Chapter Twelve.Real War.It was all one blur of mystery to Marcus as he tramped through the forest, following the slightly beaten road. Time seemed to be no more, and distance not to count. Everything was dreamy and strange, over-ruled by the one great thought that he was going to reach his father somewhere, somehow, in the future, when he would reprove him bitterly and forgive him, but he would never turn him back; and, governed by these thoughts, he went on, almost unconscious of everything else.The way was sometimes desolate, sometimes grand, with mountain and forest, over which and through which the roughly beaten track always led, for it was not one of the carefully constructed military roads that his great people afterwards formed through the length and breadth of their land.The rocks amongst the mountains afforded resting places; beneath the grand trees of the forest there was mossy carpet, upon which he slept; there were trickling rills and natural basins where crystal water gave him drink, or places where he could bathe his hot and tired feet, while now and again he came upon the rude hut of some goat-herd or Pagan who, for a small coin, gladly supplied him with coarse black bread and a bowl of freshly-drawn goat’s milk.And this went on, as he could recall when he thought, day after day, night after night, if he tried to think; but that was rarely, for he had no time. The one great thought of finding his father mastered all else, as, still in what continued a strange, blurred, adventurous dream, he went on and on, seeming to grow more vigorous and stronger every hour, feeling too, at heart, that he was on the right way, with Rome in the distance, the goal for which he was bound; and once there—ah!All was blank and confused again, but it was a confusion full of excitement, where flashes of greatness played up on the great city of which he had heard so much, and his father and the army were there.There was nothing to hinder his progress, for the weather was glorious, and, each morning when he awakened from his sleep, it was with his heart throbbing with joy and desire as he sprang up refreshed and eager with nothing to stay his way, till, on the morning of the third—the fourth—the fifth—he could not tell what day—all he knew was that it was during his journey—he came suddenly in a dense part of a forest, upon a big, armed figure marching before him far down the track, evidently going the same way as he, turning neither to the right nor left, but striding steadily on, and Marcus suffered a new emotion near akin to fear and dread, not of this armed man, but of what he might do. For the boy reasoned that, if he overtook this man, he might question him, find out who he was, and turn him back.Marcus stopped short, after stepping aside to shelter himself partly behind a tree-trunk, to watch the soldier, whose helmet glistened in the sun-rays which played through the leaves, while the head of his spear flashed at times as if it were a blade of fire.It was not fear alone that troubled the boy, for the sight of this warrior, who was evidently on the march to join the army, sent a thrill through his breast, and the war-like ardour of old fostered by old Serge, came back stronger than ever, as he said to himself that there was nothing to mind, for they were both, this big, grand-looking warrior and he, upon the same mission.“He’ll make me welcome,” thought Marcus, “and we can march on together and talk about the wars, the same as Serge and I used to before father found us out.“I wonder whether this man knew my father? He’ll be sure to know Caius Julius, and I can talk about him and his coming to my home.”But Marcus did not hurry on, for the dread came, and with it the horror of being ignominiously forced to retrace his steps, while the Roman warrior seemed to increase and grow large, till he disappeared among the trees, came into sight again farther on, and, after a time, as Marcus still hesitated, he finally passed out of sight, making the boy breathe more freely.“What a coward I am!” he cried, aloud. “It’s because I’m doing wrong in leaving home as I did after receiving my father’s commands. But I couldn’t help it. Something forced me to come away, and it was only because I felt that I ought to be at father’s side.“Perhaps it wasn’t cowardice,” he muttered, after a pause. “It may have been prudence—the desire to make sure of reaching the army without being turned back. And I’m such a boy that this great warrior would have laughed at me and perhaps have looked at me mockingly as he felt my arms. I’ve done quite right, and I’ll keep to myself and join nobody till I get to the army, where I shall be safe.”After a time Marcus started off again, keeping a sharp look-out along the road as he proceeded, till, some time later, he saw afar off a flash of light, then another, which proved that the first had come from the marching warrior’s helmet, and once more Marcus slackened his pace.He saw no more of the man that day, but, as the evening was closing in, upon the slope of a wooded mountain the boy caught sight of a goat-herd’s hut, where he obtained bread and milk, and the peasant who lived there asked him if he was a companion of the big warrior who had been there a short time before.Marcus shook his head, and soon after continued his journey, keeping a stricter watch than ever, but seeing no more of the man. But he turned aside into the forest as soon as he found a suitable place offering shelter and a soft, dry couch, and was soon after plunged in a restful sleep which lasted till the grey dawn, when he suddenly started into wakefulness, disturbed, as he was, by the rattling of armour.Marcus shrank back among the undergrowth which had been his shelter, waking fully to the fact that he had lain down to sleep not above a dozen yards from where the man had made his couch, while, in all probability, had he continued his journey for those few paces the night before, he would have stumbled upon him he sought to avoid.There was nothing for it but to wait for a while so as to give his fellow-traveller time to get some distance ahead, and, when he thought that he might start, Marcus went on again slowly, with the result that, during that day, he caught sight of the man twice over steadily plodding on, but never once looking back or hesitating as to his path.When night closed in again, the country had become far more hilly, and, as Marcus was descending a steep slope at the bottom of which a stream gurgled and rippled along, the boy awoke to the fact that the man had been resting and bathing in the bottom of the tiny valley, and was now ascending the opposite slope, where, in full sight of his fellow-traveller, he stopped beneath a tree, divested himself of a portion of his armour, and then lay down to rest.To have gone on and passed him would have been the most sensible thing to do, but to do this the boy would have had to creep along a rugged path close beside the sleeper’s halting place, at the great risk of dislodging stones and awakening him if he were asleep, while, if he were yet awake, to pass without being seen was impossible.It was not the spot where Marcus would have chosen his resting place, but there was no option, and, carefully keeping among the trees, he dropped down at the most suitable place, and then lay for some time vainly trying to sleep, till at last he lost consciousness, resting and preparing for his next day’s journey, waking at sunrise in the hope that if he could not lose sight of his unwelcome fellow-traveller, the next night would find him so near to Rome that another day’s march would, at least, bring him so close that there would be no more such anxious travel.But matters turn out in daily life very often in a different way from what is expected, and so it was here. Marcus waited and watched till he saw the warrior rise bare-headed, but not to go on at once after donning his helmet, but to come back in his direction.“He must have seen me,” thought the boy excitedly, and he began to creep carefully away through the low bushes; but, at the end of a minute, upon glancing back, he found that the man was not following him, but had made his way down to the little stream to drink and wash.Relieved by this, Marcus reseated himself to watch unseen every action of the soldier, who had left his helmet, shield and weapons at the foot of the tree where he had slept; and, after bathing his face and hands, he was on his way back, when, to Marcus’ horror, he caught sight of a glint of something bright, and, directly after, made out first one and then another rough-looking, armed man, till he saw there were no less than six creeping towards the spot where the Roman soldier had left his weapons.Marcus thought no more of himself at this, but was about to issue from his hiding place when he grasped the fact that the soldier had realised his danger, and, springing forward with a shout, he made a dash to reach his resting place first.The strange men were evidently shaken by his bold action, but only for a few moments, and turned to meet the soldier, knife in hand; but their hesitation gave the warrior time to reach shield and sword, when, without waiting to be attacked, the men advanced upon him at once.Such an encounter as this was quite new to Marcus, and he stood there hidden from all concerned for quite a minute, with his heart beating rapidly, trembling with excitement, and taking the position of a spectator, gazing with starting eyes at the party of strangers as if the fight were no concern of his.Strangers? Yes, they were all strangers—enemies perhaps; and then, like a flash, it struck him that these rough-looking, knife-armed men were robbers intent upon spoiling the warrior and perhaps taking his life.This flash of intelligence opened the way for another, making him see the cowardice of six attacking one while that one was brave as brave could be.For a few moments, as he watched the encounter in the bright morning light, Marcus was full of admiration for the brave and clever way in which, hemmed in though he was, the big warrior interposed his shield and turned off blow after blow. But all the same it was very evident that numbers would gain the day and some desperate thrust lay the poor fellow low.Marcus’ thoughts passed very quickly in his excitement, and now another came like a question: You are in armour, with a good shield, a sharp sword and spear. You have taken upon yourself the part of a Roman soldier, and you stand there doing nothing but look on.That thought seemed to smite Marcus right in the face, and the next moment he was running hard, spear in hand, down the steep hill slope, to leap the rivulet and, with lowered spear, charge up the other side towards the contending party, a loud shout ringing out upon the morning air.So fully were the attacking party taken up by their work of escaping the single swordsman’s blows and trying to get in a thrust, that they paid no heed to the shout of the boy, and were not even conscious of his presence till he was close at hand.But his approach was noted by the brave soldier, just as an attack from behind was delivered simultaneously with one in front, and it gave him strength to make a last effort which enabled him to lay one of his assailants low; but at the same moment another enemy sprang upon his back, and he went down, his foes hurling themselves upon him with a shout of triumph, which turned into a yell of dismay as the boy literally leaped amongst them as if to join in the mastery over the fallen man.But though Marcus sprang quickly into their midst, his spear moved far more quickly than his feet, and he darted in to right and left two of the thrusts that he had learned from Serge in one of his mock combats at home when his spear had been only a short, light pole, cut and trimmed by the old soldier for the purpose in hand.All that was sham, but this was startlingly real to the boy, as, at each thrust, he saw blood start, and heard the yells of pain given by the receivers of the point.Those cries were auxiliaries, for they pierced the ears of those who attacked, making them turn in their surprise to find amongst them a fully-armed warrior whose arms flashed in the morning sun, as, advancing his shield ready for a blow, he darted his spear forward at another, who avoided the thrust by a backward leap, and, once started, dashed away as hard as they could go. Fighting men are prone to follow their leader, sometimes to victory, sometimes in panic flight. This latter was the case here. Marcus’ next thrust, delivered with all his might, coming too late, for it was at a flying foe, three men running swiftly, one limping away, another running more slowly, nursing his right arm, and the sixth, who had been struck down by the Roman soldier’s sword, crawling along towards the rivulet, by which he stopped to bathe his wound.It was a matter of very few moments, and Marcus had hardly realised the fact that his daring surprise had completely turned the tables, for his first thought was, “They couldn’t have seen what a boy I am,” when his next led him to turn back to see how the beaten-down soldier had fared, just in time to meet him face to face, as, half stunned, he struggled to his knees and pressing his sword upon one of the stones hard by, used it as a staff to enable him to gain his feet.The next moment he was afoot, passing his sword into his shield-bearing hand so that he might raise his big helmet, which, in the struggle, had been driven down over his eyes. Then it was that he stared at his deliverer, and his deliverer stared at him.“Thank you, whoever you are—” began the soldier, and then his jaw dropped and he was silent. Not so Marcus, whose countenance lit up with delight, as he shouted:“Why, Serge! Can this be you?”
