Volume One—Chapter Thirteen.

Volume One—Chapter Thirteen.Savages Continued—The Mast Fitted.“This is very stupid,” said Bevis, throwing himself back at full length on the grass, and crossing his arms over his face to shield his eyes from the sun.“They ought not to tell us such stupid things,” said Mark. “We might rub all day.”“I know,” said Bevis, sitting up again. “It’s a drill; it’s done with a drill. Give me my bow—there, don’t you know how Jonas made the hole in Tom’s gun?”Jonas the blacksmith, a clever fellow in his way, drilled out a broken nipple in the bird-keeper’s muzzle-loading gun, working the drill with a bow. Bevis and Mark, always on the watch everywhere, saw him do it.They cut a notch or hole in the hard surface of the thicker bough, and shaped another piece of wood to a dull point to fit in it. Bevis took this, placed it against the string of his bow, and twisted the string round it. Then he put the point of the stick in the hole; Mark held the bough firm on the ground, but immediately he began to work the bow backwards and forwards, rotating the drill alternate ways, he found that the other end against which he pressed with his chest would quickly fray a hole in his jacket. They had to stop and cut another piece of wood with a hole to take the top of the drill, and Bevis now pressed on this with his left hand (finding that it did not need the weight of his chest), and worked the bow with his right.The drill revolved swiftly, it was really very near the savages’ fire-drill; but the expected flame did not come. The wood was not dry enough, or the point of friction was not accurately adjusted; the wood became quite hot, but did not ignite. You may have the exact machinery and yet not be able to use it, the possession of the tools does not make the smith. There is an indefinite something in the touch of the master’s hand which is wanting.Bevis flung down the bow without a word, heaving a deep sigh of rage.“Flint and steel,” said Mark presently.“Hum!”“There’s a flint in the gateway,” continued Mark. “I saw it just now; and you can knock it against the end of your knife—”“You stupe; there’s no tinder.”“No more there is.”“I hate it—it’s horrid,” said Bevis. “What’s the use of trying to do things when everything can’t be done?”He sat on his heels as he knelt, and looked round scowling. There was the water—no fire to be obtained from thence; there was the broad field—no fire there; there was the sun overhead.“Go home directly, and get a burning-glass—unscrew the telescope.”“Is it proper?” said Mark, not much liking the journey.“It’s not matches,” said Bevis sententiously.Mark knew it was of no use, he had to go, and he went, taking off his jacket before he started, as he meant to run a good part of the way. It was not really far, but as his mind was at the hollow all the while the time seemed twice as long. After he had gone Bevis soon found that the sunshine was too warm to sit in, though while they had been so busy and working their hardest they had never noticed it. Directly the current of occupation was interrupted the sun became unbearable. Bevis went to the shadow of the sycamores, taking the skinned bird with him, lest a wandering beast of prey—some weasel or jackal—should pounce on it.He thought Mark was a very long time gone; he got up and walked round the huge trunk of the sycamore, and looked up into it to see if any immense boa-constrictor was coiled among its great limbs. He thought they would some day build a hut up there on a platform of poles. Far out over the water he saw the Unknown Island, and remembered that when they sailed there in the ship there was no knowing what monsters or what enchantments they might encounter. So he walked out from the trees into the field to look for some moly to take with them, and resist Circe.The bird’s-foot lotus he knew was not it. There was one blue spot of veronica still, and another tiny blue flower which he did not know, besides the white honeysuckle clover at which the grey bees were busy, and would scarce stir from under his footsteps. He found three button mushrooms, and put them in his pocket. Wandering on among the buttercup stalks and bunches of grass, like a butterfly drawn hither and thither by every speck of colour, he came to a little white flower on a slender stem a few inches high, which he gathered for moly. Putting the precious flower—good against sorcery—in his breast-pocket for safety, he rose from his knees, and saw Mark coming by the sycamores.Mark was hot and tired with running, yet he had snatched time enough to bring four cherries for Bevis. He had the burning-glass—a lens unscrewed from the telescope, and sitting on the grass they focussed the sun’s rays on a piece of paper. The lens was powerful and the summer sun bright, so that in a few seconds there was a tiny black speck, then the faintest whiff of bluish smoke, then a leap of flame, and soon another, till the paper burned, and their fire was lit. As the little hut blazed up they put some more boughs on, and the dead leaves attached to them sent up a thin column of smoke.“The savages will see that,” said Mark, “and come swarming down from the hills.”“We ought to have made the fire in a hole,” said Bevis, “and put turf on it.”“What ever shall we do?” said Mark. “They’ll be here in a minute.”“Fetich,” said Bevis. “I know, cut that stick sharp at the end, tie a handful of grass on it—be quick—and run down towards the elms and stick it up. Then they’ll think we’re doing fetich, and won’t come any nearer.”“First-rate,” said Mark, and off he went with the stick, and thrust it into the sward with a wisp of grass tied to the top. Bevis piled on the branches, and when he came back there was a large fire. Then the difficulty was how to cook the bird? If they put it on the ashes, it would burn and be spoiled; if they hung it up, they could not make it twist round and round, and they had no iron pot to boil it; or earthenware pot to drop red-hot stones in, and so heat the water without destroying the vessel. The only thing they could do was to stick it on a stick, and hold it to the fire till it was roasted, one side at a time.“The harpoon will do,” said Bevis. “Spit him on it.”“No,” said Mark; “the bone will burn and get spoiled—spit him on your arrow.”“The nail will burn out and spoil my arrow, and I’ve lost one in the elms. Go and cut a long stick.”“You ought to go and do it,” said Mark; “I’ve done everything this morning.”“So you have; I’ll go,” said Bevis and away; he went to the nut-tree hedge. He soon brought back a straight hazel-rod to which he cut a point, the bird was spitted, and they held it by turns at the fire, sitting on the sward.It was very warm in the round, bowl-like hollow, the fire at the bottom and the sun overhead, but they were too busy to heed it. Mark crept on hands and knees up the side of the hollow while Bevis was cooking, and cautiously peered over the edge to see if any savages were near. There were none in sight; the fetich kept them at a distance.“We must remember to take the burning-glass with us when we go on our voyage,” said Bevis.“Perhaps the sun won’t shine.”“No. Mind you tell me, we will take some matches, too; and if the sun shines use the glass, and if he doesn’t, strike a match.”“We shall want a camp-fire when we go to war,” said Mark.“Of course we shall.”“Everybody keeps on about the war,” said Mark. “They’re always at me.”“I found these buttons,” said Bevis; “I had forgotten them.”He put the little mushrooms, stems upwards, on some embers which had fallen apart from the main fire. The branches as they burned became white directly, coated over with a film of ash, so that except just in the centre they did not look red, though glowing with heat under the white layer. Even the flames were but just visible in the brilliant sunshine, and were paler in colour than those of the hearth. Now and then the thin column of grey smoke, rising straight up out of the hollow, was puffed aside at its summit by the light air wandering over the field. As the butterflies came over the edge of the hollow into the heated atmosphere, they fluttered up high to escape it.“I’m sure it’s done,” said Mark, drawing the stick away from the fire. The bird was brown and burnt in one place, so they determined to eat it and not spoil it by over-roasting. When Bevis began to carve it with his pocket-knife he found one leg quite raw, the wings were burnt, but there was a part of the breast and the other leg fairly well cooked. These they ate, little pieces at a time, slowly, and in silence, for it was proper to like it. But they did not pick the bones clean.“No salt,” said Mark, putting down the piece he had in his hand.“No bread,” said Bevis, flinging the leg away.“We don’t do it right somehow,” said Mark. “It takes such a long time to learn to be savages.”“Years,” said Bevis, picking a mushroom from the embers, it burned his fingers and he had to wait till it was cooler. The mushrooms were better, their cups held some of the juice as they cooked, retaining the sweet flavour. They were so small, they were but a bite each.“I am thirsty,” said Mark. Bevis was the same, so they went down towards the water. Mark began to run down the slope, when Bevis suddenly remembered.“Stop,” he cried; “you can’t drink there.”“Why not?”“Why of course it’s the New Sea. We must go round to the Nile; it’s fresh water there.”So they ran through the firs to the Nile, and lapped from the brook. On the way home a little boy stepped out from the trees on the bank where it was high, and he could look down at them.“I say!”—he had been waiting for them—“say!”“Well!” growled Mark.“Bevis,” said the boy. Bevis looked up, he could not demean himself to answer such a mite. The boy looked round to see that he was sure of his retreat through the trees to the gap in the hedge he could crawl through, but they would find it difficult. Besides, they would have to run up the bank, which was thick with brambles. He got his courage together and shouted in his shrill little voice,—“I say, Ted says he shan’t play if you don’t have war soon.”Mark picked up a dead branch and hurled it at the mite; the mite dodged it, and it broke against a tree, then he ran for his life, but they did not follow. Bevis said nothing till they reached the blue summer-house at home and sat down. Then he yawned.“War is a bother,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets, and leaning back in an attitude of weary despair at having to do something. If the rest would not have played, he would have egged them on with furious energy till they did. As they were eager he did not care.“O! well!” said Mark, nodding his head up and down as he spoke, as much as to indicate that he did not care personally; but still, “O! well! all I know is, if you don’t go to war Ted will have one all to himself, and have a battle with somebody else. I believe he sent Charlie.” Charlie was the mite.“Did he say he would have a war all to himself?” said Bevis, sitting upright.“I don’t know,” said Mark, nodding his head. “They say lots of things.”“What do they say?”“O! heaps; perhaps you don’t know how to make war, and perhaps—”“I’ll have the biggest war,” said Bevis, getting up, “that was ever known, and Ted’s quite stupid. Mind, he doesn’t have any more cherries, that’s certain. I hate him—awfully! Let’s make the swords.”“All right,” said Mark, jumping up, delighted that the war was going to begin. He was as eager as the others, only he did not dare say so. Most of the afternoon they were cutting sticks for swords, and measuring them so as to have all the same length.Next morning the governor went with them to bathe, as he wanted to see how they were getting on with their swimming. They had the punt, and the governor stopped it about twenty yards from the shore, to which they had to swim. Bevis dived first, and with some blowing and spluttering and splashing managed to get to where he could bottom with his feet. He could have gone further than that, but it was a new feeling to know that he was out of his depth, and it made him swim too fast and splash. Mark having seen that Bevis could do it, and knowing he could swim as far as Bevis could, did it much better.The governor was satisfied and said they could now have the blue boat, but on two conditions, first, that they still kept their promise not to go out of their depth, and secondly, that they were to try and see every day how far they could swim along the shore. He guessed they had rather neglected their swimming; having learnt the art itself they had not tried to improve themselves. He said he should come with them once or twice a week, and see them dive from the punt so as to get used to deep water.If they would practise along the shore in their depth till they could swim from the rocky point to the rails, about seventy yards, he would give them each a present, and they could then go out of their depth. He was obliged to be careful about the depth till they could swim a good way, because he could not be always with them, and fresh water is not so buoyant as the sea, so that young swimmers soon tire.The same day they carried the mast up, and fitted it in the hole in the thwart. The mast was a little too large, but that was soon remedied. The bowsprit was lashed to the ring to which the painter was fastened, and at its inner end to the seat and mast. Next the gaff was tried, and drew up and down fairly well through the curtain-ring. But one thing they had overlooked—the sheets, or ropes for the jib, must work through something, and they had not provided any staples. Besides this, there was the rudder to be fitted with a tiller instead of the ropes. Somehow they did not like ropes; it did not look like a ship. This instinct was right, for ropes are not of much use when sailing; you have no power on the rudder as with a tiller.After fitting the mast and bowsprit they unshipped them, and carried them home for safety till the sails were ready. Bevis wanted Mark to go and ask Frances to be quick, but Mark was afraid to return just yet, as Frances would now know from Jack that he had forgotten the letter. Every now and then bundles of sticks for swords, and longer ones for spears and darts, and rods for arrows, were brought in by the soldiery. All these were taken upstairs into the bench-room, or armoury, because they did not like their things looked at or touched, and there was a look and key to that room. Bevis always kept the key in his pocket now.They could not fit a head to the oyster barrel for the fresh water on the voyage, but found a large round tin canister with a tight lid, such as contain cornflour, and which would go inside the oyster barrel. The tin canister would hold water, and could be put in the barrel, so as to look proper. More sticks kept coming, and knobbed clubs, till the armoury was crowded with the shafts of weapons. Now that Bevis had consented to go to war, all the rest were eager to serve him, so that he easily got a messenger to take a note (as Mark was afraid to go) to Frances to be quick with the stitching.In the evening Bevis tore another broad folio page or fly-leaf from one of the big books in the parlour, and took it out into the summer-house, where they kept an old chair—the back gone—which did very well for a table. Cutting his pencil, Bevis took his hat off and threw it on the seat which ran round inside; then kneeling down, as the table was so low, he proceeded to draw his map of the coming campaign.

