, he scrambled to his feet again at the same time as the Gaul, who raised his headless spear on high to bring it down upon the head of his assailant.

But at that moment Marcus was reinforced by the officer whose life he had saved, and who, regaining his feet, cut down the Gaul and turned to meet his next enemy; for about a dozen men came at him with a rush, but only to be borne back in turn by a rallying party of the Romans, who, coming at their officer’s help, sprang at the Gauls, to be swept on in turn by a tremendous rush in which Marcus was trampled down, to lie half insensible for a few minutes before he struggled up, looked round, and than staggered towards the trees in which the chariot was entangled, while the horses were still being held by the driver.

Here Marcus supported himself, panting and breathing hard, by the edge of the chariot. He was giddy, and the dim battlefield seemed to be heaving and slowly gliding round before his eyes. There was a curious feeling of sickness troubling him and an intense longing for a draught of water, while his thoughts were all, so to speak, broken and confused and mingled together with a selfish feeling that he must be very badly hurt.

By degrees, though, the various objects began to settle down, and the roar of battle and clash of arms gave place slowly to a dull, singing noise in his ears. Then, as if by a sudden jump, his power of thinking lucidly came back, and he looked round for the officer he had tried to help.

But he was not there. Some twenty or thirty dead and wounded men were scattered about as they had fallen, some few of whom wore the armour of Roman soldiers, but for the most part they were Gauls, and Marcus looked in vain for the object of his search.

Then he turned giddy again, for a mental cloud seemed to close him in, and he snatched at his helmet and dragged it off, when the cool night wind that played upon his heated brow brought with it a sense of relief, and he thought clearly again, not of self but of Serge, and with a cry of horror he ran from where he had stood, to bend over each of the prostrate Roman soldiers in turn, uttering a sigh of relief as he raised himself up, replaced his helmet, and looked round, fully conscious now that the tide of war had swept right away to a distance. The fighting was still going on, and the cries and the clashing of weapons were strangely commingled, but faintly heard. One side had evidently won the battle and was driving its enemies before it. But were was Serge?

Marcus turned to where the driver was still soothing the horses, but he could give him no information. He had not seen Serge since he leapt from the chariot and was lost directly in the crowd of fighting men. Marcus stepped back to the spot where his own encounter had taken place, and looked round again for a few moments, but though he could see several prostrate bodies Serge’s was not one, and going on and on in the dim starlight he was to some extent able to follow the course of the fighting men by those they had left behind, till he grew confused as to his position and began to retrace his steps.

It was not easy, for he had nothing to guide him, and some considerable space of time had elapsed before, utterly worn out and disheartened, he made out a clump of trees, towards which he now directed his steps in the hope that it might be the one in which the chariot had been entangled.

To his great delight, as he approached, he heard the voice of the driver talking to the horses, and, hurrying on, he found that he was approaching the chariot from the opposite side to that he had left. The next minute he was tugging his sword from its sheath, for an armed man suddenly rose up from just in front, and as the boy’s sword fell to his side, caught him in his arms.

“And I thought you were dead—I thought you were dead!” came in a familiar, deep, gruff voice, broken by sobs. “Oh, Marcus, my boy, where have you been?”

“Looking for you, Serge.”

“You have? Well, that’s what I have been doing for you.”

“But where were you?” cried Marcus.

“I d’know, boy, only that I have been fighting. I was hard at it when there was a rush, and I was carried along with all the rest, getting a hit now and then at one of the enemy, but not often, for they don’t fight fair. They all crowd at you together, and I got the worst of it badly.”

“Then you are wounded?” cried Marcus. “No, boy; but I lost my spear.”

“Lost your spear?” cried Marcus, staring. “Yes, boy; this ’ere’s only a savage one.”

“But you are not hurt?” cried Marcus again.

“Not hurt?” cried Serge. “Why, boy, I just am. Battered and banged and hit all over. If it hadn’t been for the goodness of my armour there wouldn’t have been no Serge—nothing left but a few bits. But you, my boy?”

“Oh, I’m very sore and bruised and sprained, but nothing worse. But that officer, Serge, that we went to help?”

“Ah!” cried Serge. “That officer we went to help! What about him? You didn’t let him be killed, boy?”

“No; I remember he got up and fought again.”