It was all one blur of mystery to Marcus as he tramped through the forest, following the slightly beaten road. Time seemed to be no more, and distance not to count. Everything was dreamy and strange, over-ruled by the one great thought that he was going to reach his father somewhere, somehow, in the future, when he would reprove him bitterly and forgive him, but he would never turn him back; and, governed by these thoughts, he went on, almost unconscious of everything else.
The way was sometimes desolate, sometimes grand, with mountain and forest, over which and through which the roughly beaten track always led, for it was not one of the carefully constructed military roads that his great people afterwards formed through the length and breadth of their land.
The rocks amongst the mountains afforded resting places; beneath the grand trees of the forest there was mossy carpet, upon which he slept; there were trickling rills and natural basins where crystal water gave him drink, or places where he could bathe his hot and tired feet, while now and again he came upon the rude hut of some goat-herd or Pagan who, for a small coin, gladly supplied him with coarse black bread and a bowl of freshly-drawn goat’s milk.
And this went on, as he could recall when he thought, day after day, night after night, if he tried to think; but that was rarely, for he had no time. The one great thought of finding his father mastered all else, as, still in what continued a strange, blurred, adventurous dream, he went on and on, seeming to grow more vigorous and stronger every hour, feeling too, at heart, that he was on the right way, with Rome in the distance, the goal for which he was bound; and once there—ah!
All was blank and confused again, but it was a confusion full of excitement, where flashes of greatness played up on the great city of which he had heard so much, and his father and the army were there.
There was nothing to hinder his progress, for the weather was glorious, and, each morning when he awakened from his sleep, it was with his heart throbbing with joy and desire as he sprang up refreshed and eager with nothing to stay his way, till, on the morning of the third—the fourth—the fifth—he could not tell what day—all he knew was that it was during his journey—he came suddenly in a dense part of a forest, upon a big, armed figure marching before him far down the track, evidently going the same way as he, turning neither to the right nor left, but striding steadily on, and Marcus suffered a new emotion near akin to fear and dread, not of this armed man, but of what he might do. For the boy reasoned that, if he overtook this man, he might question him, find out who he was, and turn him back.
Marcus stopped short, after stepping aside to shelter himself partly behind a tree-trunk, to watch the soldier, whose helmet glistened in the sun-rays which played through the leaves, while the head of his spear flashed at times as if it were a blade of fire.
It was not fear alone that troubled the boy, for the sight of this warrior, who was evidently on the march to join the army, sent a thrill through his breast, and the war-like ardour of old fostered by old Serge, came back stronger than ever, as he said to himself that there was nothing to mind, for they were both, this big, grand-looking warrior and he, upon the same mission.
“He’ll make me welcome,” thought Marcus, “and we can march on together and talk about the wars, the same as Serge and I used to before father found us out.
“I wonder whether this man knew my father? He’ll be sure to know Caius Julius, and I can talk about him and his coming to my home.”
But Marcus did not hurry on, for the dread came, and with it the horror of being ignominiously forced to retrace his steps, while the Roman warrior seemed to increase and grow large, till he disappeared among the trees, came into sight again farther on, and, after a time, as Marcus still hesitated, he finally passed out of sight, making the boy breathe more freely.
“What a coward I am!” he cried, aloud. “It’s because I’m doing wrong in leaving home as I did after receiving my father’s commands. But I couldn’t help it. Something forced me to come away, and it was only because I felt that I ought to be at father’s side.
“Perhaps it wasn’t cowardice,” he muttered, after a pause. “It may have been prudence—the desire to make sure of reaching the army without being turned back. And I’m such a boy that this great warrior would have laughed at me and perhaps have looked at me mockingly as he felt my arms. I’ve done quite right, and I’ll keep to myself and join nobody till I get to the army, where I shall be safe.”
After a time Marcus started off again, keeping a sharp look-out along the road as he proceeded, till, some time later, he saw afar off a flash of light, then another, which proved that the first had come from the marching warrior’s helmet, and once more Marcus slackened his pace.
He saw no more of the man that day, but, as the evening was closing in, upon the slope of a wooded mountain the boy caught sight of a goat-herd’s hut, where he obtained bread and milk, and the peasant who lived there asked him if he was a companion of the big warrior who had been there a short time before.
Marcus shook his head, and soon after continued his journey, keeping a stricter watch than ever, but seeing no more of the man. But he turned aside into the forest as soon as he found a suitable place offering shelter and a soft, dry couch, and was soon after plunged in a restful sleep which lasted till the grey dawn, when he suddenly started into wakefulness, disturbed, as he was, by the rattling of armour.
Marcus shrank back among the undergrowth which had been his shelter, waking fully to the fact that he had lain down to sleep not above a dozen yards from where the man had made his couch, while, in all probability, had he continued his journey for those few paces the night before, he would have stumbled upon him he sought to avoid.
There was nothing for it but to wait for a while so as to give his fellow-traveller time to get some distance ahead, and, when he thought that he might start, Marcus went on again slowly, with the result that, during that day, he caught sight of the man twice over steadily plodding on, but never once looking back or hesitating as to his path.
When night closed in again, the country had become far more hilly, and, as Marcus was descending a steep slope at the bottom of which a stream gurgled and rippled along, the boy awoke to the fact that the man had been resting and bathing in the bottom of the tiny valley, and was now ascending the opposite slope, where, in full sight of his fellow-traveller, he stopped beneath a tree, divested himself of a portion of his armour, and then lay down to rest.
To have gone on and passed him would have been the most sensible thing to do, but to do this the boy would have had to creep along a rugged path close beside the sleeper’s halting place, at the great risk of dislodging stones and awakening him if he were asleep, while, if he were yet awake, to pass without being seen was impossible.
It was not the spot where Marcus would have chosen his resting place, but there was no option, and, carefully keeping among the trees, he dropped down at the most suitable place, and then lay for some time vainly trying to sleep, till at last he lost consciousness, resting and preparing for his next day’s journey, waking at sunrise in the hope that if he could not lose sight of his unwelcome fellow-traveller, the next night would find him so near to Rome that another day’s march would, at least, bring him so close that there would be no more such anxious travel.
But matters turn out in daily life very often in a different way from what is expected, and so it was here. Marcus waited and watched till he saw the warrior rise bare-headed, but not to go on at once after donning his helmet, but to come back in his direction.