“This is very stupid,” said Bevis, throwing himself back at full length on the grass, and crossing his arms over his face to shield his eyes from the sun.

“They ought not to tell us such stupid things,” said Mark. “We might rub all day.”

“I know,” said Bevis, sitting up again. “It’s a drill; it’s done with a drill. Give me my bow—there, don’t you know how Jonas made the hole in Tom’s gun?”

Jonas the blacksmith, a clever fellow in his way, drilled out a broken nipple in the bird-keeper’s muzzle-loading gun, working the drill with a bow. Bevis and Mark, always on the watch everywhere, saw him do it.

They cut a notch or hole in the hard surface of the thicker bough, and shaped another piece of wood to a dull point to fit in it. Bevis took this, placed it against the string of his bow, and twisted the string round it. Then he put the point of the stick in the hole; Mark held the bough firm on the ground, but immediately he began to work the bow backwards and forwards, rotating the drill alternate ways, he found that the other end against which he pressed with his chest would quickly fray a hole in his jacket. They had to stop and cut another piece of wood with a hole to take the top of the drill, and Bevis now pressed on this with his left hand (finding that it did not need the weight of his chest), and worked the bow with his right.

The drill revolved swiftly, it was really very near the savages’ fire-drill; but the expected flame did not come. The wood was not dry enough, or the point of friction was not accurately adjusted; the wood became quite hot, but did not ignite. You may have the exact machinery and yet not be able to use it, the possession of the tools does not make the smith. There is an indefinite something in the touch of the master’s hand which is wanting.

Bevis flung down the bow without a word, heaving a deep sigh of rage.

“Flint and steel,” said Mark presently.

“Hum!”

“There’s a flint in the gateway,” continued Mark. “I saw it just now; and you can knock it against the end of your knife—”

“You stupe; there’s no tinder.”

“No more there is.”

“I hate it—it’s horrid,” said Bevis. “What’s the use of trying to do things when everything can’t be done?”

He sat on his heels as he knelt, and looked round scowling. There was the water—no fire to be obtained from thence; there was the broad field—no fire there; there was the sun overhead.

“Go home directly, and get a burning-glass—unscrew the telescope.”

“Is it proper?” said Mark, not much liking the journey.

“It’s not matches,” said Bevis sententiously.

Mark knew it was of no use, he had to go, and he went, taking off his jacket before he started, as he meant to run a good part of the way. It was not really far, but as his mind was at the hollow all the while the time seemed twice as long. After he had gone Bevis soon found that the sunshine was too warm to sit in, though while they had been so busy and working their hardest they had never noticed it. Directly the current of occupation was interrupted the sun became unbearable. Bevis went to the shadow of the sycamores, taking the skinned bird with him, lest a wandering beast of prey—some weasel or jackal—should pounce on it.

He thought Mark was a very long time gone; he got up and walked round the huge trunk of the sycamore, and looked up into it to see if any immense boa-constrictor was coiled among its great limbs. He thought they would some day build a hut up there on a platform of poles. Far out over the water he saw the Unknown Island, and remembered that when they sailed there in the ship there was no knowing what monsters or what enchantments they might encounter. So he walked out from the trees into the field to look for some moly to take with them, and resist Circe.

The bird’s-foot lotus he knew was not it. There was one blue spot of veronica still, and another tiny blue flower which he did not know, besides the white honeysuckle clover at which the grey bees were busy, and would scarce stir from under his footsteps. He found three button mushrooms, and put them in his pocket. Wandering on among the buttercup stalks and bunches of grass, like a butterfly drawn hither and thither by every speck of colour, he came to a little white flower on a slender stem a few inches high, which he gathered for moly. Putting the precious flower—good against sorcery—in his breast-pocket for safety, he rose from his knees, and saw Mark coming by the sycamores.

Mark was hot and tired with running, yet he had snatched time enough to bring four cherries for Bevis. He had the burning-glass—a lens unscrewed from the telescope, and sitting on the grass they focussed the sun’s rays on a piece of paper. The lens was powerful and the summer sun bright, so that in a few seconds there was a tiny black speck, then the faintest whiff of bluish smoke, then a leap of flame, and soon another, till the paper burned, and their fire was lit. As the little hut blazed up they put some more boughs on, and the dead leaves attached to them sent up a thin column of smoke.

“The savages will see that,” said Mark, “and come swarming down from the hills.”

“We ought to have made the fire in a hole,” said Bevis, “and put turf on it.”

“What ever shall we do?” said Mark. “They’ll be here in a minute.”

“Fetich,” said Bevis. “I know, cut that stick sharp at the end, tie a handful of grass on it—be quick—and run down towards the elms and stick it up. Then they’ll think we’re doing fetich, and won’t come any nearer.”

“First-rate,” said Mark, and off he went with the stick, and thrust it into the sward with a wisp of grass tied to the top. Bevis piled on the branches, and when he came back there was a large fire. Then the difficulty was how to cook the bird? If they put it on the ashes, it would burn and be spoiled; if they hung it up, they could not make it twist round and round, and they had no iron pot to boil it; or earthenware pot to drop red-hot stones in, and so heat the water without destroying the vessel. The only thing they could do was to stick it on a stick, and hold it to the fire till it was roasted, one side at a time.

“The harpoon will do,” said Bevis. “Spit him on it.”

“No,” said Mark; “the bone will burn and get spoiled—spit him on your arrow.”

“The nail will burn out and spoil my arrow, and I’ve lost one in the elms. Go and cut a long stick.”

“You ought to go and do it,” said Mark; “I’ve done everything this morning.”

“So you have; I’ll go,” said Bevis and away; he went to the nut-tree hedge. He soon brought back a straight hazel-rod to which he cut a point, the bird was spitted, and they held it by turns at the fire, sitting on the sward.

It was very warm in the round, bowl-like hollow, the fire at the bottom and the sun overhead, but they were too busy to heed it. Mark crept on hands and knees up the side of the hollow while Bevis was cooking, and cautiously peered over the edge to see if any savages were near. There were none in sight; the fetich kept them at a distance.

“We must remember to take the burning-glass with us when we go on our voyage,” said Bevis.

“Perhaps the sun won’t shine.”

“No. Mind you tell me, we will take some matches, too; and if the sun shines use the glass, and if he doesn’t, strike a match.”

“We shall want a camp-fire when we go to war,” said Mark.

“Of course we shall.”

“Everybody keeps on about the war,” said Mark. “They’re always at me.”

“I found these buttons,” said Bevis; “I had forgotten them.”

He put the little mushrooms, stems upwards, on some embers which had fallen apart from the main fire. The branches as they burned became white directly, coated over with a film of ash, so that except just in the centre they did not look red, though glowing with heat under the white layer. Even the flames were but just visible in the brilliant sunshine, and were paler in colour than those of the hearth. Now and then the thin column of grey smoke, rising straight up out of the hollow, was puffed aside at its summit by the light air wandering over the field. As the butterflies came over the edge of the hollow into the heated atmosphere, they fluttered up high to escape it.

“I’m sure it’s done,” said Mark, drawing the stick away from the fire. The bird was brown and burnt in one place, so they determined to eat it and not spoil it by over-roasting. When Bevis began to carve it with his pocket-knife he found one leg quite raw, the wings were burnt, but there was a part of the breast and the other leg fairly well cooked. These they ate, little pieces at a time, slowly, and in silence, for it was proper to like it. But they did not pick the bones clean.

“No salt,” said Mark, putting down the piece he had in his hand.

“No bread,” said Bevis, flinging the leg away.

“We don’t do it right somehow,” said Mark. “It takes such a long time to learn to be savages.”

“Years,” said Bevis, picking a mushroom from the embers, it burned his fingers and he had to wait till it was cooler. The mushrooms were better, their cups held some of the juice as they cooked, retaining the sweet flavour. They were so small, they were but a bite each.

“I am thirsty,” said Mark. Bevis was the same, so they went down towards the water. Mark began to run down the slope, when Bevis suddenly remembered.

“Stop,” he cried; “you can’t drink there.”

“Why not?”

“Why of course it’s the New Sea. We must go round to the Nile; it’s fresh water there.”

So they ran through the firs to the Nile, and lapped from the brook. On the way home a little boy stepped out from the trees on the bank where it was high, and he could look down at them.

“I say!”—he had been waiting for them—“say!”

“Well!” growled Mark.

“Bevis,” said the boy. Bevis looked up, he could not demean himself to answer such a mite. The boy looked round to see that he was sure of his retreat through the trees to the gap in the hedge he could crawl through, but they would find it difficult. Besides, they would have to run up the bank, which was thick with brambles. He got his courage together and shouted in his shrill little voice,—

“I say, Ted says he shan’t play if you don’t have war soon.”

Mark picked up a dead branch and hurled it at the mite; the mite dodged it, and it broke against a tree, then he ran for his life, but they did not follow. Bevis said nothing till they reached the blue summer-house at home and sat down. Then he yawned.

“War is a bother,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets, and leaning back in an attitude of weary despair at having to do something. If the rest would not have played, he would have egged them on with furious energy till they did. As they were eager he did not care.

“O! well!” said Mark, nodding his head up and down as he spoke, as much as to indicate that he did not care personally; but still, “O! well! all I know is, if you don’t go to war Ted will have one all to himself, and have a battle with somebody else. I believe he sent Charlie.” Charlie was the mite.

“Did he say he would have a war all to himself?” said Bevis, sitting upright.

“I don’t know,” said Mark, nodding his head. “They say lots of things.”

“What do they say?”

“O! heaps; perhaps you don’t know how to make war, and perhaps—”

“I’ll have the biggest war,” said Bevis, getting up, “that was ever known, and Ted’s quite stupid. Mind, he doesn’t have any more cherries, that’s certain. I hate him—awfully! Let’s make the swords.”

“All right,” said Mark, jumping up, delighted that the war was going to begin. He was as eager as the others, only he did not dare say so. Most of the afternoon they were cutting sticks for swords, and measuring them so as to have all the same length.

Next morning the governor went with them to bathe, as he wanted to see how they were getting on with their swimming. They had the punt, and the governor stopped it about twenty yards from the shore, to which they had to swim. Bevis dived first, and with some blowing and spluttering and splashing managed to get to where he could bottom with his feet. He could have gone further than that, but it was a new feeling to know that he was out of his depth, and it made him swim too fast and splash. Mark having seen that Bevis could do it, and knowing he could swim as far as Bevis could, did it much better.

The governor was satisfied and said they could now have the blue boat, but on two conditions, first, that they still kept their promise not to go out of their depth, and secondly, that they were to try and see every day how far they could swim along the shore. He guessed they had rather neglected their swimming; having learnt the art itself they had not tried to improve themselves. He said he should come with them once or twice a week, and see them dive from the punt so as to get used to deep water.

If they would practise along the shore in their depth till they could swim from the rocky point to the rails, about seventy yards, he would give them each a present, and they could then go out of their depth. He was obliged to be careful about the depth till they could swim a good way, because he could not be always with them, and fresh water is not so buoyant as the sea, so that young swimmers soon tire.

The same day they carried the mast up, and fitted it in the hole in the thwart. The mast was a little too large, but that was soon remedied. The bowsprit was lashed to the ring to which the painter was fastened, and at its inner end to the seat and mast. Next the gaff was tried, and drew up and down fairly well through the curtain-ring. But one thing they had overlooked—the sheets, or ropes for the jib, must work through something, and they had not provided any staples. Besides this, there was the rudder to be fitted with a tiller instead of the ropes. Somehow they did not like ropes; it did not look like a ship. This instinct was right, for ropes are not of much use when sailing; you have no power on the rudder as with a tiller.

After fitting the mast and bowsprit they unshipped them, and carried them home for safety till the sails were ready. Bevis wanted Mark to go and ask Frances to be quick, but Mark was afraid to return just yet, as Frances would now know from Jack that he had forgotten the letter. Every now and then bundles of sticks for swords, and longer ones for spears and darts, and rods for arrows, were brought in by the soldiery. All these were taken upstairs into the bench-room, or armoury, because they did not like their things looked at or touched, and there was a look and key to that room. Bevis always kept the key in his pocket now.

They could not fit a head to the oyster barrel for the fresh water on the voyage, but found a large round tin canister with a tight lid, such as contain cornflour, and which would go inside the oyster barrel. The tin canister would hold water, and could be put in the barrel, so as to look proper. More sticks kept coming, and knobbed clubs, till the armoury was crowded with the shafts of weapons. Now that Bevis had consented to go to war, all the rest were eager to serve him, so that he easily got a messenger to take a note (as Mark was afraid to go) to Frances to be quick with the stitching.