“That’s right, boy; but where is he now?”

“I don’t know,” cried Marcus. “I was trampled down and lost my senses. Don’t you know what became of him?”

“No,” said Serge, “and I don’t care, boy now that I have found you. Here, don’t let’s stand talking, but help to get out that chariot. I want to get up to the Roman camp.”

“Can we? Did our people win?”

“Win? Why, of course, my lad! Romans never fail.”

“Quick, then!” cried Marcus. “The chariot, and then up to the camp. There’s the message; and let’s hope my father’s there.”

Chapter Thirty One.

The General’s Tent.

The driver’s face lit up as he saw Marcus and Serge come to his help, for the battle was as nothing to him compared to the state of the chariot and horses; and he eagerly set to work over the extraction of the vehicle, which, though splintered and battered, was not much the worse for the accident, and was soon dragged out from where it had been wedged close to the spot where the horses, now quit calmed, had settled down to browse upon the grass, which grew in abundance outside the clump of trees.

It was the harness which had fared the worst, but the driver and Serge were both pretty handy, and by the time the day dawned tying and lacing had done their work, so that, excepting appearance, the ropes, straps and thongs were as good as ever, and, tired and anxious, Marcus hurried his companions into the chariot to start for the camp.

Guessing at the direction where the slope led, they had just started when they were encountered by a minor officer at the head of a party of men, who looked hard at them and accosted them with:

“Have you seen anything of an overturned chariot in a clump of trees?”

“Yes,” said Marcus, smiling.

“Which way?” cried the officer, who looked surprised at Marcus’ way of receiving the question.

“Straight down that slope,” said Marcus. “You can almost see the trees from here.”

The officer nodded his thanks and was turning away, but Marcus stopped him by saying:

“The chariot is not there now.”

“Not there?”

“No; this is it.”

“Ah!” cried the officer, eagerly. “Then you are the youth and this is the man I want.”

“What for?” asked Marcus, flushing slightly.

“Oh, you’ll know soon enough. My chief has sent me to find you. It is for something that took place in the fight last night.”

“Something that took place in the fight last night?” faltered Marcus, wearily. “But tell me, did the Romans win the battle?”

“Oh, yes, of course; but don’t stop to talk. I must make haste back. You haven’t been murdering and plundering the people, have you?”

“No, of course not,” cried Marcus, sharply.

“So much the better for you,” said the officer, shortly. “Come along.”

He gave orders to some of his men to form up behind the chariot, and with the rest he placed himself in front, and gave the order to march, leading off at once to the left of the route in which the chariot had been moving when it was stopped.

“Why, anyone would think that we were prisoners,” said Marcus, who felt annoyed, but, satisfied that they were being taken to the camp, he thought of his message and was content. He, however, reached over the front of the chariot and called to the young officer, asking who was in command of the army.

The young man looked at him superciliously.

“What is it to you?” he said, shortly. “Ask the general himself when you come before him, and then perhaps you will be able to explain why you who are Romans have come to be fighting on the side of the Gaul.”

“What!” said Marcus. “Do you know that—”

“Never mind what I know, my lad,” said the officer, shortly, “and don’t speak to me again in that free off-hand tone. Please to understand that I am an officer and you a prisoner. Forward, and mind this: any attempt to escape will be followed by a shower of spears.”

“Thanks,” said Marcus, sarcastically; and he turned to Serge.

“I shall not tell him why we have come,” he said, with his face of a deeper red than before.

“That’s right, boy,” growled Serge. “We don’t want him to be civil; all we want is for him to take us to the general. You can tell him why we have come.”

They were ascending a slope that grew more and more steep, and the morning would have seemed beautiful to Marcus, whose heart beat high at the prospect of being able to deliver his message to the general in command, whoever it might be; but the beauty of the scene and the approaching sunrise were marred by the traces left by the battle, which they were constantly passing: the dead here, wounded men waiting for help there; the trampled and stained earth everywhere. It was a pleasant relief when the top of the hill they were ascending had been reached, though it showed no trace of any camp till the descending slope came into view, and then the adventurers found that they had to cross a valley, beyond which, with the trench and banks showing in rich brown tints gilded by the rays of the rising sun, was the Roman camp, with its few tents and moving columns of men passing up the flanks of the steep hill upon which it stood, evidently returning in regular order from the pursuit of the scattered foes who had resisted the attack upon the invader during the past night.