“He must have seen me,” thought the boy excitedly, and he began to creep carefully away through the low bushes; but, at the end of a minute, upon glancing back, he found that the man was not following him, but had made his way down to the little stream to drink and wash.
Relieved by this, Marcus reseated himself to watch unseen every action of the soldier, who had left his helmet, shield and weapons at the foot of the tree where he had slept; and, after bathing his face and hands, he was on his way back, when, to Marcus’ horror, he caught sight of a glint of something bright, and, directly after, made out first one and then another rough-looking, armed man, till he saw there were no less than six creeping towards the spot where the Roman soldier had left his weapons.
Marcus thought no more of himself at this, but was about to issue from his hiding place when he grasped the fact that the soldier had realised his danger, and, springing forward with a shout, he made a dash to reach his resting place first.
The strange men were evidently shaken by his bold action, but only for a few moments, and turned to meet the soldier, knife in hand; but their hesitation gave the warrior time to reach shield and sword, when, without waiting to be attacked, the men advanced upon him at once.
Such an encounter as this was quite new to Marcus, and he stood there hidden from all concerned for quite a minute, with his heart beating rapidly, trembling with excitement, and taking the position of a spectator, gazing with starting eyes at the party of strangers as if the fight were no concern of his.
Strangers? Yes, they were all strangers—enemies perhaps; and then, like a flash, it struck him that these rough-looking, knife-armed men were robbers intent upon spoiling the warrior and perhaps taking his life.
This flash of intelligence opened the way for another, making him see the cowardice of six attacking one while that one was brave as brave could be.
For a few moments, as he watched the encounter in the bright morning light, Marcus was full of admiration for the brave and clever way in which, hemmed in though he was, the big warrior interposed his shield and turned off blow after blow. But all the same it was very evident that numbers would gain the day and some desperate thrust lay the poor fellow low.
Marcus’ thoughts passed very quickly in his excitement, and now another came like a question: You are in armour, with a good shield, a sharp sword and spear. You have taken upon yourself the part of a Roman soldier, and you stand there doing nothing but look on.
That thought seemed to smite Marcus right in the face, and the next moment he was running hard, spear in hand, down the steep hill slope, to leap the rivulet and, with lowered spear, charge up the other side towards the contending party, a loud shout ringing out upon the morning air.
So fully were the attacking party taken up by their work of escaping the single swordsman’s blows and trying to get in a thrust, that they paid no heed to the shout of the boy, and were not even conscious of his presence till he was close at hand.
But his approach was noted by the brave soldier, just as an attack from behind was delivered simultaneously with one in front, and it gave him strength to make a last effort which enabled him to lay one of his assailants low; but at the same moment another enemy sprang upon his back, and he went down, his foes hurling themselves upon him with a shout of triumph, which turned into a yell of dismay as the boy literally leaped amongst them as if to join in the mastery over the fallen man.
But though Marcus sprang quickly into their midst, his spear moved far more quickly than his feet, and he darted in to right and left two of the thrusts that he had learned from Serge in one of his mock combats at home when his spear had been only a short, light pole, cut and trimmed by the old soldier for the purpose in hand.
All that was sham, but this was startlingly real to the boy, as, at each thrust, he saw blood start, and heard the yells of pain given by the receivers of the point.
Those cries were auxiliaries, for they pierced the ears of those who attacked, making them turn in their surprise to find amongst them a fully-armed warrior whose arms flashed in the morning sun, as, advancing his shield ready for a blow, he darted his spear forward at another, who avoided the thrust by a backward leap, and, once started, dashed away as hard as they could go. Fighting men are prone to follow their leader, sometimes to victory, sometimes in panic flight. This latter was the case here. Marcus’ next thrust, delivered with all his might, coming too late, for it was at a flying foe, three men running swiftly, one limping away, another running more slowly, nursing his right arm, and the sixth, who had been struck down by the Roman soldier’s sword, crawling along towards the rivulet, by which he stopped to bathe his wound.
It was a matter of very few moments, and Marcus had hardly realised the fact that his daring surprise had completely turned the tables, for his first thought was, “They couldn’t have seen what a boy I am,” when his next led him to turn back to see how the beaten-down soldier had fared, just in time to meet him face to face, as, half stunned, he struggled to his knees and pressing his sword upon one of the stones hard by, used it as a staff to enable him to gain his feet.
The next moment he was afoot, passing his sword into his shield-bearing hand so that he might raise his big helmet, which, in the struggle, had been driven down over his eyes. Then it was that he stared at his deliverer, and his deliverer stared at him.
“Thank you, whoever you are—” began the soldier, and then his jaw dropped and he was silent. Not so Marcus, whose countenance lit up with delight, as he shouted:
“Why, Serge! Can this be you?”
Chapter Thirteen.Turning the Tables.“Marcus, boy!” came back the next instant, as the old soldier dashed down his shield and his sword upon it with a clattering noise, before catching his deliverer in his arms and holding him to his breast.“Well done!” he cried. “Well done, boy! Well done! Hah! Hurrah! Think of it! Six on ’em! And you set ’em running. Hah!” he panted, breathlessly, as he freed the boy, took a couple of steps backward, planted his great fists upon his hips, gazed at him proudly, and then gave a sweeping look round as if addressing a circle of lookers-on instead of blocks of stone and trees; “Hah!” he exclaimed. “I taught him to fight like that!”“Yes, Serge, you did—you did!” cried Marcus. “But you are covered with blood, and you are badly hurt. Those wretches must have stabbed you with their knives.”“Eh?” growled the old soldier, beginning to feel himself all over. “Yes, how nasty! All over my breast. It’s a long time since I have been in a mess like this. I felt a dig in the front, and another in my back, and another—” Serge ceased speaking as his hands were busy feeling for his wounds, and then he exclaimed: “Yes, it’s blood, sure enough, but ’tain’t mine, boy. Their knives didn’t go through. I am all right, only out of breath. But you? Did you get touched?”“Oh no,” cried Marcus. “I escaped.”“But you made your marks on them, boy. My marks, I call ’em.”“Pick up your sword and shield, Serge,” cried Marcus, excitedly. “They’ll be coming back directly perhaps.”“Well, yes, it would be wise, boy,” said the old soldier, taking his advice. “Look yonder; that’s the fellow I cut down,” and he pointed with his sword to the man who had been bathing his wound and, after crossing the rivulet, was also in full retreat. “No, he’s had enough of it, and if the others came back it wouldn’t be six to one, but five to two—two well-armed warriors, you and me,” said the old man, proudly, as he made Marcus’ shield clatter loudly as he tapped it with his sword. “You and me, boy,” he repeated. “Tchah! They won’t come on again. Why, back to back, you and me—why, we are ready for a dozen of them if they came. Here, I had my wash, but I must go now and have another while you keep guard over me. Think of it!—While you keep guard over me, boy! No, I won’t call you boy no more, for I have made you a fighting man, and here’s been the proof of it this morning. There’s only one thing wanted to make all this complete. Boy! Tchah! I can’t call you a boy: you are a young Roman warrior.”“Oh, nonsense, Serge!” cried the boy, flushing.“Nonsense, eh? Look at you and the way you handled that spear. Why, you are better with your sword, if you have to draw it, as I well know. Do you remember how you nearly did for me?”“Oh yes, I remember,” replied Marcus.“Yes, I had to jump that time; and lucky I did, or I shouldn’t have been here for you to fight like this. But, as I was saying, it only wanted one thing, and that was for your father, who has come to his senses at last, to have been here to see, and—”The old soldier stopped short, his big, massive jaw dropped, and he stood staring as he took off his heavy helmet and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.“But I say,” he cried, at last, staring at the boy with the puzzled expression upon his features growing more and more intense, “what are you doing here?”Marcus’ sun-browned face turned scarlet, and he stood silent, staring in reply, beginning almost to cower—he, the brave, young, growing warrior—before the old servant’s stern eyes, and ready to shiver at the pricking of the conscience that was now hard at work.