In the evening Bevis tore another broad folio page or fly-leaf from one of the big books in the parlour, and took it out into the summer-house, where they kept an old chair—the back gone—which did very well for a table. Cutting his pencil, Bevis took his hat off and threw it on the seat which ran round inside; then kneeling down, as the table was so low, he proceeded to draw his map of the coming campaign.

Volume One—Chapter Fourteen.The Council of War.“I say!”“Battleaxes—”“Saint George is right—”“Hold your tongue.”“Pikes twenty feet long.”“Marching two and two.”“Do stop.”“I shall be general.”“That you won’t.”“Romans had shields.”“Battleaxes are best.”“Knobs with spikes.”“I say—I say!”“You’re a donkey!”“They had flags—”“And drums.”“I’ve got a flute.”“I—”“You!”“Yes,me.”“Hi!”“Tom.”“If you hit me, I’ll hit you.”“Now.”“Don’t.”“Be quiet.”“Go on.”“Let’s begin.”“I will,”—buzz—buzz—buzz!Phil, Tom, Ted, Jim, Frank, Walter, Bill, “Charl,” Val, Bob, Cecil, Sam, Fred, George, Harry, Michael, Jack, Andrew, Luke, and half a dozen more were talking all together, shouting across each other, occasionally fighting, wrestling, and rolling over on the sward under an oak. There were two up in the tree, bellowing their views from above, and little Charlie (“Charl”) was astride of a bough which he had got hold of, swinging up and down, and yelling like the rest. Some stood by the edge of the water, for the oak was within a few yards of the New Sea, and alternately made ducks and drakes, and turned to contradict their friends.On higher ground beyond, a herd of cows grazed in perfect peace, while the swallows threaded a maze in and out between them, but just above the grass. The New Sea was calm and smooth as glass, the sun shone in a cloudless sky, so that the shadow of the oak was pleasant; but the swallows had come down from the upper air, and Bevis, as he stood a little apart listening in an abstracted manner to the uproar, watched them swiftly gliding in and out. He had convened a council of all those who wanted to join the war in the fields, because it seemed best to keep the matter secret, which could not be done if they came to the house, else perhaps the battle would be interfered with. This oak was chosen as it was known to every one.It grew alone in the meadow, and far from any path, so that they could talk as they liked. They had hardly met ten minutes when the confusion led to frequent blows and pushes, and the shouting was so great that no one could catch more than disjointed sentences. Mark now came running with the map in his hand; it had been forgotten, and he had been sent to fetch it. As he came near, and they saw him, there was a partial lull.“What an awful row you have been making,” he said, “I heard it all across the field. Why don’t you choose sides?”“Who’s to choose?” said Ted, as if he did not know that he should be one of the leaders. He was the tallest and biggest of them all, a head and shoulders above Bevis.“You, of course,” came in chorus.“And you needn’t look as if you didn’t want to,” shouted somebody, at which there was a laugh.“Now, Bevis, Bevis! Sides.” They crowded round, and pulled Bevis into the circle.“Best two out of three,” said Mark. “Here’s a penny.”“Lend me one,” said Ted.Phil handed him the coin.“You’ll never get it back,” cried one of the crowd. Ted was rather known for borrowing on the score of his superior strength.“Bevis, you’re dreaming,” as Bevis stood quiet and motionless, still in his far-away mood. “Toss.”Bevis tossed, the penny spun, and he caught it on the back of his hand; Mark nudged him.“Cry.”“Head,” said Ted. Mark nudged again; but it was a head. Mark stamped his foot.“Tail,” and it was a tail; Ted won the toss.“I told you how to do it,” whispered Mark to Bevis in a fierce whisper, “and you didn’t.”“Choose,” shouted everybody. Ted beckoned to Val, who came and stood behind him. He was the next biggest, very easy tempered and a favourite, as he would give away anything.“Choose,” shouted everybody again. It was Bevis’s turn, and of course he took Mark. So far it was all understood, but it was now Ted’s turn, and no one knew who he would select. He looked round and called Phil, a stout, short, slow-speaking boy, who had more pocket-money, and was more inclined to books than most of them.“Who shall I have?” said Bevis aside to Mark.“Have Bill,” said Mark. “He’s strong.”Bill was called, and came over. Ted took another—rank and file—and then Bevis, who was waking up, suddenly called “Cecil.”“You stupe,” said Mark. “He can’t fight.”Cecil, a shy, slender lad, came and stood behind his leader.“You’ll lose everybody,” said Mark. “Ted will have all the big ones. There, he’s got Tim. Have Fred; I saw him knock George over once.”Fred came, and the choosing continued, each trying to get the best soldiers, till none were left but little Charlie, who was an odd one.“He’s no good,” said Ted; “you can put him in your pocket.”“I hate you,” said Charlie; “after all the times I’ve run with messages for you. Bevis, let me come your side.”“Take him,” said Ted; “but mind, you’ll have one more if you do, and I shall get some one else.”“Then he’ll get a bigger one,” said Mark. “Don’t have him; he’ll only be in the way.”Charlie began to walk off with his head hanging.“Cry-baby,” shouted the soldiery. “Pipe your eye.”“Come here,” said Bevis; Charlie ran back delighted.“Well, you have done it,” said Mark in a rage. “Now Ted will have another twice as big. What’s the use of my trying when you are so stupid! I never did see. We shall be whopped anyhow.”Quite heedless of these reproaches, Bevis asked Ted who were to be his lieutenants.“I shall have Val and Phil,” said Ted.“And I shall have Mark and Cecil,” said Bevis. “Let us count. How many are there on each side? Mark, write down all ours. Haven’t you a pocket-book? well, do it on the back of the map. Ted, you had better do the same.”“Phil,” said Ted, who was not much of a student, “you put down the names.”Phil, a reader in a slow way, did as he was bidden. There were fifteen on Bevis’s side, and fourteen on Ted’s, who was to choose another to make it even.“There’s the muster-roll,” said Mark, holding up the map.“But how shall we know one another?” said George.“Who’s friends, and who’s enemies,” said Fred.“Else we shall all hit one another anyhow,” said another.“Stick feathers in our hats.”“Ribbons round our arms would be best,” said Cecil. “Hats may be knocked off.”“Ribbons will do first-rate,” said Bevis. “I’ll have blue; Ted, you have red. You can buy heaps of ribbon for nothing.”“Phil,” said Ted, “have you got any money?”“Half-a-crown.”“Lend us, then.”“No, I shan’t,” said Phil: “I’ll buy the ribbons myself.”“Let’s have a skirmish now,” said Bill. “Come on, Val,” and he began to whirl his hands about.“Stop that,” said Bevis. “Ted, there’s a truce, and if you let your fellows fight it’s breaking it. Catch hold of Bill—Mark, Cecil, hold him.”Bill was seized, and hustled round behind the oak, and kept there till he promised to be quiet.“But when are we going to begin?” asked Jack.“Be quick,” said Luke.“War! war!” shouted half a dozen, kicking up their heels.“Hold your noise,” said Ted, cuffing one of his followers. “Can’t you see we’re getting on as fast as we can. Bevis, where are we going to fight?”“In the Plain,” said Bevis. “That’s the best place.”“Plenty of room for a big battle,” said Ted. “O, you’ve got it on the map, I see.”The Plain was the great pasture beside the New Sea, where Bevis and Mark bathed and ran about in the sunshine. It was some seventy or eighty acres in extent, a splendid battle-field.“We’re not going to march,” said Mark, taking something on himself as lieutenant.“We’re not going to march,” said Bevis. “But I did not tell you to say so; I mean we are not going to march the thousand miles, Ted; we will suppose that.”“All right,” said Ted.“But we’re going to have camps,” continued Bevis. “You’re going to have your camp just outside the hedge towards the hills, because you live that side, and you will come that way. Here,”—he showed Ted a circle, drawn on the map to represent a camp,—“that’s yours; and this is ours on this side, towards our house, as we shall come that way.”“The armies will encamp in sight of each other,” said Phil. “That’s quite proper. Go on, Bevis. Shall we send out scouts?”“We shall light fires and have proper camps,” said Bevis.“And bring our great-coats and cloaks, and a hamper of grub,” interrupted Mark, anxious to show that he knew all about it.Bevis frowned, but went on. “And I shall send one of my soldiers to be with you, and you will send one of yours to be with me—”“Whatever for?” said Ted. “That’s a curious thing.”“Well, it’s to know when to begin. When we are all there, we’ll hoist up a flag—a handkerchief will do on a stick—and you will hoist up yours, and then when the war is to begin, you will send back my soldier, and I will send back yours, and they will cross each other as they are running, and when your soldier reaches you, and mine reaches me—”“I see,” said Ted, “I see. Then we are to march out so as to begin quite fair.”“That’s it,” said Bevis. “So as to begin at the same minute, and not one before the other. I have got it all ready, and you need not have sent people to worry me to make haste about the war.”“Well, how was I to know if you never said anything?” said Ted.“And who are we to be?” said Val. “Saxons and Normans, or Crusaders, or King Arthur—”“We’re all to be Romans,” said Bevis.“Then it will be the Civil War,” said Phil, who had read most history.“Of course it will,” said Bevis, “and I am to be Julius Caesar, and Ted is to be Pompey.”“I won’t be Pompey,” said Ted; “Pompey was beat.”“You must,” said Bevis.“I shan’t.”“But youmust.”“I won’t be beaten.”“I shall beat you easily.”“That you won’t,” very warmly.“Indeed I shall,” said Bevis quite composedly, “as I am Caesar I shall beat you very easily.”“Of course we shall,” added Mark.“You won’t; I’ve got the biggest soldiers, and I shall drive you anyhow.”“No, you won’t.”“I’ve got Val and Phil and Tim, and I mean to have Ike, so now—”“There, I told you,” said Mark to Bevis. “He’s got all the biggest, and Ike is a huge big donk of a fellow.”“It’s no use,” said Bevis, not in the least ruffled; “I shall beat you.”“Not you,” said Ted, hot and red in the face. “Why I’ll pitch you in the water first.”“Take you all your time,” said Bevis, shutting his lips tighter and beginning to look a little dangerous. “Shut up,” said Val.“Stop,” said Phil and Bill and George, pressing in.“Hush,” said Cecil. “It’s a truce.”“Well, I won’t be Pompey,” said Ted sullenly. “Then we must have somebody who will,” said Bevis sharply, “and choose again.”“I wouldn’t mind,” said some one in the crowd. “Nor I,” said another.“If I was general I wouldn’t mind being Pompey. Let me, Bevis.”“Who’s that,” said Ted. “If any one says that I’ll smash him.” When he found he could so easily be superseded he surrendered. “Well, I’ll be Pompey,” he said, “but mind I shan’t be beat.”“Pompey ought to win if he can,” said Val; “that’s only fair.”“What’s the use of fighting if we are to be beat?” said Phil.“Of course,” said Bevis, “how very stupid you all are! Of course, Ted is to win if he can; he’s only to be called Pompey to make it proper. I know I shall beat him, but he’s to beat us if he can.”“I’m only to be called Pompey, mind,” said Ted; “mind that. We are to win if we can.”“Of course;” and so this delicate point was settled after very nearly leading to an immediate battle.“Hurrah for Pompey!” shouted George, throwing up his hat.“Hurrah for Caesar!” said Bill, hurling up his. This was the signal for a general shouting and uproar. They had been quiet ten minutes, and were obliged to let off their suppressed energy. There was a wild capering round the oak.“Ted Pompey,” said Charlie, little and impudent, “what fun it will be to see you run away!” For which he had his ears pulled till he squealed.“Now,” shouted Mark, “let’s get it all done. Come on.” The noise subsided somewhat, and they gathered round as Ted and Bevis began to talk again.“Caesar,” said Phil to Bevis, “if you’re Caesar and Ted’s Pompey, who are we? We ought to have names too.”“I’m Mark Antony,” said Mark, standing bolt upright.“Very well,” said Bevis. “Phil, you can be—let me see, Varro.”“All right, I’m Varro,” said Phil; “and who’s Val? Oh, I know,”—running names over in his mind,—“he’s Crassus. Val Crassus, do you hear?”“Capital,” said Crassus. “I’m ready.”“Then there’s Cecil,” said Mark; “who’s he?”“Cecil!” said Phil. “Cecil—Cis—Cis—Scipio, of course.”“First-rate,” said Mark. “Scipio Cecil, that’s your name.”“Write it down on the roll,” said Bevis. The names were duly registered; Pompey’s lieutenants as Val Crassus and Phil Varro, and Caesar’s as Mark Antony and Scipio Cecil. After which there was a great flinging of stones into the water and more shouting.“Let’s see,” said Ted. “If there’s fifteen each side, there will be five soldiers to each, five for captains, and five for lieutenants.”“Cohorts,” said Phil. “A cohort each, hurrah!”“Do be quiet,” said Ted. “How can we go on when you make such a row? Caesar Bevis, are all the swords ready?”“No,” said Bevis. “We must fix the length, and have them all the same.”They got a stick, and after much discussion cut it to a certain length as a standard; Mark took charge of it, and all the swords were to be cut off by it, and none to be any thicker. There were to be cross-pieces nailed or fastened on, but the ends were to be blunt and not sharp.“No sticking,” said Ted. “Only knocking.”“Only knocking and slashing,” said Bevis. “Stabbing won’t do, and arrows won’t do, nor spears.”“Why not?” said Mark, who had been looking forward to darting his javelin at Ted Pompey.“Because eyes will get poked out,” said Bevis, “and there would be a row. If anybody got stuck and killed, there would be an awful row.”“So there would,” said Mark. “How stupid!” Just as if people could not kill one another without so much fuss!“And no hitting at faces,” said Bevis, “else if somebody’s marked there will be a bother.”“No,” said Ted. “Mind, no slashing faces. Knock swords together.”“Knock swords together,” said Bevis. “Make rattling and shout.”“Shout,” said Mark, bellowing his loudest.“How shall we know when we’re killed?” said Cecil.“Well, youarea stupe,” said Val. “Really you are.” They all laughed at Cecil.“But I don’t know,” said Ted Pompey. “You just think, how shall we know who’s beat? Cecil’s not so silly.”“No more he is,” said Mark. “Bevis, how is it to be managed?”“Those who run away are beaten,” said Charlie. “You’ll see Ted run fast enough.” Away he scampered himself to escape punishment.“Of course,” said Bevis. “One way will be if people run away. O! I know, if the camp is taken.”“Or if the captain is taken prisoner,” said Phil; “and tied up with a cord.”“Yes,” continued Bevis. “If the captain is taken prisoner, and if the eagles are captured—”“Eagles,” said Ted Pompey.“Standards,” said Phil. “That’s right: are we to have proper eagles, Caesar Bevis?”“Yes,” said Bevis. “Three brass rings round sticks will do. Two eagles each, don’t you see, Ted, like flags, only eagles, that’s proper.”“Who keeps the ground wins the victory,” said Cecil.“Right,” said Ted. “I shall soon tie up Bevis—we must bring cords.”“You must catch him first,” said Mark.“Captains must be guarded,” said Val. “Strong guards round them and awful fighting there,” licking his lips at the thought of it.“Captain Caesar Bevis,” said Tim, who had not spoken before, but had listened very carefully. “Is there to be any punching?”“Hum!” Bevis hesitated, and looked at Ted.“I think so,” said Ted, who had long arms and hard fists.“If there’s punching,” cried Charlie from the oak, into which he had climbed for safety; “if there’s punching, only the big blokes can play.”“No punching,” said Mark eagerly, not that he feared, being stout and sturdy, but seizing at anything to neutralise Ted’s big soldiers.“No punching,” shouted a dozen at once; “only pushing.”“Very well,” said Bevis, “no punching, and no tripping—pushing and wrestling quite fair.”“Wrestling,” said Ted directly. “That will do.”“Stupid,” said Mark to Bevis; then louder, “Only nice wrestling, no ‘scrumpshing.’”“No ‘scrumpshing,’” shouted everybody.Ted stamped his foot, but it was of no use. Everybody was for fair and pleasant fighting.“Never mind,” said Ted. “We’ll shove you out of the field.”“Yah! yah!” said Charlie, making faces at him.“If anybody does what’s agreed shan’t be done,” said Mark, still anxious to stop Ted’s design; “that will lose the battle, even if it’s won.”“It ought to be all fair,” said Val, who was very big, but straightforward.“If anything’s done unfair, that counts against whoever does it,” said Cecil.“No sneaking business,” shouted everybody. “No sneaking and hitting behind.”“Certainly not,” said Bevis. “All quite fair.”“Somebody must watch Ted, then,” said Charlie from the oak.Ted picked up a piece of dead stick and threw it at him. He dodged it like a squirrel.“If you say such things,” said Bevis, very angry, “you shan’t fight. Do you hear?”“Yes,” said Charlie, penitent. “I won’t any more. But it’s true,” he whispered to Fred under him.“Everything’s ready now, isn’t it?” said Ted.“Yes, I think so,” said Bevis.“You haven’t fixed the day,” said Val.“No, more I have.”“Let’s have it to-day,” said Fred.They caught it up and clamoured to have the battle at once.“The swords are not ready,” said Mark.“Are the eagles ready?” asked Phil.“Two are,” said Mark.“The other two shall be made this afternoon,” said Bevis. “Phil, will you go in to Latten for the blue ribbon for us; here’s three shillings.”“Yes,” said Phil, “I’ll get both at once—blue and red, and bring you the blue.”“To-morrow, then,” said Fred. “Let’s fight to-morrow.”But they found that three of them were going out to-morrow. So, after some more discussion, the battle was fixed for the day after, and it was to begin in the evening, as some of them could not come before. The camps were to be made as soon after six o’clock as possible, and, this agreed to, the council broke up, though it was understood that if anything else occurred to any one, or the captains wished to make any alterations, they were to send despatches by special messengers to each other. The swords and eagles for Ted’s party were to be fetched the evening before, and smuggled out of window when it was dark, that no one might see them.“Hurrah!”So they parted, and the oak was left in silence, with the grass all trampled under it. The cattle fed down towards the water, and the swallows wound in and out around them.