In his eagerness Marcus gave an order to the driver for the chariot to advance down the slope and cross the valley at a trot; but the officer turned upon him angrily, and ordered two of his spear-armed men to take the ponies by the rein, and in this fashion Marcus and his companion were led right to the centre of the camp before one of the tents, up to whose entrance the officer marched, spoke to another who was on guard, and then entered.

“Got all you want to say ready?” whispered Serge.

“Yes,” whispered back Marcus. “Oh, if he would only be quick! This is all wasting time.”

The young officer was quick enough, for he returned directly, and his manner seemed changed as he stepped up to the chariot.

“Follow me, sir,” he said. “The generals will see you directly.”

Marcus’ heart beat quicker than ever now, as he sprang from the chariot, wincing slightly from his stiffness, while Serge limped and screwed up his face as he strove in vain to hold himself erect.

It was bright with the early sunshine outside the tent, where Marcus now found himself face to face with a stern-looking man in the dress of a general, who sat with his hand resting upon his helmet.

But he was not alone, for another officer was lying upon a rough couch, evidently, from his bandaged head, wounded; but he was fully dressed, and his helmet and sword were upon the rolled-up cloak at the side of his averted head.

“You are welcome,” began the sitting general, warmly. “I have sent for you to give you the thanks of my injured friend, whose life—Why, what is this! My severe young friend Marcus here!”

“What!” came from the couch, and its occupant sprang into a sitting position.

“Father!” cried Marcus, and Serge, who had doffed his helmet, now in his astonishment let it fall upon the skins which covered the ground with a heavy thud.

As Marcus spoke he ran to his father’s side and sank down upon one knee to gaze anxiously in his face.

“Are you much hurt?” he said, hoarsely.

“No, no, not much, my boy,” said Cracis; “but in the excitement I did not know you, Marcus. Oh, it seems impossible that you could have been my preserver!”

“It was more Serge than I, father,” cried Marcus, quickly.

“Nay, nay, nay!” growled the old soldier, in his hoarsest tones. “Speak the truth, boy.”

“That is the truth,” cried Marcus, quickly.

“I helped, of course, but it was him, master, who made that cut at the Gaul’s spear and knocked him over. But we neither of us knew that it was you.”

“But you, Marcus, my boy,” said Cracis, as he gazed wonderingly in his son’s face, while Caius Julius watched them both in turn—“you knew me, of course?”

“No, father,” replied Marcus, whose face was scarlet now with excitement. “I only saw that it was a Roman officer.”

“And you dashed at once to his help,” said Caius Julius, smiling. “Well, it was a brave act then, while now I scarcely know what to call it. Why, Marcus, you must feel very proud of what you have done.”

“Stop!” cried the boy, quickly, eager to end the words of praise and compliment.

“Yes, stop,” said Cracis, sternly. “You here, Marcus, in a soldier’s armour, and Serge as well! Is this the way my commands are obeyed? Why are you here?”

“To bring the message of the general commanding the rear-guard, father. He is shut in on the snowy pass that crosses the mountain, and held there by many times his number of the enemy; and he sent me and Serge to the army here to ask for help.”

“He sent you, boy?” cried Cracis, quickly.

“Yes, father,” replied Marcus, “and I was to say that at all cost he would hold out till help was sent.”

“Help shall be sent at once,” said Cracis, firmly; “or better still, Julius,” he continued, “our work being so far completed, with yesterday’s victory, we will march to his help ourselves.”

Caius Julius bent his head without saying a word, and then sat back in his seat, attentively watching father and son.

“But your message did not answer my question, boy,” said Cracis, coldly. “Marcus, my son, how came it that you were with the little army that at my orders was to follow in our wake, crushing down the Gauls who would be sure to gather after we had passed? Speak out, sire: how came you there?”

“I could not bear it, father: something seemed to tell me that you would be in danger, and I followed you to Rome, and then on here.”

“Then you disobeyed my commands, boy,” said Cracis, sternly; and Marcus sank upon his other knee, clasped his hands, and held them out before him. Closing his eyes then he threw back his head and was silent while one might have slowly counted ten. Then in a low, distinct tone, full of sorrow and despair, he said slowly:

“Yes, father; I disobeyed your command.”