“Look here,” cried Serge, extending his shield and raising his short broadsword to punctuate his words with the taps he gave upon this armour of defence, “your father said that you were not to use that armour any more, and I left it, being busy getting his for him to go off to the war, lying upon his bed. It wasn’t yours any longer. It was his’n. You have been in and stole it; that’s what you have done. Do you hear me?” continued the old soldier, fiercely. “You’ve been and stole it and put it on, when he said you warn’t to. That’s what you’ve done.”“Yes, Serge,” said the boy, meekly.“Hah!” cried the old soldier, gathering strength.“And your father said you were to stop at home and take care of his house and servants, and the swine and cattle, and his lands, and, as soon as he’s gone, you begin kicking up your heels and playing your wicked young pranks. That’s what you’ve done, and been pretty quick about it too. Now then, out with it. Let’s have the truth—the truth, and no excuses. Let’s have the truth.”It was no longer punctuation, but a series of heavy musical bangs upon the shield, and once more, very meekly indeed, Marcus said, almost beneath his breath:“Yes, Serge; that’s quite right. Everything is as you say.”“Ah, well,” growled the old soldier, a little mollified by his young master’s frankness, “that don’t make it quite so bad. Now then, just you answer right out. Where were you a-going to go?”“To join father at the war.”“Hah! I thought as much,” cried the old soldier, triumphantly, and looking as though he credited himself with a grand discovery. “And now you see what comes of not doing what you are told. I’ve just catched you on the hop, and it’s lucky for you it’s me and not the master himself. So, now then, it’s clear enough what I’ve got to do.”“To do?” cried Marcus, quickly. “What do you mean, Serge?”“What do I mean? Why, to make you take off that coat of armour on the spot. Well, no, I can’t do that, because you aren’t got nothing else to wear. Well, never mind; you must go as you are.”“Oh yes, Serge, never mind about the armour; I’ll go as I am. But gather your things together—that bundle of yours.”“How did you know I’d got a bundle?” said the old soldier, suspiciously.“I have seen you carrying it day after day.”“What! You’ve seen me day after day?”“Oh yes. I don’t know how long it’s been, but I have often seen you right in front.”“Worse and worse!” cried the old soldier, angrily. “That shows what a bad heart you’ve got, boy. You’ve come sneaking along after me to find the way, and never dared to show your face.”“I did dare!” cried the boy, indignantly. “But I only saw your back. I didn’t know it was you.”“Oh, you didn’t know it was me?” growled Serge. “Well, that don’t make it quite so bad. But you knew it was me that you came to help?”“No.”“Oh! Then I might have been a stranger?”“Yes, of course. I saw six men attacking one, and—”“Oh, come, he ain’t got such a bad heart as I thought,” said the old soldier. “And you did behave very well. I did feel a bit proud of you. But never mind that; we have got something else to talk about,” said Serge, as he rearranged his armour and picked up his wallet and spear. “Now then, let’s get back at once, and mind this, if you attempt to give me the slip—”“Give you the slip! Get back!” cried Marcus, excitedly. “What do you mean by get back at once?”“Why, get back home to your books and that there wax scratcher to do as your father said. This is a pretty game, upon my word!”“But I am not going back, Serge,” cried the boy, firmly. “I am going to join my father.”“You are not going to join your father,” said the old soldier, sturdily. “You’ve run away like one of them village ragged-jacks, and I am ashamed of you, that’s what I am. But ’shamed or no ’shamed, I’ve catched you and I am going to take you back.”“No!” cried Marcus, fiercely.“Nay, boy, it’s yes, so make no more bones about it.”“I am going to join my father, sir, and answer to him, not to his servant.”“You are going back home to your books and to take care of your father’s house.”“And suppose I refuse?” cried Marcus.“Won’t make a bit of difference, boy, for I shall make you.”“Indeed!” cried Marcus.“Now then, none of that! None of your ruffling up like a young cockerel and sticking your hackles out because you think your spurs have grown, when you are not much more than fledged, because that won’t do with me. I tell you this: you come easy and it will be all the better for you, for if you behave well perhaps I won’t tell the master, after all. So make up your mind to be a good boy at once.”“A good boy!” cried Marcus, scornfully. “Why, you called me a brave young warrior just now.”“Yes, I am rather an old fool sometimes,” growled Serge; “but you needn’t pitch that in my teeth. Now then, no more words, and let’s waste no more time. I want to get back.”“But Serge—” cried the boy.“That’ll do. You know what your father said, and you’ve got to obey him, or I shall make you. Aren’t you sorry for doing wrong?”“Yes—no,” cried Marcus.“Yes—no? What do you mean by that, sir?”“I don’t know,” cried Marcus, desperately. “Look here, Serge: it is too late now. I’ve taken this step, and I must go on and join my father now.”“Taken this step? Yes, of course you have,” cried the old soldier, sarcastically, “and a nice step it is! What’s it led to? Your having to take a lot more steps back again. I know; but you didn’t, being such a young callow bit of a fellow. Soon as you do anything wrong you have to do a lot more bad things to cover it up. Lucky for you I catched you; so now then, come on.”“But Serge,” cried Marcus, passionately, “you can’t understand how I felt—how it seemed as if I must go after my father, to be with him in case he wanted help. He might be wounded, you know.”“Well, if he is there’ll be plenty to help him. Soldiers are always comrades, and help one another. If he is wounded he won’t want a boy like you, so stop all that. I’m not going to stand here and let you argue me into a rage. You’ve got to come back and obey your father’s commands, instead of breaking his orders. I wonder at you, boy, that I do. Did this come out of your reading and writing?”“Serge!” cried the boy. “I did try hard—so hard, you don’t know; but I couldn’t stay. I was obliged to come.”“Won’t do, boy,” growled the old soldier, frowning. “Orders are orders, and one has to obey them whether one likes ’em or whether one don’t. Ready?”“No, Serge, no, I’m not ready,” pleaded the boy. “It is too late. I can’t go back.”“Too late? Not a bit. Now then: come on.”“I cannot, Serge. I must—I will go on now.”“You mustn’t, sir, and you will not,” cried the old soldier, sternly. “Now then, no nonsense; come on.”“No, no, Serge. Pray, pray take my side. It is to be with my father; can’t you see?”“No, boy; I’m blind when it comes to orders.”“Oh, Serge, have you no mercy?” cried Marcus, piteously.“Not a bit, boy. Now then, once more, come on.”“I cannot,” cried Marcus, passionately.“Then I’m going to make you.”“What!”“I’m going to carry you, heavy as you’ll be, and long as it will make the road. But I’ve got it to do, and, if it takes me a month, I’m going to make you obey your father’s orders, sir, and stop at home.”As he spoke Serge swung his shield between his shoulders, pressed his sheathed sword a little more round to his side, and with a sharp dig made his spear stand up in the earth.“Now then,” he cried, and he caught Marcus by the wrists, and a struggle seemed to be imminent.“Serge!” cried Marcus, angrily.“Your orders were to stay at home, sir, and home you go,” cried the old soldier. “If you will be carried back like a scrap of a little child, why, carried you shall be. So give up. I’m twice as strong as you, and it’s your father’s commands.”“Hah!” cried Marcus, ceasing his struggles on the instant, and leaving his wrists tightly clasped in the old soldier’s hands.“Well, what are you ‘hah-ing’ about?” cried Serge, as he noted the suddenly triumphant tones of the boy’s voice.“I was thinking about my father’s orders,” cried Marcus, in a state of wild excitement now.“Good boy; and quite time. Pity you didn’t think more of ’em and much sooner. Then you’re going to mind me without more fuss, and come home like a good boy now?”“No,” cried Marcus, fiercely. “I am going on to my father. I will not stir a step backward now.”“What!” cried Serge, as fiercely now, for the old man was roused by the boy’s obstinacy. “You won’t obey?”“No,” cried Marcus, catching his companion by the top of his breast armour. “It’s my turn now. Look here, sir; you talk about my father’s commands.”“Yes, boy, I do,” roared the old soldier, looking as fierce now as one of the campagna bulls, whose bellow he seemed to emulate, “and I’ll make you obey them too.”“Commands—obey—when I’m only going to join him?”“Yes, that’s it, my lad. So now then!”“Yes,” cried Marcus, giving his companion a fierce thrust which forced him a little back so that he caught his heels against a projecting stone, and as he tried to recover himself was brought down by Marcus upon his knees. “Hah!” he cried. “I’ve got you! What have you got to say about my father’s orders? What are you doing here?”
“Marcus, boy!” came back the next instant, as the old soldier dashed down his shield and his sword upon it with a clattering noise, before catching his deliverer in his arms and holding him to his breast.
“Well done!” he cried. “Well done, boy! Well done! Hah! Hurrah! Think of it! Six on ’em! And you set ’em running. Hah!” he panted, breathlessly, as he freed the boy, took a couple of steps backward, planted his great fists upon his hips, gazed at him proudly, and then gave a sweeping look round as if addressing a circle of lookers-on instead of blocks of stone and trees; “Hah!” he exclaimed. “I taught him to fight like that!”
“Yes, Serge, you did—you did!” cried Marcus. “But you are covered with blood, and you are badly hurt. Those wretches must have stabbed you with their knives.”