“I say!”

“Battleaxes—”

“Saint George is right—”

“Hold your tongue.”

“Pikes twenty feet long.”

“Marching two and two.”

“Do stop.”

“I shall be general.”

“That you won’t.”

“Romans had shields.”

“Battleaxes are best.”

“Knobs with spikes.”

“I say—I say!”

“You’re a donkey!”

“They had flags—”

“And drums.”

“I’ve got a flute.”

“I—”

“You!”

“Yes,me.”

“Hi!”

“Tom.”

“If you hit me, I’ll hit you.”

“Now.”

“Don’t.”

“Be quiet.”

“Go on.”

“Let’s begin.”

“I will,”—buzz—buzz—buzz!

Phil, Tom, Ted, Jim, Frank, Walter, Bill, “Charl,” Val, Bob, Cecil, Sam, Fred, George, Harry, Michael, Jack, Andrew, Luke, and half a dozen more were talking all together, shouting across each other, occasionally fighting, wrestling, and rolling over on the sward under an oak. There were two up in the tree, bellowing their views from above, and little Charlie (“Charl”) was astride of a bough which he had got hold of, swinging up and down, and yelling like the rest. Some stood by the edge of the water, for the oak was within a few yards of the New Sea, and alternately made ducks and drakes, and turned to contradict their friends.

On higher ground beyond, a herd of cows grazed in perfect peace, while the swallows threaded a maze in and out between them, but just above the grass. The New Sea was calm and smooth as glass, the sun shone in a cloudless sky, so that the shadow of the oak was pleasant; but the swallows had come down from the upper air, and Bevis, as he stood a little apart listening in an abstracted manner to the uproar, watched them swiftly gliding in and out. He had convened a council of all those who wanted to join the war in the fields, because it seemed best to keep the matter secret, which could not be done if they came to the house, else perhaps the battle would be interfered with. This oak was chosen as it was known to every one.

It grew alone in the meadow, and far from any path, so that they could talk as they liked. They had hardly met ten minutes when the confusion led to frequent blows and pushes, and the shouting was so great that no one could catch more than disjointed sentences. Mark now came running with the map in his hand; it had been forgotten, and he had been sent to fetch it. As he came near, and they saw him, there was a partial lull.

“What an awful row you have been making,” he said, “I heard it all across the field. Why don’t you choose sides?”

“Who’s to choose?” said Ted, as if he did not know that he should be one of the leaders. He was the tallest and biggest of them all, a head and shoulders above Bevis.

“You, of course,” came in chorus.

“And you needn’t look as if you didn’t want to,” shouted somebody, at which there was a laugh.

“Now, Bevis, Bevis! Sides.” They crowded round, and pulled Bevis into the circle.

“Best two out of three,” said Mark. “Here’s a penny.”

“Lend me one,” said Ted.

Phil handed him the coin.

“You’ll never get it back,” cried one of the crowd. Ted was rather known for borrowing on the score of his superior strength.

“Bevis, you’re dreaming,” as Bevis stood quiet and motionless, still in his far-away mood. “Toss.”

Bevis tossed, the penny spun, and he caught it on the back of his hand; Mark nudged him.

“Cry.”

“Head,” said Ted. Mark nudged again; but it was a head. Mark stamped his foot.

“Tail,” and it was a tail; Ted won the toss.

“I told you how to do it,” whispered Mark to Bevis in a fierce whisper, “and you didn’t.”

“Choose,” shouted everybody. Ted beckoned to Val, who came and stood behind him. He was the next biggest, very easy tempered and a favourite, as he would give away anything.

“Choose,” shouted everybody again. It was Bevis’s turn, and of course he took Mark. So far it was all understood, but it was now Ted’s turn, and no one knew who he would select. He looked round and called Phil, a stout, short, slow-speaking boy, who had more pocket-money, and was more inclined to books than most of them.

“Who shall I have?” said Bevis aside to Mark.

“Have Bill,” said Mark. “He’s strong.”

Bill was called, and came over. Ted took another—rank and file—and then Bevis, who was waking up, suddenly called “Cecil.”

“You stupe,” said Mark. “He can’t fight.”

Cecil, a shy, slender lad, came and stood behind his leader.

“You’ll lose everybody,” said Mark. “Ted will have all the big ones. There, he’s got Tim. Have Fred; I saw him knock George over once.”

Fred came, and the choosing continued, each trying to get the best soldiers, till none were left but little Charlie, who was an odd one.

“He’s no good,” said Ted; “you can put him in your pocket.”

“I hate you,” said Charlie; “after all the times I’ve run with messages for you. Bevis, let me come your side.”

“Take him,” said Ted; “but mind, you’ll have one more if you do, and I shall get some one else.”

“Then he’ll get a bigger one,” said Mark. “Don’t have him; he’ll only be in the way.”

Charlie began to walk off with his head hanging.

“Cry-baby,” shouted the soldiery. “Pipe your eye.”

“Come here,” said Bevis; Charlie ran back delighted.

“Well, you have done it,” said Mark in a rage. “Now Ted will have another twice as big. What’s the use of my trying when you are so stupid! I never did see. We shall be whopped anyhow.”

Quite heedless of these reproaches, Bevis asked Ted who were to be his lieutenants.

“I shall have Val and Phil,” said Ted.

“And I shall have Mark and Cecil,” said Bevis. “Let us count. How many are there on each side? Mark, write down all ours. Haven’t you a pocket-book? well, do it on the back of the map. Ted, you had better do the same.”

“Phil,” said Ted, who was not much of a student, “you put down the names.”

Phil, a reader in a slow way, did as he was bidden. There were fifteen on Bevis’s side, and fourteen on Ted’s, who was to choose another to make it even.

“There’s the muster-roll,” said Mark, holding up the map.

“But how shall we know one another?” said George.

“Who’s friends, and who’s enemies,” said Fred.

“Else we shall all hit one another anyhow,” said another.

“Stick feathers in our hats.”

“Ribbons round our arms would be best,” said Cecil. “Hats may be knocked off.”

“Ribbons will do first-rate,” said Bevis. “I’ll have blue; Ted, you have red. You can buy heaps of ribbon for nothing.”

“Phil,” said Ted, “have you got any money?”

“Half-a-crown.”

“Lend us, then.”

“No, I shan’t,” said Phil: “I’ll buy the ribbons myself.”

“Let’s have a skirmish now,” said Bill. “Come on, Val,” and he began to whirl his hands about.

“Stop that,” said Bevis. “Ted, there’s a truce, and if you let your fellows fight it’s breaking it. Catch hold of Bill—Mark, Cecil, hold him.”

Bill was seized, and hustled round behind the oak, and kept there till he promised to be quiet.

“But when are we going to begin?” asked Jack.

“Be quick,” said Luke.

“War! war!” shouted half a dozen, kicking up their heels.

“Hold your noise,” said Ted, cuffing one of his followers. “Can’t you see we’re getting on as fast as we can. Bevis, where are we going to fight?”

“In the Plain,” said Bevis. “That’s the best place.”

“Plenty of room for a big battle,” said Ted. “O, you’ve got it on the map, I see.”

The Plain was the great pasture beside the New Sea, where Bevis and Mark bathed and ran about in the sunshine. It was some seventy or eighty acres in extent, a splendid battle-field.