“And you, Serge, my old and trusted servant, old soldier though you were,” continued Cracis, in tones that sounded icy, “as soon as my back was turned you plotted with my son to follow me and forsake your post.”

“Nay, master,” cried Serge, quickly; “there was no plotting. I deserted first.”

“Hah!” ejaculated Caius Julius again, and his clearly-cut face looked as if it were formed of marble.

“Worse and worse,” cried Cracis, angrily. “Then you set the example which my weak son followed?”

“No, father,” cried Marcus, quickly; “I did not know that Serge had gone.”

“Ah!” said Cracis, quickly. “What excuse have you to make, sir, for deserting your post?”

“I didn’t, master,” cried the old soldier, stoutly. “I didn’t desert my post. My post was where I was last night, at my master’s side. It was my post that deserted me.”

“What!” cried Cracis, angrily. “Insolent!”

“Nay, master,” cried the old soldier; “I’m as humble as young Marcus there, and I’d kneel down just the same as he’s a-doing now, but them Gauls knocked me about so in the fight that my legs won’t bend. Look here, master; I couldn’t help it. I was just like the boy there; I felt somehow that you’d want your old follower’s help, and I was obliged to come and join you. You see, we came together, and reached you just in time.”

“You disobeyed my commands, Serge,” said Cracis, speaking as if deaf to his old follower’s appealing words. “You too, my son; but the words of both tell of the repentance in your breasts. Prove, then, by your next acts that you are willing to make amends. Silence! Do not speak, but act. The horrors and bloodshed of this campaign are not for my son and servant. You, Serge, do your duty as guardian—you, Marcus, yours, in obedience at once. Back home at once, and I will forgive.”

“And leave you now, father, wounded, amidst all these perils?” cried Marcus, wildly. “I cannot! I would sooner die!”

Cracis started angrily to his feet and tore the bandage from his head, as at that moment two officers advanced as if to receive commands.

“You hear me, Marcus?” he cried, sternly. “You hear me, Serge?”

“Yes, master,” said the old soldier, slowly, and making an effort with his bruised and stiffened limb, he slowly passed his hand across to his left side and drew his short, heavy sword, passed the hilt into his left so that he could clasp the blade with his right, and in that way held it out to Cracis as he went on speaking: “I disobeyed you once, master, and that’s enough for a Roman soldier. Take hold. I’ve kept it as sharp as it was in the old days when I followed you to victory, ready to die for you, master, as I am this day, for I can’t live to disobey you again. Take it, I say, master, and let me die at once; better that you should cut me down than that I should myself fall upon my sword, for that has always seemed to me a coward’s death.”

“Stop, Serge!” cried Marcus, passionately, and he laid his hand upon his old comrade’s blade. “I am a Roman, if only a boy, and I have the right to appeal.”

Turning to Caius Julius, he cried:

“You refused me once, sir, when I appealed to you, saying that I was but a weak unseasoned boy—not in those words, but that is what you meant.”

Caius Julius gravely bent his head, and fixed his keen, glittering eyes upon the speaker, who went on:

“Since then I have tried hard to prove myself worthy to bear the arms I was taught by an old soldier to use.”

The general bowed his head slowly once again.

“Then help me, sir. It is from no desire to disobey, but I feel that I cannot leave my father now. Forgive me, father. I cannot obey you. Forgive me, too, for this appeal.”

“Yes,” said Caius Julius, rising from his seat and taking a step or two forward. “You both disobeyed, and came here bearers of an important despatch which means more than you, boy, can imagine, in time to save a father’s and a master’s life. Serge, old comrade,” he continued, laying his hand upon the unsheathed sword, “keep your blade for our enemies. If it prove necessary I will kneel for you to my oldest friend and ask his forgiveness for you and my brave young soldier here. Boy,” he continued, “you have confessed your fault as your father’s son, but since he left you, a simple scholar, you have become a soldier and bravely done your duty in your country’s cause. Cracis, my brother general, I grant your son’s appeal. Endorse it, man, for a fault so frankly acknowledged is half atoned.”

“I must have obedience,” said Cracis, coldly, “not defiance, at a time like this.”