“Eh?” growled the old soldier, beginning to feel himself all over. “Yes, how nasty! All over my breast. It’s a long time since I have been in a mess like this. I felt a dig in the front, and another in my back, and another—” Serge ceased speaking as his hands were busy feeling for his wounds, and then he exclaimed: “Yes, it’s blood, sure enough, but ’tain’t mine, boy. Their knives didn’t go through. I am all right, only out of breath. But you? Did you get touched?”
“Oh no,” cried Marcus. “I escaped.”
“But you made your marks on them, boy. My marks, I call ’em.”
“Pick up your sword and shield, Serge,” cried Marcus, excitedly. “They’ll be coming back directly perhaps.”
“Well, yes, it would be wise, boy,” said the old soldier, taking his advice. “Look yonder; that’s the fellow I cut down,” and he pointed with his sword to the man who had been bathing his wound and, after crossing the rivulet, was also in full retreat. “No, he’s had enough of it, and if the others came back it wouldn’t be six to one, but five to two—two well-armed warriors, you and me,” said the old man, proudly, as he made Marcus’ shield clatter loudly as he tapped it with his sword. “You and me, boy,” he repeated. “Tchah! They won’t come on again. Why, back to back, you and me—why, we are ready for a dozen of them if they came. Here, I had my wash, but I must go now and have another while you keep guard over me. Think of it!—While you keep guard over me, boy! No, I won’t call you boy no more, for I have made you a fighting man, and here’s been the proof of it this morning. There’s only one thing wanted to make all this complete. Boy! Tchah! I can’t call you a boy: you are a young Roman warrior.”
“Oh, nonsense, Serge!” cried the boy, flushing.
“Nonsense, eh? Look at you and the way you handled that spear. Why, you are better with your sword, if you have to draw it, as I well know. Do you remember how you nearly did for me?”
“Oh yes, I remember,” replied Marcus.
“Yes, I had to jump that time; and lucky I did, or I shouldn’t have been here for you to fight like this. But, as I was saying, it only wanted one thing, and that was for your father, who has come to his senses at last, to have been here to see, and—”
The old soldier stopped short, his big, massive jaw dropped, and he stood staring as he took off his heavy helmet and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
“But I say,” he cried, at last, staring at the boy with the puzzled expression upon his features growing more and more intense, “what are you doing here?”
Marcus’ sun-browned face turned scarlet, and he stood silent, staring in reply, beginning almost to cower—he, the brave, young, growing warrior—before the old servant’s stern eyes, and ready to shiver at the pricking of the conscience that was now hard at work.
“Look here,” cried Serge, extending his shield and raising his short broadsword to punctuate his words with the taps he gave upon this armour of defence, “your father said that you were not to use that armour any more, and I left it, being busy getting his for him to go off to the war, lying upon his bed. It wasn’t yours any longer. It was his’n. You have been in and stole it; that’s what you have done. Do you hear me?” continued the old soldier, fiercely. “You’ve been and stole it and put it on, when he said you warn’t to. That’s what you’ve done.”
“Yes, Serge,” said the boy, meekly.
“Hah!” cried the old soldier, gathering strength.
“And your father said you were to stop at home and take care of his house and servants, and the swine and cattle, and his lands, and, as soon as he’s gone, you begin kicking up your heels and playing your wicked young pranks. That’s what you’ve done, and been pretty quick about it too. Now then, out with it. Let’s have the truth—the truth, and no excuses. Let’s have the truth.”
It was no longer punctuation, but a series of heavy musical bangs upon the shield, and once more, very meekly indeed, Marcus said, almost beneath his breath:
“Yes, Serge; that’s quite right. Everything is as you say.”
“Ah, well,” growled the old soldier, a little mollified by his young master’s frankness, “that don’t make it quite so bad. Now then, just you answer right out. Where were you a-going to go?”
“To join father at the war.”
“Hah! I thought as much,” cried the old soldier, triumphantly, and looking as though he credited himself with a grand discovery. “And now you see what comes of not doing what you are told. I’ve just catched you on the hop, and it’s lucky for you it’s me and not the master himself. So, now then, it’s clear enough what I’ve got to do.”
“To do?” cried Marcus, quickly. “What do you mean, Serge?”
“What do I mean? Why, to make you take off that coat of armour on the spot. Well, no, I can’t do that, because you aren’t got nothing else to wear. Well, never mind; you must go as you are.”
“Oh yes, Serge, never mind about the armour; I’ll go as I am. But gather your things together—that bundle of yours.”
“How did you know I’d got a bundle?” said the old soldier, suspiciously.
“I have seen you carrying it day after day.”
“What! You’ve seen me day after day?”
“Oh yes. I don’t know how long it’s been, but I have often seen you right in front.”
“Worse and worse!” cried the old soldier, angrily. “That shows what a bad heart you’ve got, boy. You’ve come sneaking along after me to find the way, and never dared to show your face.”
“I did dare!” cried the boy, indignantly. “But I only saw your back. I didn’t know it was you.”
“Oh, you didn’t know it was me?” growled Serge. “Well, that don’t make it quite so bad. But you knew it was me that you came to help?”
“No.”
“Oh! Then I might have been a stranger?”
“Yes, of course. I saw six men attacking one, and—”
“Oh, come, he ain’t got such a bad heart as I thought,” said the old soldier. “And you did behave very well. I did feel a bit proud of you. But never mind that; we have got something else to talk about,” said Serge, as he rearranged his armour and picked up his wallet and spear. “Now then, let’s get back at once, and mind this, if you attempt to give me the slip—”
“Give you the slip! Get back!” cried Marcus, excitedly. “What do you mean by get back at once?”
“Why, get back home to your books and that there wax scratcher to do as your father said. This is a pretty game, upon my word!”
“But I am not going back, Serge,” cried the boy, firmly. “I am going to join my father.”
“You are not going to join your father,” said the old soldier, sturdily. “You’ve run away like one of them village ragged-jacks, and I am ashamed of you, that’s what I am. But ’shamed or no ’shamed, I’ve catched you and I am going to take you back.”
“No!” cried Marcus, fiercely.
“Nay, boy, it’s yes, so make no more bones about it.”
“I am going to join my father, sir, and answer to him, not to his servant.”
“You are going back home to your books and to take care of your father’s house.”
“And suppose I refuse?” cried Marcus.
“Won’t make a bit of difference, boy, for I shall make you.”
“Indeed!” cried Marcus.
“Now then, none of that! None of your ruffling up like a young cockerel and sticking your hackles out because you think your spurs have grown, when you are not much more than fledged, because that won’t do with me. I tell you this: you come easy and it will be all the better for you, for if you behave well perhaps I won’t tell the master, after all. So make up your mind to be a good boy at once.”
“A good boy!” cried Marcus, scornfully. “Why, you called me a brave young warrior just now.”
“Yes, I am rather an old fool sometimes,” growled Serge; “but you needn’t pitch that in my teeth. Now then, no more words, and let’s waste no more time. I want to get back.”
“But Serge—” cried the boy.
“That’ll do. You know what your father said, and you’ve got to obey him, or I shall make you. Aren’t you sorry for doing wrong?”
“Yes—no,” cried Marcus.
“Yes—no? What do you mean by that, sir?”
“I don’t know,” cried Marcus, desperately. “Look here, Serge: it is too late now. I’ve taken this step, and I must go on and join my father now.”
“Taken this step? Yes, of course you have,” cried the old soldier, sarcastically, “and a nice step it is! What’s it led to? Your having to take a lot more steps back again. I know; but you didn’t, being such a young callow bit of a fellow. Soon as you do anything wrong you have to do a lot more bad things to cover it up. Lucky for you I catched you; so now then, come on.”
“But Serge,” cried Marcus, passionately, “you can’t understand how I felt—how it seemed as if I must go after my father, to be with him in case he wanted help. He might be wounded, you know.”
“Well, if he is there’ll be plenty to help him. Soldiers are always comrades, and help one another. If he is wounded he won’t want a boy like you, so stop all that. I’m not going to stand here and let you argue me into a rage. You’ve got to come back and obey your father’s commands, instead of breaking his orders. I wonder at you, boy, that I do. Did this come out of your reading and writing?”
“Serge!” cried the boy. “I did try hard—so hard, you don’t know; but I couldn’t stay. I was obliged to come.”
“Won’t do, boy,” growled the old soldier, frowning. “Orders are orders, and one has to obey them whether one likes ’em or whether one don’t. Ready?”
“No, Serge, no, I’m not ready,” pleaded the boy. “It is too late. I can’t go back.”
“Too late? Not a bit. Now then: come on.”
“I cannot, Serge. I must—I will go on now.”
“You mustn’t, sir, and you will not,” cried the old soldier, sternly. “Now then, no nonsense; come on.”