“We’re not going to march,” said Mark, taking something on himself as lieutenant.

“We’re not going to march,” said Bevis. “But I did not tell you to say so; I mean we are not going to march the thousand miles, Ted; we will suppose that.”

“All right,” said Ted.

“But we’re going to have camps,” continued Bevis. “You’re going to have your camp just outside the hedge towards the hills, because you live that side, and you will come that way. Here,”—he showed Ted a circle, drawn on the map to represent a camp,—“that’s yours; and this is ours on this side, towards our house, as we shall come that way.”

“The armies will encamp in sight of each other,” said Phil. “That’s quite proper. Go on, Bevis. Shall we send out scouts?”

“We shall light fires and have proper camps,” said Bevis.

“And bring our great-coats and cloaks, and a hamper of grub,” interrupted Mark, anxious to show that he knew all about it.

Bevis frowned, but went on. “And I shall send one of my soldiers to be with you, and you will send one of yours to be with me—”

“Whatever for?” said Ted. “That’s a curious thing.”

“Well, it’s to know when to begin. When we are all there, we’ll hoist up a flag—a handkerchief will do on a stick—and you will hoist up yours, and then when the war is to begin, you will send back my soldier, and I will send back yours, and they will cross each other as they are running, and when your soldier reaches you, and mine reaches me—”

“I see,” said Ted, “I see. Then we are to march out so as to begin quite fair.”

“That’s it,” said Bevis. “So as to begin at the same minute, and not one before the other. I have got it all ready, and you need not have sent people to worry me to make haste about the war.”

“Well, how was I to know if you never said anything?” said Ted.

“And who are we to be?” said Val. “Saxons and Normans, or Crusaders, or King Arthur—”

“We’re all to be Romans,” said Bevis.

“Then it will be the Civil War,” said Phil, who had read most history.

“Of course it will,” said Bevis, “and I am to be Julius Caesar, and Ted is to be Pompey.”

“I won’t be Pompey,” said Ted; “Pompey was beat.”

“You must,” said Bevis.

“I shan’t.”

“But youmust.”

“I won’t be beaten.”

“I shall beat you easily.”

“That you won’t,” very warmly.

“Indeed I shall,” said Bevis quite composedly, “as I am Caesar I shall beat you very easily.”

“Of course we shall,” added Mark.

“You won’t; I’ve got the biggest soldiers, and I shall drive you anyhow.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I’ve got Val and Phil and Tim, and I mean to have Ike, so now—”

“There, I told you,” said Mark to Bevis. “He’s got all the biggest, and Ike is a huge big donk of a fellow.”

“It’s no use,” said Bevis, not in the least ruffled; “I shall beat you.”

“Not you,” said Ted, hot and red in the face. “Why I’ll pitch you in the water first.”

“Take you all your time,” said Bevis, shutting his lips tighter and beginning to look a little dangerous. “Shut up,” said Val.

“Stop,” said Phil and Bill and George, pressing in.

“Hush,” said Cecil. “It’s a truce.”

“Well, I won’t be Pompey,” said Ted sullenly. “Then we must have somebody who will,” said Bevis sharply, “and choose again.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” said some one in the crowd. “Nor I,” said another.

“If I was general I wouldn’t mind being Pompey. Let me, Bevis.”

“Who’s that,” said Ted. “If any one says that I’ll smash him.” When he found he could so easily be superseded he surrendered. “Well, I’ll be Pompey,” he said, “but mind I shan’t be beat.”

“Pompey ought to win if he can,” said Val; “that’s only fair.”

“What’s the use of fighting if we are to be beat?” said Phil.

“Of course,” said Bevis, “how very stupid you all are! Of course, Ted is to win if he can; he’s only to be called Pompey to make it proper. I know I shall beat him, but he’s to beat us if he can.”

“I’m only to be called Pompey, mind,” said Ted; “mind that. We are to win if we can.”

“Of course;” and so this delicate point was settled after very nearly leading to an immediate battle.

“Hurrah for Pompey!” shouted George, throwing up his hat.

“Hurrah for Caesar!” said Bill, hurling up his. This was the signal for a general shouting and uproar. They had been quiet ten minutes, and were obliged to let off their suppressed energy. There was a wild capering round the oak.

“Ted Pompey,” said Charlie, little and impudent, “what fun it will be to see you run away!” For which he had his ears pulled till he squealed.

“Now,” shouted Mark, “let’s get it all done. Come on.” The noise subsided somewhat, and they gathered round as Ted and Bevis began to talk again.

“Caesar,” said Phil to Bevis, “if you’re Caesar and Ted’s Pompey, who are we? We ought to have names too.”

“I’m Mark Antony,” said Mark, standing bolt upright.

“Very well,” said Bevis. “Phil, you can be—let me see, Varro.”

“All right, I’m Varro,” said Phil; “and who’s Val? Oh, I know,”—running names over in his mind,—“he’s Crassus. Val Crassus, do you hear?”

“Capital,” said Crassus. “I’m ready.”

“Then there’s Cecil,” said Mark; “who’s he?”

“Cecil!” said Phil. “Cecil—Cis—Cis—Scipio, of course.”

“First-rate,” said Mark. “Scipio Cecil, that’s your name.”

“Write it down on the roll,” said Bevis. The names were duly registered; Pompey’s lieutenants as Val Crassus and Phil Varro, and Caesar’s as Mark Antony and Scipio Cecil. After which there was a great flinging of stones into the water and more shouting.

“Let’s see,” said Ted. “If there’s fifteen each side, there will be five soldiers to each, five for captains, and five for lieutenants.”

“Cohorts,” said Phil. “A cohort each, hurrah!”

“Do be quiet,” said Ted. “How can we go on when you make such a row? Caesar Bevis, are all the swords ready?”

“No,” said Bevis. “We must fix the length, and have them all the same.”

They got a stick, and after much discussion cut it to a certain length as a standard; Mark took charge of it, and all the swords were to be cut off by it, and none to be any thicker. There were to be cross-pieces nailed or fastened on, but the ends were to be blunt and not sharp.

“No sticking,” said Ted. “Only knocking.”

“Only knocking and slashing,” said Bevis. “Stabbing won’t do, and arrows won’t do, nor spears.”

“Why not?” said Mark, who had been looking forward to darting his javelin at Ted Pompey.

“Because eyes will get poked out,” said Bevis, “and there would be a row. If anybody got stuck and killed, there would be an awful row.”

“So there would,” said Mark. “How stupid!” Just as if people could not kill one another without so much fuss!

“And no hitting at faces,” said Bevis, “else if somebody’s marked there will be a bother.”

“No,” said Ted. “Mind, no slashing faces. Knock swords together.”

“Knock swords together,” said Bevis. “Make rattling and shout.”

“Shout,” said Mark, bellowing his loudest.

“How shall we know when we’re killed?” said Cecil.

“Well, youarea stupe,” said Val. “Really you are.” They all laughed at Cecil.

“But I don’t know,” said Ted Pompey. “You just think, how shall we know who’s beat? Cecil’s not so silly.”

“No more he is,” said Mark. “Bevis, how is it to be managed?”

“Those who run away are beaten,” said Charlie. “You’ll see Ted run fast enough.” Away he scampered himself to escape punishment.

“Of course,” said Bevis. “One way will be if people run away. O! I know, if the camp is taken.”

“Or if the captain is taken prisoner,” said Phil; “and tied up with a cord.”

“Yes,” continued Bevis. “If the captain is taken prisoner, and if the eagles are captured—”

“Eagles,” said Ted Pompey.

“Standards,” said Phil. “That’s right: are we to have proper eagles, Caesar Bevis?”

“Yes,” said Bevis. “Three brass rings round sticks will do. Two eagles each, don’t you see, Ted, like flags, only eagles, that’s proper.”

“Who keeps the ground wins the victory,” said Cecil.

“Right,” said Ted. “I shall soon tie up Bevis—we must bring cords.”

“You must catch him first,” said Mark.

“Captains must be guarded,” said Val. “Strong guards round them and awful fighting there,” licking his lips at the thought of it.

“Captain Caesar Bevis,” said Tim, who had not spoken before, but had listened very carefully. “Is there to be any punching?”

“Hum!” Bevis hesitated, and looked at Ted.

“I think so,” said Ted, who had long arms and hard fists.

“If there’s punching,” cried Charlie from the oak, into which he had climbed for safety; “if there’s punching, only the big blokes can play.”

“No punching,” said Mark eagerly, not that he feared, being stout and sturdy, but seizing at anything to neutralise Ted’s big soldiers.

“No punching,” shouted a dozen at once; “only pushing.”

“Very well,” said Bevis, “no punching, and no tripping—pushing and wrestling quite fair.”

“Wrestling,” said Ted directly. “That will do.”

“Stupid,” said Mark to Bevis; then louder, “Only nice wrestling, no ‘scrumpshing.’”

“No ‘scrumpshing,’” shouted everybody.

Ted stamped his foot, but it was of no use. Everybody was for fair and pleasant fighting.

“Never mind,” said Ted. “We’ll shove you out of the field.”

“Yah! yah!” said Charlie, making faces at him.

“If anybody does what’s agreed shan’t be done,” said Mark, still anxious to stop Ted’s design; “that will lose the battle, even if it’s won.”

“It ought to be all fair,” said Val, who was very big, but straightforward.

“If anything’s done unfair, that counts against whoever does it,” said Cecil.

“No sneaking business,” shouted everybody. “No sneaking and hitting behind.”

“Certainly not,” said Bevis. “All quite fair.”

“Somebody must watch Ted, then,” said Charlie from the oak.

Ted picked up a piece of dead stick and threw it at him. He dodged it like a squirrel.

“If you say such things,” said Bevis, very angry, “you shan’t fight. Do you hear?”

“Yes,” said Charlie, penitent. “I won’t any more. But it’s true,” he whispered to Fred under him.

“Everything’s ready now, isn’t it?” said Ted.

“Yes, I think so,” said Bevis.

“You haven’t fixed the day,” said Val.

“No, more I have.”

“Let’s have it to-day,” said Fred.

They caught it up and clamoured to have the battle at once.

“The swords are not ready,” said Mark.

“Are the eagles ready?” asked Phil.

“Two are,” said Mark.

“The other two shall be made this afternoon,” said Bevis. “Phil, will you go in to Latten for the blue ribbon for us; here’s three shillings.”

“Yes,” said Phil, “I’ll get both at once—blue and red, and bring you the blue.”

“To-morrow, then,” said Fred. “Let’s fight to-morrow.”

But they found that three of them were going out to-morrow. So, after some more discussion, the battle was fixed for the day after, and it was to begin in the evening, as some of them could not come before. The camps were to be made as soon after six o’clock as possible, and, this agreed to, the council broke up, though it was understood that if anything else occurred to any one, or the captains wished to make any alterations, they were to send despatches by special messengers to each other. The swords and eagles for Ted’s party were to be fetched the evening before, and smuggled out of window when it was dark, that no one might see them.

“Hurrah!”

So they parted, and the oak was left in silence, with the grass all trampled under it. The cattle fed down towards the water, and the swallows wound in and out around them.