“I feel with you, old friend,” said Caius Julius, slowly, “but your wounds have fevered you, and it has not been cool, calculating Cracis who has spoken, but the angry, offended general. Brother, you desire that your old servant and your son should return home at once?”

“Yes,” said Cracis, speaking faintly now.

“How?” said Caius Julius, quickly. “Alone, to fight their way through the thousands of half conquered Gauls who will bar their way to the pass where the great captain is waiting for help?”

Cracis looked wildly at his brother in arms, and then slowly turned his eyes upon his son—eyes that had flashed but a short time before, but which now softened into a look of loving pride, as he slowly sank back insensible upon his rough pillow, Marcus darting to his side.

Chapter Thirty Two.

“My own Brave Boy!”

The speech Cracis made when he recovered from the fainting fit brought on by emotion when he was weak and prostrate from his wounds, and found Marcus by his side bathing his face, was very short, setting the boy’s heart at rest and telling him that the past was entirely forgiven; and the stern Roman judge merged once more in the loving father. For the speech was this:

“My own brave boy!”

“Ah!” cried Caius Julius, who had just hurried back, after having been away for a very brief time giving the orders which had set the whole camp in motion. “This is bad for you, Cracis, for we start at once straight for the pass, and as fast as we can go. Do you think you will be able to sit a horse?”

“I will,” said Cracis, firmly. “Yes, I am better now. My wounds are mere scratches, and once I get to-day and to-night over I shall be nearly myself again.”

“Nearly,” said Caius Julius, with a smile. “Well, we shall see. What do you say, nurse?”

Marcus flushed up at the term by which he was addressed.

“If my father says he will do a thing he will,” cried the boy.

“No doubt,” said the general; “but do you feel well enough to give me your counsel and make any suggestions about our return?”

“Yes, certainly,” was the reply. “First, then, tell me if you are fully aware of our position.”

“Yes,” said Julius, “we have scattered the Gauls in every direction, and as soon as we start they will take it for granted that we are so disheartened that we are hurrying back through the country in full retreat, and they will begin to flow back upon us like a great tide, fiercer and more venturesome than ever.”

“That is enough,” said Cracis. “I ought to have known your feelings, but nearly helpless as I am, I was afraid that last triumph would make you over confident, and that our followers would take their cue from their leader and become careless at a time when our position will be more hazardous than ever.”

“Trust me, Cracis; I shall be ready for the enemy at any moment. Now, Marcus, can I leave your father in your charge?”

“No,” said Cracis, before the boy could speak, “I am not going to be a burden to our men and join the train of litters and our wounded. My son Marcus and his old follower, Serge, will join one of the cohorts, and you will place him where I am sure he would like to be as his father’s son.”

“And that is—?” said Caius Julius.

“Where would you like to be, my boy?”

Marcus flushed deeper than ever as he replied:

“Serge always taught me, father, that the place of honour was in the front.”

That morning, as the army moved off in perfect order from their camp upon the hill, a message came to where Marcus was marching on one side of his father’s horse, Serge limping stiffly along on the other, that the boy was to come forward to join his cohort at once, by the general’s orders; and Marcus started upon seeing that the messenger, at the head of ten stern-looking veterans, was the young officer who had fetched him to the general’s tent.

There was a brief and soldierly leave-taking, and then Marcus was hurrying forward with his guide, who began at once to falter out hurriedly his apologies for his former treatment of the boy.

“I didn’t know,” he said. “I couldn’t tell who you were. I thought you were to be a prisoner brought in as a traitorous Roman who had been fighting on the enemy’s side.”

“Don’t say a word more,” cried Marcus, holding out his hand, and, the best of friends directly, the young officer began to tell him how all that he had done was known in the cohort, and how proud the men were to have Cracis’ son appointed to join their ranks.

“Ah,” said Serge, as soon as he could get an opportunity to speak to Marcus alone, “do you see how I am marching now, my lad?”

“Oh, I have been watching you all the way,” cried Marcus, “and pitying you.”

“What!” growled the old soldier.

“You seemed so lame and in such pain. I don’t know what has become of our chariot, but as that’s gone you ought to be in one of the litters carried by the slaves.”

“Wha–a–at!” growled the old soldier, making the interjection as long in its utterance as half a dozen six-syllabled words. “Well, I do call this hard! The knocking about you have had must have got into your head, my lad, and upset your eyes. Why, you can’t see a bit!”