“No, no, Serge. Pray, pray take my side. It is to be with my father; can’t you see?”
“No, boy; I’m blind when it comes to orders.”
“Oh, Serge, have you no mercy?” cried Marcus, piteously.
“Not a bit, boy. Now then, once more, come on.”
“I cannot,” cried Marcus, passionately.
“Then I’m going to make you.”
“What!”
“I’m going to carry you, heavy as you’ll be, and long as it will make the road. But I’ve got it to do, and, if it takes me a month, I’m going to make you obey your father’s orders, sir, and stop at home.”
As he spoke Serge swung his shield between his shoulders, pressed his sheathed sword a little more round to his side, and with a sharp dig made his spear stand up in the earth.
“Now then,” he cried, and he caught Marcus by the wrists, and a struggle seemed to be imminent.
“Serge!” cried Marcus, angrily.
“Your orders were to stay at home, sir, and home you go,” cried the old soldier. “If you will be carried back like a scrap of a little child, why, carried you shall be. So give up. I’m twice as strong as you, and it’s your father’s commands.”
“Hah!” cried Marcus, ceasing his struggles on the instant, and leaving his wrists tightly clasped in the old soldier’s hands.
“Well, what are you ‘hah-ing’ about?” cried Serge, as he noted the suddenly triumphant tones of the boy’s voice.
“I was thinking about my father’s orders,” cried Marcus, in a state of wild excitement now.
“Good boy; and quite time. Pity you didn’t think more of ’em and much sooner. Then you’re going to mind me without more fuss, and come home like a good boy now?”
“No,” cried Marcus, fiercely. “I am going on to my father. I will not stir a step backward now.”
“What!” cried Serge, as fiercely now, for the old man was roused by the boy’s obstinacy. “You won’t obey?”
“No,” cried Marcus, catching his companion by the top of his breast armour. “It’s my turn now. Look here, sir; you talk about my father’s commands.”
“Yes, boy, I do,” roared the old soldier, looking as fierce now as one of the campagna bulls, whose bellow he seemed to emulate, “and I’ll make you obey them too.”
“Commands—obey—when I’m only going to join him?”
“Yes, that’s it, my lad. So now then!”
“Yes,” cried Marcus, giving his companion a fierce thrust which forced him a little back so that he caught his heels against a projecting stone, and as he tried to recover himself was brought down by Marcus upon his knees. “Hah!” he cried. “I’ve got you! What have you got to say about my father’s orders? What are you doing here?”
Chapter Fourteen.Coming to Terms.Serge was in the act of gathering himself together so as to spring up and catch his prisoner by the arms, but, as the boy questioned him sharply he sank a little lower upon his knees, and, as if all the strength had been suddenly discharged from within him, he said in quite a different tone of voice:“What am I doing here?”“Yes, sir,” cried Marcus, forcing him a little more back, and fixing him with his eyes, “what areyoudoing here?”“Well, I—er—I—I’m here to take you back.”“You old shuffler!” cried Marcus, in a rage. “I can see through you. My father’s orders, indeed! What were his orders toyou, sir? Weren’t they to stop and take care of his house and belongings, and of me?”“Well, they was something like that,” growled the man, softly; “but don’t drive your knuckles into my throat like that, my lad. You hurt.”“Hurt! Yes, and you deserve it,” cried Marcus, growing stronger in his attack upon the old servant as the latter grew more confused and weak. “So this is the way you obey my father’s commands. You took upon yourself to go into his room and help yourself to the armour you have on. Confess, you did; didn’t you?”“Well, if it comes to that, Master Marcus,” grumbled the man, “it was my armour, and wouldn’t fit no one else.”“That’s shuffling again, Serge, and it’s no good. You took the armour, unknown to my father?”“Course I did, my lad,” cried the man, recovering himself a little. “He wasn’t there, was he?”“Pah!” ejaculated Marcus. “More shuffling. Now then, confess: you took the armour and disobeyed the orders given you. What is more, you forsook me and left me to myself. Speak out; you did, didn’t you?”“Well, I s’pose it’s o’ no use to deny it, Master Marcus. I s’pose I did.”“And in direct opposition to my father’s orders you were going to follow him to the war?”“That’s right, Master Marcus, but how could I help it? Could I let him, as I’d followed into many a fight, go off to meet those savage Gauls without me at his back to stand by him as I’ve done many and many a time before?”“You disobeyed him, sir,” cried Marcus.“Well, boy, I own up,” growled the man; “but I meant to do it for the best. How could I stop at home nussing you like a baby and thinking all the while that my old master was going about with swords and spears offering at his throat? How could I do it, Master Marcus? Don’t be so hard on a man. It wasn’t to be done.”“And yet you were as hard as iron to me, sir,” cried Marcus.“Well, didn’t your father order me to be in the way of taking care of you? It was my duty.”“Was it?” cried Marcus. “Then now I’m going to do my duty to you, sir.”“What are you going to do, Master Marcus?” said Serge, quite humbled now.“Make you go back to the old home and take care of it.”“Master never gave you orders to do that,” cried the old soldier, triumphantly; “and now I’m started to follow him and fight for him, nobody shan’t make me go; so there!”Marcus and Serge remained gazing in one another’s eyes, till at last the latter spoke.“Look here, Master Marcus, I meant it for the best. Aren’t you being a bit hard on me?”“Look here, Serge,” replied Marcus, “I meant it for the best. Weren’t you a bit hard upon me?”“I think not, Master Marcus, boy.”“And that’s what I think, Serge.”“I couldn’t see my dear old master go away alone into danger.”“And I couldn’t see my dear old father go away alone into danger.”“Of course you couldn’t, Master Marcus. I say, my lad, you know what I used to tell you about enemies doing when they come to a check like—what they settled was best.”“What, made a truce?” said Marcus.“Yes, my lad. I should like one now, for that bruise you’ve made with your knuckles in my throat’s quite big enough. It’ll be black to-morrow.”“Get up, Serge,” said Marcus, letting his hand fall.“Thankye, my lad. I say, boy, I didn’t think you were so strong.”“Didn’t you, Serge?”“No, boy. My word, it’s just as if getting into your armour had stiffened you all over. My word, I wouldn’t ha’ believed that you could fight like you did this morning!”“I felt hot and excited, Serge, and as if I could do anything.”“Didn’t feel a bit scared like, though there was six of them?”“No,” said Marcus, thoughtfully; “I never thought anything about their numbers, only of saving you.”“Thinking all the time it was someone else, sir?”“Yes, Serge; that was it.”“And you fought fine, sir. Seems to me it’s a pity for a youngster like you to be stopping at home unrolling volumes and making scratches with a stylus.”“Does it, Serge?”“Yes, sir, it do; and likewise it seems a pity that such a man as me, who can do his share of fighting, should be doing nothing better than driving the swine into the acorn woods.”“And looking after and protecting me, Serge,” said Marcus, drily.“Oh, yes, of course; there was that, of course, Master Marcus; but I say, sir, don’t you think we’ve both talked enough for the present; I tackled you and you tackled me in a pretty tidy argument, and both on us had the best of it in turn. I’m beginning to think that there’s good clear water coming down from the mountain yonder.”“Yes, Serge; it makes me feel thirsty after getting so hot.”“Then, too, I’ve got a nice loaf in my wallet and a tidy bit o’ meat as I got from a little way back. What do you say to our making a bit o’ breakfast together same as we’ve done before now in the woods?”“And settle afterwards about whether we should go back, Serge?” said Marcus.“Yes, my lad; that’ll be the sensiblest thing to do.”“Yes,” said Marcus, “you’ve talked about it, and it has made me feel very hungry now.”“Well, look here,” said Serge, “we are about even, aren’t we?”“Even!” said Marcus, staring at the man. “Do you mean about both being hungry?”“Nay–y–y–ay! About being wicked uns. You’ve done wrong, you know, and disobeyed orders.”“Yes,” said Marcus, with a sigh.“So have I. Well, we are both in disgrace, and that makes us even; so, of course, I can’t bully you any more and you can’t say ugly things to me. Fair play’s the thing, isn’t it?”“Of course,” cried Marcus.“Well, then, as you’ve behaved uncommon fine in tackling those rough ones, and saved my life—”“Oh no,” said Marcus, modestly.“But I say, oh yes. Don’t you talk to me. They’d have killed me dead, stripped off everything that was worth taking, and then left my body to the wolves.”Marcus recalled the words of the speaker of his wandering away up the mountains to lie down and die, and he felt ready to say: “Well, that would have suited you;” but he thought it better not, and held his tongue.“As I said before, you have behaved uncommonly well over that, so I’ll forgive you for running away, and shake hands, if you’ll agree to say nothing more about it to me.”“Oh, very well,” cried Marcus. “I don’t feel that I can say any more to you.”