Volume One—Chapter Fifteen.The War Begins.As they were walking home Mark reproached Bevis with his folly in letting Ted, who was so tall himself, choose almost all the big soldiers.“It’s no use to hit you, or pinch you, or frown at you, or anything,” grumbled Mark; “you don’t take any more notice than a tree. Now Pompey will beat us hollow.”“If you say any more,” said Bevis, “I will hit you; and it is you who are the donk. I did not want the big ones. I like lightning-quick people, and I’ve got Cecil, who is as quick as anything—”“What’s the use of dreaming like a tree when you ought to have your eyes open; and if you’re like that in the battle—”“I tell you the knights were not the biggest; they very often fought huge people and monsters. And don’t you remember how Ulysses served the giant with one eye?”“I should like to bore a hole through Ted like that,” said Mark. “He’s a brute, and Phil’s as cunning as ever he can be, and you’ve been and lost the battle.”“I tell you I’ve got Cecil, who is as quick as lightning, and all the sharp ones, and if you say any more I won’t speak to you again, and I’ll have some one else for lieutenant.”Mark nodded his head, and growled to himself, but he did not dare go farther. They worked all the afternoon in the bench-room, cutting off the swords to the same length, and fastening on the cross-pieces. They did not talk, Mark was sulky, and Bevis on his dignity. In the evening Phil came with the ribbons.Next morning, while they were making two more eagles for Pompey, Val Crassus came to say he thought they ought to have telescopes, as officers had field-glasses; but Bevis said they were not invented in the time of their war. The day was very warm, still, and cloudless, and, after they had fixed the three brass rings on each long rod for standards, Bevis brought the old grey book of ballads out of the parlour into the orchard. Though he had used it so often he could not find his favourite place quickly, because the pages were not only frayed but some were broader than others, and would not run through the fingers, but adhered together.When he had found “Kyng Estmere,” he and Mark lay down on the grass under the shadow of a damson-tree, and chanted the verses, reading them first, and then singing them. Presently they came to where:—“Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde,And swith he drew his brand;And Estmere he, and Adler yonge,Right stiffe in stour can stand.“And ay their swords soe sore can byte,Through help of gramaryè,That soone they have slayne the Kempery men,Or forst them forth to flee.”These they repeated twenty times, for their minds were full of battle; and Bevis said after they had done the war they would study gramaryè or magic. Just afterwards Cecil came to ask if they ought not to have bugles, as the Romans had trumpets, and Bevis had a bugle somewhere. Bevis thought it was proper, but it was of no use, for nobody could blow the bugle but the old Bailiff, and he could only get one long note from it, so dreadful that you had to put your hands to your ears if you stood near. Cecil also said that in his garden at home there was a bay-tree, and ought they not to have wreaths for the victors? Bevis said that was capital, and Cecil went home with orders from Caesar to get his sisters to make some wreaths of bay for their triumph when they had won the battle.Soon after sunset that evening the Bailiff looked in, and said there was some sheet lightning in the north, and he was going to call back some of the men to put tarpaulins over two or three loaded waggons, as he thought, after so much dry, hot weather, there would be a great storm. The lightning increased very much, and after it grew dusk the flashes lit up the sky. Before sunset the sky had seemed quite cloudless, but now every flash showed innumerable narrow bands of clouds, very thin, behind which the electricity played to and fro.While Bevis and Mark were watching it, Bevis’s governor came out, and looking up said it would not rain and there was no danger; it was a sky-storm, and the lightning was at least a mile high. But the lightning became very fierce and almost incessant, sometimes crooked like a scimitar of flame, some times jagged, sometimes zigzag; and now and then vast acres of violet light, which flooded the ground and showed every tree and leaf and flower, all still and motionless; and after which, though lesser flashes were going on, it seemed for a moment quite dark, so much was the eye overpowered.Bevis and Mark went up into the bench-room, where it was very close and sultry, and sat by the open window with the swords for Pompey bound up in two bundles and the standards, but they were half afraid no one would come for them. Their shadows were perpetually cast upon the white wall opposite as the flashes came and went. The crossbow and lance, the boomerang and knobbed clubs were visible, and all the tools on the bench. Now and then, when the violet flashes came, the lightning seemed to linger in the room, to fill it with a blaze and stop there a moment. In the darkness that followed one of these they heard a voice call “Bevis” underneath the window, and saw Phil and Val Crassus, who had come for the swords. Mark lowered the bundles out of window by a cord, but when they had got them they still stood there.“Why don’t you go?” said Mark.“Lightning,” said Val. “It’s awful.” It really was very powerful. The pears on the wall, and everything however minute stood out more distinctly defined than in daytime.“It’s a mile high,” said Bevis. “It won’t hurt you.”“Ted wouldn’t come,” said Phil. “He’s gone to bed, and covered his head. You don’t know how it looks out in the fields, all by yourself; it’s all very well for you indoors.”“I’ll come with you,” said Bevis directly; up he jumped and went down to them, followed by Mark.“Why wouldn’t Ted come?” said Mark.“He’s afraid,” said Phil, “and so was I till Val said he would come with me. Will lightning come to brass?” The flashes were reflected from the brass rings on the standards.“I tell you it won’t hurt,” said Bevis, quite sure, because his governor had said so. But when they had walked up the field and were quite away from the house and the trees which partly obstructed the view, he was amazed at the spectacle, for all the meadow was lit up; and in the sky the streamers of flame rose in and out and over each other, till you could not tell which flash was which in the confusion of lightning. Bevis became silent and fell into one of his dream states, when, as Mark said, he was like a tree. He was lost—something seemed to take him out of himself. He walked on, and they went with him, till he came to the gate opening on the shore of the New Sea.“O, look!” they all said at once.All the broad, still water, smooth as glass, shone and gleamed, reflecting back the bright light above; and far away they saw the wood (where Bevis and Mark once wandered) as plain as at noontide.“I can’t go home to-night,” said Phil. Val Crassus said he could sleep at his house, which was much nearer; but he, too, hesitated to start.“Itisawful,” said Mark.“It’s nothing,” said Bevis. “I like it.” The continuous crackling of the thunder just then deepened, and a boom came rolling down the level water from the wooded hill. Bevis frowned, and held his lips tight together. He was startled, but he would not show it.“I’ll go with you,” he said; and though Mark pointed out that they would have to come back by themselves, he insisted. They went with Pompey’s lieutenants till Val’s house, lit up by lightning, was in sight; then they returned. As they came into the garden, Bevis said the battle ought to be that night, because it would read so well in the history afterwards. The lightning continued far into the night, and still flashed when sleep overcame them.Next morning Bevis sprang up and ran to the window, afraid it might be wet; but the sun was shining and the wind was blowing tremendously, so that all the willows by the brook looked grey as their leaves were turned, and the great elms by the orchard bowed to the gusts.“It’s dry,” shouted Bevis, dancing.“Hurrah!” said Mark, and they sang,—“Kyng Estmere threwe his harpe asyde,And swith he drew his brand.”This was the day of the great battle, and they were impatient for the evening.There was a letter on the breakfast-table from Bevis’s grandpa, enclosing a P.O.O., a present of a sovereign for him. He asked the governor to advance him the money in two half-sovereigns. The governor did so, and Bevis immediately handed one of them to Mark.About dinner-time there came a special messenger from Pompey with a letter, which was in Pompey’s name, but Phil’s handwriting. “Ted Pompey to Caesar Bevis. Please tell me who you are going to send to be with me in my camp, and let him come to the stile in Barn Copse at half-past five, and I will send Tim to be with you till the white handkerchiefs are up. And tell me if the lieutenants are to carry the eagles, or some one else.”Bevis wrote back:—“Caesar to Pompey greeting,”—this style he copied from his books,—“Caesar will send Charlie to be with you, as he can ran quick, though he is little. The lieutenants are not to carry the eagles, but a soldier for them. And Caesar wishes you health.”Then in the afternoon Mark had to go and tell Cecil and others, who were to send on the message to the rest of their party, to meet Bevis at the gate by the New Sea at half-past five, and to mind and not be one moment later. While Mark was gone, Bevis roamed about the garden and orchard, and back again to the stable and sheds, and then into the rick-yard, which was strewn with twigs and branches torn off from the elms that creaked as the gale struck them; then indoors, and from room to room. He could not rest anywhere, he was so impatient.At last he picked up the little book of the Odyssey, with its broken binding and frayed margin, from the chair where he had last loft it; and taking it up into the bench-room, opened it at the twenty-second book, where his favourite hero wreaked his vengeance on the suitors. With his own bow in his right hand, and the book in his left, Bevis read, marching up and down the room, stamping and shouting aloud as he came to the passages he liked best:—“Swift as the word, the parting arrow sings,And bears thy fate, Antinous, on its wings!* * * *“For fate who fear’d amidst a feastful band?And fate to numbers by a single hand?* * * *“Two hundred oxen every prince shall pay;The waste of years refunded in a day.Till then thy wrath is just,—Ulysses burn’dWith high disdain, and sternly thus return’d.* * * *“Soon as his store of flying fates was spent,Against the wall he set the bow unbent;And now his shoulders bear the massy shield,And now his hands two beamy javelins wield.”Bevis had dropped his bow and seized one of Mark’s spears, not hearing, as he stamped and shouted, Mark coming up the stairs. Mark snatched up one of the swords, and as Bevis turned they rattled their weapons together, and shouted in their fierce joy. When satisfied they stopped, and Mark said he had come by the New Sea, and the waves were the biggest he had ever seen there, the wind was so furious.They had their tea, or rather they sat at table, and rushed off as soon as possible; who cared for eating when war was about to begin! Seizing an opportunity, as the coast was clear, Mark ran up the field with the eagles, which, having long handles, were difficult to hide. Cecil and Bill took the greatcoat, and a railway-rug, which Bevis meant to represent his general’s cloak. He followed with the basket of provisions on his shoulder, and was just thinking how lucky they were to get off without any inquiries, when he found they had forgotten the matches to light the camp-fire. He came back, took a box, and was going out again when he met Polly the dairymaid.“What are you doing now?” said she. “Don’t spoil that basket with your tricks—we use it. What’s in it?” putting her hand on the lid.“Only bread-and-butter and ham, and summer apples. It’s a picnic.”“A picnic. What’s that ribbon for?” Bevis wore the blue ribbon round his arm.“O! that’s nothing.”“I’ve half a mind to tell—I don’t believe you’re up to anything good.”“Pooh! don’t be a donk,” said Bevis. “I’ll give you a long piece of this ribbon when I come back.”Off he went, having bribed Scylla, but he met Charybdis in the gateway, where he came plump on the Bailiff.“What’s up now?” he gruffly inquired.“Picnic.”“Mind you don’t go bathing; the waves be as big as cows.”“Bathing,” said Bevis, with intense contempt. “We don’t bathe in the evening. Here, you—” donk, he was going to say, but forebore; he gave the Bailiff a summer apple, and went on. The Bailiff bit the apple, muttered to himself about “mischief,” and walked towards the rick-yard. In a minute Mark came to meet Bevis.“You did him?” he said.“Yes,” said Bevis, “and Polly too.”“Hurrah!” shouted Mark. “They’re all there but one, and he’s coming in five minutes.”Bevis found his army assembled by the gate leading to the New Sea. Each soldier wore a blue ribbon round the left arm for distinction; Tim, who had been sent by Pompey to be with them till all was ready, wore a red one.“Two and two,” said Caesar Bevis, taking his sword and instantly assuming a general’s authoritative tone. He marshalled them in double file, one eagle in front, one halfway down, where his second lieutenant, Scipio Cecil, stood; the basket carried in the rear as baggage. Caesar and Mark Antony stood in front side by side.“March,” said Bevis, starting, and they followed him.The route was beside the shore, and so soon as they left the shelter of the trees the wind seemed to hit them a furious blow, which pushed them out of order for a moment. The farther they went the harder the wind blow, and flecks of brown foam, like yeast, came up and caught against them. Rolling in the same direction as they were marching, the waves at each undulation increased in size, and when they came to the bluff Bevis walked slowly a minute, to look at the dark hollows and the ridges from whose crests the foam was driven.But here leaving the shore he led the army, with their brazen eagles gleaming in the sun, up the slope of the meadow where the solitary oak stood, and so beside the hedge-row till they reached the higher ground. The Plain, the chosen battle-field, was on the other side of the hedge, and it had been arranged that the camps should be pitched just without the actual campaigning-ground. On this elevated place the gale came along with even greater fury; and Mark Antony said that they would never be able to light a camp-fire that side, they must get through and into shelter.“I shall do as I said,” shouted Bevis, scarcely audible, for the wind blew the words down his throat. But he kept on till he found a hawthorn bush, with brambles about the base, a detached thicket two or three yards from the hedge, and near which there was a gap. He stopped, and ordered the standard-bearer behind him to pitch the eagle there. The army halted, the eagles were pitched by thrusting the other end of the rods into the sward, the cloaks, coats, and rug thrown together in a heap, and the soldiers set to work to gather sticks for the fire. Of these they found plenty in the hedge, and piled them up in the shelter of the detached thicket.Bevis, Mark Antony, and Scipio Cecil went through the gap to reconnoitre the enemy. They immediately saw the smoke of his camp-fire rising on the other side of the Plain, close to a gateway. The smoke only rose a little above the hedge there—the fire was on the other side—and was then blown away by the wind. None of Pompey’s forces were visible.“Ted, I mean Pompey, was here first,” said Mark Antony. “He’ll be ready before us.”“Be quick with the fire,” shouted Caesar.“Look,” said Scipio Cecil. “There’s the punt.”Behind the stony promontory at the quarry they could see the punt from the high ground where they stood; it was partly drawn ashore just inside Fir-Tree Gulf, so that the projecting point protected it like a breakwater. The old man (the watcher) had started for the quarry to get a load of sand as usual, never thinking, as how should he think? that the gale was so furious. But he found himself driven along anyhow, and unable to row back; all he could do was to steer and struggle into the gulf, and so behind the Point, where he beached his unwieldy vessel. Too much shaken to dig sand that day, and knowing that he could not row back, he hid his spade and the oars, and made for home on foot. But the journey by land was more dangerous than that by sea, for he insensibly wandered into the high road, and came to an anchor in the first inn, where, relating his adventures on the deep with the assistance of ardent liquor, he remained.Bevis, who had gone to light the fire with the matches in his pocket, now returned through the gap, and asked if anything had been seen of Pompey’s men. As he spoke a Pompeian appeared, and mounting the spars of the distant gate displayed a standard, to which was attached a white handkerchief, which fluttered in the breeze.“They’re ready,” said Mark Antony. “Come on. Which way shall we march? Which way are you going?”The smoke of Caesar’s fire rose over the hedge, and swept down by the gale trailed along the ground towards Pompey’s. Bevis hastened back to the camp, and tied his handkerchief to the top of an eagle, Mark followed. “Which way are you going?” he repeated. “Where shall we meet them? What are you going to do?”“I don’t know,” said Caesar, angrily pushing him. “Get away.”“There,” growled Mark Antony to Scipio, “he doesn’t know what he’s going to do, and Phil is as cunning as—”The standard-bearer sent by Caesar pushed by him, got through the gap, and held up the white flag, waving it to attract more attention. In half a minute, Pompey’s flag was hauled down, and directly afterwards some one climbed over the gate and set out running towards them. It was Charlie. “Run, Tim,” said Caesar Bevis; “we’re ready.” Tim dashed through the gap, and set off with all his might.“Two and two,” shouted Caesar. “Stand still, will you?” as they moved towards the opening. “Take down that flag.”The eagle-bearer resumed his place behind him. Caesar signing to the legions to remain where they were, went forward and stood on the mound. He watched the runners and saw them pass each other nearly about the middle of the great field, for though little, Charlie was swift of foot, and full of the energy which is more effective than size.“Let’s go.”“Now then.”“Start.”The legions were impatient and stamped their feet, but Caesar would not move. In a minute or two Charlie reached him, red and panting with running.“Now,” shouted Bevis, “march!” and he leaped into the field; Charlie came next for he would not wait to take his place in the ranks. The legions rushed through anyhow, eager to begin the fray.“Two and two,” shouted Caesar, who would have no disorder.“Two and two,” repeated his first lieutenant, Mark Antony.“Two and two,” said Scipio Cecil, punching his men into place.On they went, with Caesar leading, straight across the wind-swept plain for Pompey’s camp. The black swifts flew about them, but just clearing the grass, and passing so close as to seem almost under foot. There were hundreds of them, they come down from the upper air, and congregate in a great gale; they glided over the field in endless turns and windings. Steadily marching, the army had now advanced a third part of the way across the field.“Where’s Pompey?” said Scipio Cecil.“Where shall we meet and fight?” said Mark Antony.“Silence,” shouted Bevis, “or I’ll degrade you from your rank, and you shan’t be officers.”They were silent, but every one was looking for Pompey and thinking just the same. There was the gate in full view now, and the smoke of Pompey’s camp, but none of the enemy were visible. Bevis was thinking and trying to make out whether Pompey was waiting by his camp, or whether he had gone round behind the hedge, and if so, which way, to the right towards the quarry, or to the left towards the copse, but he could not decide, having nothing to guide him.But though uncertain in his own mind, he was general enough not to let the army suppose him in doubt. He strode on in silence, but keeping the sharpest watch, till they came to the waggon track, crossing the field from left to right. It had worn a gully or hollow way leading down to the right to the hazel hedge, where there was a gate. They came to the edge of the hollow way, where there were three thick hawthorn bushes and two small ash-trees.“Halt!” said Caesar Bevis, as the bushes partly concealed them from view. “Stay here. Let no one move.”Bevis himself went round the trees and looked again, but he could see nothing: Pompey and his army were nowhere in sight. He could not tell what to do, and returned slowly, thinking, when looking down the hollow way an idea struck him.“Scipio, take your men,”—(“Cohort,” said Antony)—“take your cohort, jump into the road, and go down to the gate there. Keep out of sight—stoop: slip through the gate, and go up inside the hedge, dart round the corner and seize Ted’s camp. Quick! And mind, if they’re all there, of course you’re not to fight, but come back. Now—quick.”Scipio Cecil jumped into the hollow way followed by his five soldiers, and stooping so as to be hidden by the bank, ran towards the gate in the hazel hedge. They watched him till the cohort had got through the gate.“Now what shall we do?” said Mark Antony.“How can I tell what to do when Pompey isn’t anywhere?” said Bevis, in a rage.“Put me up a tree,” said Charlie, “perhaps I could see.”“You’ve no business to speak,” said Bevis; but he used the idea, and told two of them to “bunt” (shove) Charlie up one of the ash-trees till he could grasp a branch. Then Charlie, agile as a squirrel, was up in a minute.“There’s no one in their camp,” he shouted down. “Cecil’s rushing on it. Pompey, O! I can see him.”“Where?”“There by the copse,” pointing to the left and partly behind them.“Which way is he going?” asked Bevis.“That way,”—to the left.“Our camp,” said Mark.“That’s it,” said Bevis. “Come down, quick. Turn to the left,” (to the army). “No, stop. Charlie, how many are there with Pompey?”“Six, ten—oh, I can’t count: I believe it’s all. I can’t see any anywhere else.”“Quick!” shouted Bevis, turning his legions to the left. “Quick march! Run!”