“What do you mean?” cried Marcus.

“Why, this, boy. When I began to march after that young cockerel had brought the orders, I was so stiff that I could hardly put one leg before the other; but the very news of you being appointed to take your place in one of the leading cohorts of the army has acted like salve, and all my stiffness is as good as gone. Carried in a litter by slaves! Me! Do I look the sort of fellow who wants carrying in a litter like a sick woman? Bah! Why, before we get far on the march we shall have the enemy closing in on all sides, and the fight beginning.”

“Think so, Serge?”

“Yes, my boy. We have got our work cut out, for they’ll never believe till it’s knocked into them that we are not making a retreat. Me in a litter!” he growled. “Just you wait a bit, and I shall be showing that I have got a little fighting left in me.”

Serge proved his words the very next day, when, after many hours’ marching painfully in the ranks, pretty close to where his young master had been appointed a junior officer, and been received by the men with cheers, a desperate attack was made upon this, the advance guard, by a perfect crowd of fierce Gallic warriors made up of the scattered remnants of the beaten army, who came down upon the marching cohort like the sea upon some massive rock. So fierce was the onslaught that though the Roman ranks remained comparatively unbroken, they were pressed back by the sheer weight of their enemies, but only to recoil, and as they advanced to recover their lost ground, it was over the bodies of some of their wounded men, and to Marcus’ horror he found himself once more called upon to dash forward to another’s help. This time, however, it was not blindly and in the dusk, for a shiver of dread ran through him, knowing how crippled his old companion was, when he saw that Serge was one of those who had been unable to keep his place in the rank when the Romans were driven back, and that now he was defending himself and striving to hold his own against the attack of three of the Gauls. Tearing off his helmet, as if it were an incumbrance, and making his short sword flash through the air, Marcus rushed to his old companion’s help, but too late to save him being hurled heavily to the ground, while, ready as he was to contend against ordinary weapons, this barbaric method of attack confused and puzzled him. One of his half-nude enemies made as if to flinch from a coming blow, and then sprang up, hurling something through the air, and in an instant the boy found himself entangled in the long cord of strips of hide, which was dragged tight above his arms and crippled the blow he would have struck, while as he was jerked round the Gaul’s companions flung themselves upon his back, and for the moment he was prisoner in his turn.

The struggle that followed was brief, for the blade Marcus wielded was that in which old Serge had taken pride, feeling as he did that his master’s son should be armed with a weapon that was keenest of the keen. Fortunately, too, the aim of the enemy was to make a prisoner of the well-caparisoned young Roman, and not a slay, so that Marcus, in spite of the way in which his arms were dragged to his side, was able to turn the point of his sword upward, and give one thrust between the cord and his breast, when the rope parted like tinder upon the razor-like edge, and his enemies started back from the sweep of the terrible blade he whirled above his head.

Staggered for the moment, they were preparing for a fresh attack when Serge, uttering a deep growl like a wounded lion, sprang to his feet, after snatching his sword from where it lay.

That was enough for the three Gauls, who turned at once and fled, for a rank of the Roman soldiers was advancing, and as they closed up, Marcus and Serge were free to take their places in the line once more as if nothing had happened, and the advance guard steadily pressed on.

There was a fortnight’s hard fighting carried on day by day, with a succession of halts for the formation of camps in the strongest positions that offered themselves as havens of refuge against a teeming enemy which refused to be crushed and constantly swarmed round the retiring Roman army, perfectly reckless of life, and apparently content with the smallest advantages that they could gain.

Rolled back one day by a Roman charge, the Gauls gathered together again during the night to attack and harass the retiring troops; but all was in vain, for step by step Caius Julius carried all before him, and the help that Marcus had been sent to seek gradually drew nearer to the beleaguered force till one morning, as the army came into position to continue its march, Marcus was passing along the ranks and halted by Serge, who eagerly drew his attention to the glittering snow upon the mountains a mile or two in front.

“See that?” he cried. “Why, before long we shall reach that stream and be marching into that great hollow among the mountains where we stopped that day with the chariot to see our general lead his men up into the pass. Why, to-night we ought to be camping there amongst the snows; and a nice change too, my boy, for its been rather hot work for about a fortnight now.”