“Then I won’t to you, my lad, and there’s my hand on it. Only mind this,” cried Serge, as they stood with their hands clasped, “this is only me, you know. I lose my place of looking after you, according to the master’s orders, by forsaking my post and going after him, so I aren’t no longer holding your rein, as you may say. What I mean is this—I forgive you, but I am not going to answer for what your father will say.”“Oh, of course not,” cried Marcus. “We have both got to face that.”“Yes, my lad,” said the old soldier, sourly, “and a nice hard time it’s going to be. I daren’t think about it, but keep on putting it off till it comes. That’ll be time enough. So now then, you and me’s going to be friends, and try to help one another out of the mud. That is, unless you think we’d better go back home together.”“Oh, no, no,” cried Marcus. “Impossible! We must go on now.”“Yes,” said Serge, bluntly. “Then it’s vittles.”“Vittles?” said Marcus, staring.“Yes. Don’t you know what vittles are? Didn’t you say you was hungry?”“Oh!” cried Marcus.“Have you got anything?”“Scarcely anything,” replied Marcus.“Yah! And after all the pains I took with you! Didn’t I always say that an army on the march must always look well after its foraging? No commander can expect his men to behave better than a bottle.”“Look here, Serge,” cried Marcus, laughing, “why don’t you speak out plainly what you mean? What have men got to do with bottles?”“Oh, a good deal sometimes,” said the man, chuckling. “But that’s only my way. You can’t hold a bottle up, no matter whether it’s a goat-skin or one of them big jars made of clay, and expect to pour something out of it if you haven’t first put something in?”“No, of course not,” said Marcus, who was busy polishing the point of his spear with a tuft of dried grass.“Well, men’s the same as bottles; if you don’t give them plenty to eat and drink you can’t get plenty of fighting out of them. Always see to your foraging when you are on the march. I always do, and I have got something ready for us both now. But look here, my lad, this isn’t at home, and I’m not going to drive out the swine, and you are not going to your wax table. We are soldiering now, and whether it’s two thousand or only two, things are just the same. We have got to keep a sharp look-out for the enemy.”“You didn’t,” said Marcus, quickly, “or you would have seen me following you.”“That’s right,” said Serge, “and it was because I could think of nothing else but about being such a bad un as I was and forsaking my post. I dursen’t look back either, for fear that I should see someone following me. But that’s all over now; you and me’s joined forces, and we must go on straight. I don’t think it’s necessary, but we will just take a look round for danger before we sit down to enjoy our breakfast.”“Enjoy?” said Marcus, dubiously.“Yes, that’s right. We shall both have company over it. It’s been precious dull to me, being all alone. So now then; take the lead, captain, and give the orders to advance for a scout all round before we sit down to our meal.”“Very well, then,” cried Marcus. “Forward! This way first.”“Yes, but that’s too much of it,” said the old soldier. “A commanding officer don’t make speeches to his men ’cept when he’s going into action, and not always then. What you ought to have said was just ‘forward!’ and then advanced with your troops to follow you.”Marcus nodded and smiled, and, side by side and spear in hand, they climbed to the highest ground, carefully surveying their surroundings of wood and rock—every place, in fact, likely to give harbour to an enemy, till all at once Marcus threw out his left arm across his companion’s breast, and, stopping short, stood pointing with his spear to something half hidden behind a patch of bushes upon the other side of the stream.Serge sheltered his eyes on the instant, and gave a satisfied nod.“Right, captain,” he whispered; “but your force isn’t strong enough to surround the enemy. You must advance in line. It’s an ambuscade.”The half-concealed figure was nearly a hundred yards away, and, by the time they had covered half the distance, Marcus’ keen young eyes sent a message to his brain, and he whispered to his companion in an awe-stricken voice:“It’s that wounded man. He has lain down to die.”The old soldier uttered a low grunt, and sheltered his eyes again.“Looks like it,” he said, “but we had best make sure. Tell your men to level their spears and advance at a run. Dead men are dangerous sometimes.”Recalling the lesson he had just received, Marcus lowered his spear and uttered the one word:“Advance!”They broke into a sharp trot, straight for the horrible-looking, stiffened figure which lay crouched together in an unnatural attitude just behind a bush; but, before they were half way, there was a quick movement, a sharp rustling of leaves, and the dead man had sprung up and was running as swiftly as a deer.Marcus stared in astonishment, looking so surprised that Serge lowered the butt of his spear and rested upon its shaft in his familiar home attitude when the staff he carried was terminated by a crook instead of a keenly-pointed blade.“There, you see, my lad. That’s the sort of dead man you have got to beware of after a fight. They are a very dangerous sort; like that fellow, they are crippled a bit, but they won’t stop to be buried. They don’t like the idea. What they do is to play sham till their enemy has marched by ’em, thinking they are real, and then when some poor fellow is looking forward, one of them dead barbarians lets him have it in the back. There, we will go and sit up on the top there, and I’ll lean up against your back, and you shall lean up against mine while we eat our breakfast and are busy with our teeth, and leave our four eyes to play watchful sentry till we’ve done.”Marcus felt quite willing now that the excitement caused by the flying foe was at an end, and, soon after, Serge’s little store was drawn upon, and, quite happy and contented, the two old companions made what Marcus thought was the most appetising breakfast he had ever had in his life.“Hah!” cried Serge, as they rose at last. “Now let’s go down to the stream for a drink. Always camp, my lad, beside a river or a lake; and if you can’t—” He stopped short.“Well, if you can’t?” said Marcus.“Why, then you must go thirsty, same as you must go hungry too sometimes. Didn’t I always teach you that a soldier’s first duty was to learn how to fast?”“Oh, yes, I remember,” said Marcus, as he lay down to drink, while his companion watched, and then drank in turn, rising to say, as he drew a long, deep breath:“There, that’s as much as I want now. Nice clear water, and we’ve left plenty for the next as comes. But a deal of trouble I used to have in the face of plenty to make you believe it was a soldier’s duty to learn how to fast. You always were the hungriest boy I ever knew.”Marcus laughed, and looked wonderingly at his companion, who now stood up stiffly with his hands resting upon his spear.“Well, Serge, what now?” cried Marcus.“Only waiting, captain. Orders to advance.”“Forward!” cried Marcus; and, the next minute, with eyes eagerly scanning the track in front, they were marching together side by side on the way to Rome.
Serge was in the act of gathering himself together so as to spring up and catch his prisoner by the arms, but, as the boy questioned him sharply he sank a little lower upon his knees, and, as if all the strength had been suddenly discharged from within him, he said in quite a different tone of voice:
“What am I doing here?”
“Yes, sir,” cried Marcus, forcing him a little more back, and fixing him with his eyes, “what areyoudoing here?”
“Well, I—er—I—I’m here to take you back.”
“You old shuffler!” cried Marcus, in a rage. “I can see through you. My father’s orders, indeed! What were his orders toyou, sir? Weren’t they to stop and take care of his house and belongings, and of me?”
“Well, they was something like that,” growled the man, softly; “but don’t drive your knuckles into my throat like that, my lad. You hurt.”
“Hurt! Yes, and you deserve it,” cried Marcus, growing stronger in his attack upon the old servant as the latter grew more confused and weak. “So this is the way you obey my father’s commands. You took upon yourself to go into his room and help yourself to the armour you have on. Confess, you did; didn’t you?”
“Well, if it comes to that, Master Marcus,” grumbled the man, “it was my armour, and wouldn’t fit no one else.”
“That’s shuffling again, Serge, and it’s no good. You took the armour, unknown to my father?”
“Course I did, my lad,” cried the man, recovering himself a little. “He wasn’t there, was he?”
“Pah!” ejaculated Marcus. “More shuffling. Now then, confess: you took the armour and disobeyed the orders given you. What is more, you forsook me and left me to myself. Speak out; you did, didn’t you?”
“Well, I s’pose it’s o’ no use to deny it, Master Marcus. I s’pose I did.”
“And in direct opposition to my father’s orders you were going to follow him to the war?”
“That’s right, Master Marcus, but how could I help it? Could I let him, as I’d followed into many a fight, go off to meet those savage Gauls without me at his back to stand by him as I’ve done many and many a time before?”
“You disobeyed him, sir,” cried Marcus.
“Well, boy, I own up,” growled the man; “but I meant to do it for the best. How could I stop at home nussing you like a baby and thinking all the while that my old master was going about with swords and spears offering at his throat? How could I do it, Master Marcus? Don’t be so hard on a man. It wasn’t to be done.”