As they were walking home Mark reproached Bevis with his folly in letting Ted, who was so tall himself, choose almost all the big soldiers.

“It’s no use to hit you, or pinch you, or frown at you, or anything,” grumbled Mark; “you don’t take any more notice than a tree. Now Pompey will beat us hollow.”

“If you say any more,” said Bevis, “I will hit you; and it is you who are the donk. I did not want the big ones. I like lightning-quick people, and I’ve got Cecil, who is as quick as anything—”

“What’s the use of dreaming like a tree when you ought to have your eyes open; and if you’re like that in the battle—”

“I tell you the knights were not the biggest; they very often fought huge people and monsters. And don’t you remember how Ulysses served the giant with one eye?”

“I should like to bore a hole through Ted like that,” said Mark. “He’s a brute, and Phil’s as cunning as ever he can be, and you’ve been and lost the battle.”

“I tell you I’ve got Cecil, who is as quick as lightning, and all the sharp ones, and if you say any more I won’t speak to you again, and I’ll have some one else for lieutenant.”

Mark nodded his head, and growled to himself, but he did not dare go farther. They worked all the afternoon in the bench-room, cutting off the swords to the same length, and fastening on the cross-pieces. They did not talk, Mark was sulky, and Bevis on his dignity. In the evening Phil came with the ribbons.

Next morning, while they were making two more eagles for Pompey, Val Crassus came to say he thought they ought to have telescopes, as officers had field-glasses; but Bevis said they were not invented in the time of their war. The day was very warm, still, and cloudless, and, after they had fixed the three brass rings on each long rod for standards, Bevis brought the old grey book of ballads out of the parlour into the orchard. Though he had used it so often he could not find his favourite place quickly, because the pages were not only frayed but some were broader than others, and would not run through the fingers, but adhered together.

When he had found “Kyng Estmere,” he and Mark lay down on the grass under the shadow of a damson-tree, and chanted the verses, reading them first, and then singing them. Presently they came to where:—

“Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde,And swith he drew his brand;And Estmere he, and Adler yonge,Right stiffe in stour can stand.“And ay their swords soe sore can byte,Through help of gramaryè,That soone they have slayne the Kempery men,Or forst them forth to flee.”

“Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde,And swith he drew his brand;And Estmere he, and Adler yonge,Right stiffe in stour can stand.“And ay their swords soe sore can byte,Through help of gramaryè,That soone they have slayne the Kempery men,Or forst them forth to flee.”

These they repeated twenty times, for their minds were full of battle; and Bevis said after they had done the war they would study gramaryè or magic. Just afterwards Cecil came to ask if they ought not to have bugles, as the Romans had trumpets, and Bevis had a bugle somewhere. Bevis thought it was proper, but it was of no use, for nobody could blow the bugle but the old Bailiff, and he could only get one long note from it, so dreadful that you had to put your hands to your ears if you stood near. Cecil also said that in his garden at home there was a bay-tree, and ought they not to have wreaths for the victors? Bevis said that was capital, and Cecil went home with orders from Caesar to get his sisters to make some wreaths of bay for their triumph when they had won the battle.

Soon after sunset that evening the Bailiff looked in, and said there was some sheet lightning in the north, and he was going to call back some of the men to put tarpaulins over two or three loaded waggons, as he thought, after so much dry, hot weather, there would be a great storm. The lightning increased very much, and after it grew dusk the flashes lit up the sky. Before sunset the sky had seemed quite cloudless, but now every flash showed innumerable narrow bands of clouds, very thin, behind which the electricity played to and fro.

While Bevis and Mark were watching it, Bevis’s governor came out, and looking up said it would not rain and there was no danger; it was a sky-storm, and the lightning was at least a mile high. But the lightning became very fierce and almost incessant, sometimes crooked like a scimitar of flame, some times jagged, sometimes zigzag; and now and then vast acres of violet light, which flooded the ground and showed every tree and leaf and flower, all still and motionless; and after which, though lesser flashes were going on, it seemed for a moment quite dark, so much was the eye overpowered.

Bevis and Mark went up into the bench-room, where it was very close and sultry, and sat by the open window with the swords for Pompey bound up in two bundles and the standards, but they were half afraid no one would come for them. Their shadows were perpetually cast upon the white wall opposite as the flashes came and went. The crossbow and lance, the boomerang and knobbed clubs were visible, and all the tools on the bench. Now and then, when the violet flashes came, the lightning seemed to linger in the room, to fill it with a blaze and stop there a moment. In the darkness that followed one of these they heard a voice call “Bevis” underneath the window, and saw Phil and Val Crassus, who had come for the swords. Mark lowered the bundles out of window by a cord, but when they had got them they still stood there.

“Why don’t you go?” said Mark.

“Lightning,” said Val. “It’s awful.” It really was very powerful. The pears on the wall, and everything however minute stood out more distinctly defined than in daytime.

“It’s a mile high,” said Bevis. “It won’t hurt you.”

“Ted wouldn’t come,” said Phil. “He’s gone to bed, and covered his head. You don’t know how it looks out in the fields, all by yourself; it’s all very well for you indoors.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Bevis directly; up he jumped and went down to them, followed by Mark.

“Why wouldn’t Ted come?” said Mark.

“He’s afraid,” said Phil, “and so was I till Val said he would come with me. Will lightning come to brass?” The flashes were reflected from the brass rings on the standards.

“I tell you it won’t hurt,” said Bevis, quite sure, because his governor had said so. But when they had walked up the field and were quite away from the house and the trees which partly obstructed the view, he was amazed at the spectacle, for all the meadow was lit up; and in the sky the streamers of flame rose in and out and over each other, till you could not tell which flash was which in the confusion of lightning. Bevis became silent and fell into one of his dream states, when, as Mark said, he was like a tree. He was lost—something seemed to take him out of himself. He walked on, and they went with him, till he came to the gate opening on the shore of the New Sea.

“O, look!” they all said at once.

All the broad, still water, smooth as glass, shone and gleamed, reflecting back the bright light above; and far away they saw the wood (where Bevis and Mark once wandered) as plain as at noontide.

“I can’t go home to-night,” said Phil. Val Crassus said he could sleep at his house, which was much nearer; but he, too, hesitated to start.

“Itisawful,” said Mark.

“It’s nothing,” said Bevis. “I like it.” The continuous crackling of the thunder just then deepened, and a boom came rolling down the level water from the wooded hill. Bevis frowned, and held his lips tight together. He was startled, but he would not show it.

“I’ll go with you,” he said; and though Mark pointed out that they would have to come back by themselves, he insisted. They went with Pompey’s lieutenants till Val’s house, lit up by lightning, was in sight; then they returned. As they came into the garden, Bevis said the battle ought to be that night, because it would read so well in the history afterwards. The lightning continued far into the night, and still flashed when sleep overcame them.

Next morning Bevis sprang up and ran to the window, afraid it might be wet; but the sun was shining and the wind was blowing tremendously, so that all the willows by the brook looked grey as their leaves were turned, and the great elms by the orchard bowed to the gusts.

“It’s dry,” shouted Bevis, dancing.

“Hurrah!” said Mark, and they sang,—

“Kyng Estmere threwe his harpe asyde,And swith he drew his brand.”

“Kyng Estmere threwe his harpe asyde,And swith he drew his brand.”

This was the day of the great battle, and they were impatient for the evening.

There was a letter on the breakfast-table from Bevis’s grandpa, enclosing a P.O.O., a present of a sovereign for him. He asked the governor to advance him the money in two half-sovereigns. The governor did so, and Bevis immediately handed one of them to Mark.