“Yes,” said Marcus, quietly; “but according to the tidings the scouts have been bringing in all through the night, the Gauls are swarming in that great amphitheatre between here and the pass, and all promises for the biggest fight that the army has yet had.”

Serge took off his helmet and rubbed one ear thoughtfully, as he gazed straight before him in the direction of the pass.

“Well,” he said, slowly, “I shouldn’t wonder if such a fight did come off, and if it does it will be hard and fierce. I shouldn’t wonder if it is what your father means. That used to be the way we went on: he planned where the fight was to be, and Caius Julius went on and won. I remember every bit of that amphitheatre place, and what a death trap it seemed. You know the captain would not stay in it when the Gauls had surrounded him, but left the way clear for us to go for the help we’ve brought, and led his force right up into the pass so as to make the enemy follow him. Now our generals are scheming to get the Gauls, who have kept on attacking us front, rear and flanks, right into that amphitheatre of a place in the mountains, where they mean, so it seems, to make a stand and stop our getting up by the pass—for that’s what they think we mean to do—so as to join forces with him who is holding it still.”

“But is he holding it still?” said Marcus. “The scouts that were sent out last night as soon as it was dark have not yet returned.”

“Yes they have,” said Serge, quickly. “I saw them come back an hour ago, and make for the general’s headquarters.”

Serge was right, for one of his comrades had heard the result of their investigation, the news they brought back being that their leader was still holding the pass, and, what was more, he was well supplied with provisions, for the country people on the farther slope, realising the strength of the Roman general’s position, had judged it best to accept the conquest, and, making friends, had kept up an ample supply of food, so that the little force which kept the gateway into Gaul and commanded the approaches on either side, had had no greater difficulties to contend with than an occasional attack on the part of the enemy.

This being made known to Serge, he laughed softly.

“There, you’ll see how our generals will carry to-day’s work out, my lad. That’s it: Cracis has calculated upon its being like this, and this place will be instead of a retreat a masterly scheme which will end this war.”

“How?” said Marcus.

“How? Why, in the way your father has arranged. You’ll see that when we advance the general will throw out two wings to secure the little hollows by which the Gauls have been advancing, till he has got round them, and then, and then only, he will advance his centre. Do you see?”

“Not quite,” said Marcus, “though I am trying to follow you.”

“Well, I should have thought you would have been soldier enough to have seen what would follow.”

“A desperate fight?” said Marcus.

“Most likely, boy; but don’t you see what will happen then?”

“A horrible slaughter, Serge,” said Marcus, excitedly.

“Perhaps, boy, but it may happen that when the enemy finds how he has been out-manoeuvred and that he is trapped he may surrender.”

“But everything has proved that the enemy is too stubborn for that.”

“He has never been in such a fix as this yet, my boy.”

“But he has equal chances with us, Serge, and may fight to the last and drive us back.”

“Not when he finds out the truth.”

“That our men are better disciplined than his?”

“No, boy; he must have found that out long ago. Not that, but that, as I said before, he has been completely out-manoeuvred by your father.”

“Well, you said that before, Serge,” said Marcus, impatiently; “but I don’t see matters as you do, though I have tried very hard.”

“Then you ought to have seen,” cried the old soldier, gruffly. “The captain is still holding the pass, isn’t he?”

“Yes, we have heard so.”

“Well, boy, knowing him, do you think he will go on holding it without doing anything when we advance and close the enemy in more and more?”

“Ah! I see now!” cried Marcus, eagerly. “He will come down from the pass with his men, and attack the Gauls in the rear.”

“To be sure he will, and do the greater part of the fighting and driving the enemy on to our troops. Why, in a very short time, as I see it, I mean after the attack, half their men will be prisoners, for no matter how clever the Gaul general may be he is bound to give up or have his forces cut down to a man.”

“Yes,” said Marcus, eagerly.

“Just you take warning, then, boy, by this day’s work: never you, when you grow up to be a general with an army at your command, never you let yourself be driven into a hole like this where you may be caught between two fires.”

“I never will if I can help it,” said Marcus, smiling.

“Forewarned is forearmed, boy. You know now.”

“Yes, Serge; but I am anxious to see what this afternoon brings forth.”

“Not much but a little marching and counter marching to get things quite exact and to the satisfaction of our generals. I expect this battle will be fought out before night.”