About dinner-time there came a special messenger from Pompey with a letter, which was in Pompey’s name, but Phil’s handwriting. “Ted Pompey to Caesar Bevis. Please tell me who you are going to send to be with me in my camp, and let him come to the stile in Barn Copse at half-past five, and I will send Tim to be with you till the white handkerchiefs are up. And tell me if the lieutenants are to carry the eagles, or some one else.”

Bevis wrote back:—“Caesar to Pompey greeting,”—this style he copied from his books,—“Caesar will send Charlie to be with you, as he can ran quick, though he is little. The lieutenants are not to carry the eagles, but a soldier for them. And Caesar wishes you health.”

Then in the afternoon Mark had to go and tell Cecil and others, who were to send on the message to the rest of their party, to meet Bevis at the gate by the New Sea at half-past five, and to mind and not be one moment later. While Mark was gone, Bevis roamed about the garden and orchard, and back again to the stable and sheds, and then into the rick-yard, which was strewn with twigs and branches torn off from the elms that creaked as the gale struck them; then indoors, and from room to room. He could not rest anywhere, he was so impatient.

At last he picked up the little book of the Odyssey, with its broken binding and frayed margin, from the chair where he had last loft it; and taking it up into the bench-room, opened it at the twenty-second book, where his favourite hero wreaked his vengeance on the suitors. With his own bow in his right hand, and the book in his left, Bevis read, marching up and down the room, stamping and shouting aloud as he came to the passages he liked best:—

“Swift as the word, the parting arrow sings,And bears thy fate, Antinous, on its wings!* * * *“For fate who fear’d amidst a feastful band?And fate to numbers by a single hand?* * * *“Two hundred oxen every prince shall pay;The waste of years refunded in a day.Till then thy wrath is just,—Ulysses burn’dWith high disdain, and sternly thus return’d.* * * *“Soon as his store of flying fates was spent,Against the wall he set the bow unbent;And now his shoulders bear the massy shield,And now his hands two beamy javelins wield.”

“Swift as the word, the parting arrow sings,And bears thy fate, Antinous, on its wings!* * * *“For fate who fear’d amidst a feastful band?And fate to numbers by a single hand?* * * *“Two hundred oxen every prince shall pay;The waste of years refunded in a day.Till then thy wrath is just,—Ulysses burn’dWith high disdain, and sternly thus return’d.* * * *“Soon as his store of flying fates was spent,Against the wall he set the bow unbent;And now his shoulders bear the massy shield,And now his hands two beamy javelins wield.”

Bevis had dropped his bow and seized one of Mark’s spears, not hearing, as he stamped and shouted, Mark coming up the stairs. Mark snatched up one of the swords, and as Bevis turned they rattled their weapons together, and shouted in their fierce joy. When satisfied they stopped, and Mark said he had come by the New Sea, and the waves were the biggest he had ever seen there, the wind was so furious.

They had their tea, or rather they sat at table, and rushed off as soon as possible; who cared for eating when war was about to begin! Seizing an opportunity, as the coast was clear, Mark ran up the field with the eagles, which, having long handles, were difficult to hide. Cecil and Bill took the greatcoat, and a railway-rug, which Bevis meant to represent his general’s cloak. He followed with the basket of provisions on his shoulder, and was just thinking how lucky they were to get off without any inquiries, when he found they had forgotten the matches to light the camp-fire. He came back, took a box, and was going out again when he met Polly the dairymaid.

“What are you doing now?” said she. “Don’t spoil that basket with your tricks—we use it. What’s in it?” putting her hand on the lid.

“Only bread-and-butter and ham, and summer apples. It’s a picnic.”

“A picnic. What’s that ribbon for?” Bevis wore the blue ribbon round his arm.

“O! that’s nothing.”

“I’ve half a mind to tell—I don’t believe you’re up to anything good.”

“Pooh! don’t be a donk,” said Bevis. “I’ll give you a long piece of this ribbon when I come back.”

Off he went, having bribed Scylla, but he met Charybdis in the gateway, where he came plump on the Bailiff.

“What’s up now?” he gruffly inquired.

“Picnic.”

“Mind you don’t go bathing; the waves be as big as cows.”

“Bathing,” said Bevis, with intense contempt. “We don’t bathe in the evening. Here, you—” donk, he was going to say, but forebore; he gave the Bailiff a summer apple, and went on. The Bailiff bit the apple, muttered to himself about “mischief,” and walked towards the rick-yard. In a minute Mark came to meet Bevis.

“You did him?” he said.

“Yes,” said Bevis, “and Polly too.”

“Hurrah!” shouted Mark. “They’re all there but one, and he’s coming in five minutes.”

Bevis found his army assembled by the gate leading to the New Sea. Each soldier wore a blue ribbon round the left arm for distinction; Tim, who had been sent by Pompey to be with them till all was ready, wore a red one.

“Two and two,” said Caesar Bevis, taking his sword and instantly assuming a general’s authoritative tone. He marshalled them in double file, one eagle in front, one halfway down, where his second lieutenant, Scipio Cecil, stood; the basket carried in the rear as baggage. Caesar and Mark Antony stood in front side by side.

“March,” said Bevis, starting, and they followed him.

The route was beside the shore, and so soon as they left the shelter of the trees the wind seemed to hit them a furious blow, which pushed them out of order for a moment. The farther they went the harder the wind blow, and flecks of brown foam, like yeast, came up and caught against them. Rolling in the same direction as they were marching, the waves at each undulation increased in size, and when they came to the bluff Bevis walked slowly a minute, to look at the dark hollows and the ridges from whose crests the foam was driven.

But here leaving the shore he led the army, with their brazen eagles gleaming in the sun, up the slope of the meadow where the solitary oak stood, and so beside the hedge-row till they reached the higher ground. The Plain, the chosen battle-field, was on the other side of the hedge, and it had been arranged that the camps should be pitched just without the actual campaigning-ground. On this elevated place the gale came along with even greater fury; and Mark Antony said that they would never be able to light a camp-fire that side, they must get through and into shelter.

“I shall do as I said,” shouted Bevis, scarcely audible, for the wind blew the words down his throat. But he kept on till he found a hawthorn bush, with brambles about the base, a detached thicket two or three yards from the hedge, and near which there was a gap. He stopped, and ordered the standard-bearer behind him to pitch the eagle there. The army halted, the eagles were pitched by thrusting the other end of the rods into the sward, the cloaks, coats, and rug thrown together in a heap, and the soldiers set to work to gather sticks for the fire. Of these they found plenty in the hedge, and piled them up in the shelter of the detached thicket.

Bevis, Mark Antony, and Scipio Cecil went through the gap to reconnoitre the enemy. They immediately saw the smoke of his camp-fire rising on the other side of the Plain, close to a gateway. The smoke only rose a little above the hedge there—the fire was on the other side—and was then blown away by the wind. None of Pompey’s forces were visible.

“Ted, I mean Pompey, was here first,” said Mark Antony. “He’ll be ready before us.”

“Be quick with the fire,” shouted Caesar.

“Look,” said Scipio Cecil. “There’s the punt.”

Behind the stony promontory at the quarry they could see the punt from the high ground where they stood; it was partly drawn ashore just inside Fir-Tree Gulf, so that the projecting point protected it like a breakwater. The old man (the watcher) had started for the quarry to get a load of sand as usual, never thinking, as how should he think? that the gale was so furious. But he found himself driven along anyhow, and unable to row back; all he could do was to steer and struggle into the gulf, and so behind the Point, where he beached his unwieldy vessel. Too much shaken to dig sand that day, and knowing that he could not row back, he hid his spade and the oars, and made for home on foot. But the journey by land was more dangerous than that by sea, for he insensibly wandered into the high road, and came to an anchor in the first inn, where, relating his adventures on the deep with the assistance of ardent liquor, he remained.

Bevis, who had gone to light the fire with the matches in his pocket, now returned through the gap, and asked if anything had been seen of Pompey’s men. As he spoke a Pompeian appeared, and mounting the spars of the distant gate displayed a standard, to which was attached a white handkerchief, which fluttered in the breeze.

“They’re ready,” said Mark Antony. “Come on. Which way shall we march? Which way are you going?”

The smoke of Caesar’s fire rose over the hedge, and swept down by the gale trailed along the ground towards Pompey’s. Bevis hastened back to the camp, and tied his handkerchief to the top of an eagle, Mark followed. “Which way are you going?” he repeated. “Where shall we meet them? What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” said Caesar, angrily pushing him. “Get away.”

“There,” growled Mark Antony to Scipio, “he doesn’t know what he’s going to do, and Phil is as cunning as—”

The standard-bearer sent by Caesar pushed by him, got through the gap, and held up the white flag, waving it to attract more attention. In half a minute, Pompey’s flag was hauled down, and directly afterwards some one climbed over the gate and set out running towards them. It was Charlie. “Run, Tim,” said Caesar Bevis; “we’re ready.” Tim dashed through the gap, and set off with all his might.

“Two and two,” shouted Caesar. “Stand still, will you?” as they moved towards the opening. “Take down that flag.”

The eagle-bearer resumed his place behind him. Caesar signing to the legions to remain where they were, went forward and stood on the mound. He watched the runners and saw them pass each other nearly about the middle of the great field, for though little, Charlie was swift of foot, and full of the energy which is more effective than size.

“Let’s go.”

“Now then.”

“Start.”

The legions were impatient and stamped their feet, but Caesar would not move. In a minute or two Charlie reached him, red and panting with running.

“Now,” shouted Bevis, “march!” and he leaped into the field; Charlie came next for he would not wait to take his place in the ranks. The legions rushed through anyhow, eager to begin the fray.

“Two and two,” shouted Caesar, who would have no disorder.

“Two and two,” repeated his first lieutenant, Mark Antony.

“Two and two,” said Scipio Cecil, punching his men into place.

On they went, with Caesar leading, straight across the wind-swept plain for Pompey’s camp. The black swifts flew about them, but just clearing the grass, and passing so close as to seem almost under foot. There were hundreds of them, they come down from the upper air, and congregate in a great gale; they glided over the field in endless turns and windings. Steadily marching, the army had now advanced a third part of the way across the field.

“Where’s Pompey?” said Scipio Cecil.

“Where shall we meet and fight?” said Mark Antony.

“Silence,” shouted Bevis, “or I’ll degrade you from your rank, and you shan’t be officers.”

They were silent, but every one was looking for Pompey and thinking just the same. There was the gate in full view now, and the smoke of Pompey’s camp, but none of the enemy were visible. Bevis was thinking and trying to make out whether Pompey was waiting by his camp, or whether he had gone round behind the hedge, and if so, which way, to the right towards the quarry, or to the left towards the copse, but he could not decide, having nothing to guide him.

But though uncertain in his own mind, he was general enough not to let the army suppose him in doubt. He strode on in silence, but keeping the sharpest watch, till they came to the waggon track, crossing the field from left to right. It had worn a gully or hollow way leading down to the right to the hazel hedge, where there was a gate. They came to the edge of the hollow way, where there were three thick hawthorn bushes and two small ash-trees.

“Halt!” said Caesar Bevis, as the bushes partly concealed them from view. “Stay here. Let no one move.”

Bevis himself went round the trees and looked again, but he could see nothing: Pompey and his army were nowhere in sight. He could not tell what to do, and returned slowly, thinking, when looking down the hollow way an idea struck him.

“Scipio, take your men,”—(“Cohort,” said Antony)—“take your cohort, jump into the road, and go down to the gate there. Keep out of sight—stoop: slip through the gate, and go up inside the hedge, dart round the corner and seize Ted’s camp. Quick! And mind, if they’re all there, of course you’re not to fight, but come back. Now—quick.”

Scipio Cecil jumped into the hollow way followed by his five soldiers, and stooping so as to be hidden by the bank, ran towards the gate in the hazel hedge. They watched him till the cohort had got through the gate.

“Now what shall we do?” said Mark Antony.

“How can I tell what to do when Pompey isn’t anywhere?” said Bevis, in a rage.

“Put me up a tree,” said Charlie, “perhaps I could see.”

“You’ve no business to speak,” said Bevis; but he used the idea, and told two of them to “bunt” (shove) Charlie up one of the ash-trees till he could grasp a branch. Then Charlie, agile as a squirrel, was up in a minute.

“There’s no one in their camp,” he shouted down. “Cecil’s rushing on it. Pompey, O! I can see him.”

“Where?”

“There by the copse,” pointing to the left and partly behind them.

“Which way is he going?” asked Bevis.

“That way,”—to the left.

“Our camp,” said Mark.

“That’s it,” said Bevis. “Come down, quick. Turn to the left,” (to the army). “No, stop. Charlie, how many are there with Pompey?”

“Six, ten—oh, I can’t count: I believe it’s all. I can’t see any anywhere else.”

“Quick!” shouted Bevis, turning his legions to the left. “Quick march! Run!”

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