“And yet you were as hard as iron to me, sir,” cried Marcus.
“Well, didn’t your father order me to be in the way of taking care of you? It was my duty.”
“Was it?” cried Marcus. “Then now I’m going to do my duty to you, sir.”
“What are you going to do, Master Marcus?” said Serge, quite humbled now.
“Make you go back to the old home and take care of it.”
“Master never gave you orders to do that,” cried the old soldier, triumphantly; “and now I’m started to follow him and fight for him, nobody shan’t make me go; so there!”
Marcus and Serge remained gazing in one another’s eyes, till at last the latter spoke.
“Look here, Master Marcus, I meant it for the best. Aren’t you being a bit hard on me?”
“Look here, Serge,” replied Marcus, “I meant it for the best. Weren’t you a bit hard upon me?”
“I think not, Master Marcus, boy.”
“And that’s what I think, Serge.”
“I couldn’t see my dear old master go away alone into danger.”
“And I couldn’t see my dear old father go away alone into danger.”
“Of course you couldn’t, Master Marcus. I say, my lad, you know what I used to tell you about enemies doing when they come to a check like—what they settled was best.”
“What, made a truce?” said Marcus.
“Yes, my lad. I should like one now, for that bruise you’ve made with your knuckles in my throat’s quite big enough. It’ll be black to-morrow.”
“Get up, Serge,” said Marcus, letting his hand fall.
“Thankye, my lad. I say, boy, I didn’t think you were so strong.”
“Didn’t you, Serge?”
“No, boy. My word, it’s just as if getting into your armour had stiffened you all over. My word, I wouldn’t ha’ believed that you could fight like you did this morning!”
“I felt hot and excited, Serge, and as if I could do anything.”
“Didn’t feel a bit scared like, though there was six of them?”
“No,” said Marcus, thoughtfully; “I never thought anything about their numbers, only of saving you.”
“Thinking all the time it was someone else, sir?”
“Yes, Serge; that was it.”
“And you fought fine, sir. Seems to me it’s a pity for a youngster like you to be stopping at home unrolling volumes and making scratches with a stylus.”
“Does it, Serge?”
“Yes, sir, it do; and likewise it seems a pity that such a man as me, who can do his share of fighting, should be doing nothing better than driving the swine into the acorn woods.”
“And looking after and protecting me, Serge,” said Marcus, drily.
“Oh, yes, of course; there was that, of course, Master Marcus; but I say, sir, don’t you think we’ve both talked enough for the present; I tackled you and you tackled me in a pretty tidy argument, and both on us had the best of it in turn. I’m beginning to think that there’s good clear water coming down from the mountain yonder.”
“Yes, Serge; it makes me feel thirsty after getting so hot.”
“Then, too, I’ve got a nice loaf in my wallet and a tidy bit o’ meat as I got from a little way back. What do you say to our making a bit o’ breakfast together same as we’ve done before now in the woods?”
“And settle afterwards about whether we should go back, Serge?” said Marcus.
“Yes, my lad; that’ll be the sensiblest thing to do.”
“Yes,” said Marcus, “you’ve talked about it, and it has made me feel very hungry now.”
“Well, look here,” said Serge, “we are about even, aren’t we?”
“Even!” said Marcus, staring at the man. “Do you mean about both being hungry?”
“Nay–y–y–ay! About being wicked uns. You’ve done wrong, you know, and disobeyed orders.”
“Yes,” said Marcus, with a sigh.
“So have I. Well, we are both in disgrace, and that makes us even; so, of course, I can’t bully you any more and you can’t say ugly things to me. Fair play’s the thing, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” cried Marcus.
“Well, then, as you’ve behaved uncommon fine in tackling those rough ones, and saved my life—”
“Oh no,” said Marcus, modestly.
“But I say, oh yes. Don’t you talk to me. They’d have killed me dead, stripped off everything that was worth taking, and then left my body to the wolves.”
Marcus recalled the words of the speaker of his wandering away up the mountains to lie down and die, and he felt ready to say: “Well, that would have suited you;” but he thought it better not, and held his tongue.
“As I said before, you have behaved uncommonly well over that, so I’ll forgive you for running away, and shake hands, if you’ll agree to say nothing more about it to me.”
“Oh, very well,” cried Marcus. “I don’t feel that I can say any more to you.”
“Then I won’t to you, my lad, and there’s my hand on it. Only mind this,” cried Serge, as they stood with their hands clasped, “this is only me, you know. I lose my place of looking after you, according to the master’s orders, by forsaking my post and going after him, so I aren’t no longer holding your rein, as you may say. What I mean is this—I forgive you, but I am not going to answer for what your father will say.”
“Oh, of course not,” cried Marcus. “We have both got to face that.”
“Yes, my lad,” said the old soldier, sourly, “and a nice hard time it’s going to be. I daren’t think about it, but keep on putting it off till it comes. That’ll be time enough. So now then, you and me’s going to be friends, and try to help one another out of the mud. That is, unless you think we’d better go back home together.”
“Oh, no, no,” cried Marcus. “Impossible! We must go on now.”
“Yes,” said Serge, bluntly. “Then it’s vittles.”
“Vittles?” said Marcus, staring.
“Yes. Don’t you know what vittles are? Didn’t you say you was hungry?”
“Oh!” cried Marcus.
“Have you got anything?”
“Scarcely anything,” replied Marcus.
“Yah! And after all the pains I took with you! Didn’t I always say that an army on the march must always look well after its foraging? No commander can expect his men to behave better than a bottle.”
“Look here, Serge,” cried Marcus, laughing, “why don’t you speak out plainly what you mean? What have men got to do with bottles?”
“Oh, a good deal sometimes,” said the man, chuckling. “But that’s only my way. You can’t hold a bottle up, no matter whether it’s a goat-skin or one of them big jars made of clay, and expect to pour something out of it if you haven’t first put something in?”
“No, of course not,” said Marcus, who was busy polishing the point of his spear with a tuft of dried grass.
“Well, men’s the same as bottles; if you don’t give them plenty to eat and drink you can’t get plenty of fighting out of them. Always see to your foraging when you are on the march. I always do, and I have got something ready for us both now. But look here, my lad, this isn’t at home, and I’m not going to drive out the swine, and you are not going to your wax table. We are soldiering now, and whether it’s two thousand or only two, things are just the same. We have got to keep a sharp look-out for the enemy.”
“You didn’t,” said Marcus, quickly, “or you would have seen me following you.”
“That’s right,” said Serge, “and it was because I could think of nothing else but about being such a bad un as I was and forsaking my post. I dursen’t look back either, for fear that I should see someone following me. But that’s all over now; you and me’s joined forces, and we must go on straight. I don’t think it’s necessary, but we will just take a look round for danger before we sit down to enjoy our breakfast.”
“Enjoy?” said Marcus, dubiously.
“Yes, that’s right. We shall both have company over it. It’s been precious dull to me, being all alone. So now then; take the lead, captain, and give the orders to advance for a scout all round before we sit down to our meal.”
“Very well, then,” cried Marcus. “Forward! This way first.”
“Yes, but that’s too much of it,” said the old soldier. “A commanding officer don’t make speeches to his men ’cept when he’s going into action, and not always then. What you ought to have said was just ‘forward!’ and then advanced with your troops to follow you.”
Marcus nodded and smiled, and, side by side and spear in hand, they climbed to the highest ground, carefully surveying their surroundings of wood and rock—every place, in fact, likely to give harbour to an enemy, till all at once Marcus threw out his left arm across his companion’s breast, and, stopping short, stood pointing with his spear to something half hidden behind a patch of bushes upon the other side of the stream.
Serge sheltered his eyes on the instant, and gave a satisfied nod.
“Right, captain,” he whispered; “but your force isn’t strong enough to surround the enemy. You must advance in line. It’s an ambuscade.”
The half-concealed figure was nearly a hundred yards away, and, by the time they had covered half the distance, Marcus’ keen young eyes sent a message to his brain, and he whispered to his companion in an awe-stricken voice:
“It’s that wounded man. He has lain down to die.”
The old soldier uttered a low grunt, and sheltered his eyes again.
“Looks like it,” he said, “but we had best make sure. Tell your men to level their spears and advance at a run. Dead men are dangerous sometimes.”
Recalling the lesson he had just received, Marcus lowered his spear and uttered the one word:
“Advance!”
They broke into a sharp trot, straight for the horrible-looking, stiffened figure which lay crouched together in an unnatural attitude just behind a bush; but, before they were half way, there was a quick movement, a sharp rustling of leaves, and the dead man had sprung up and was running as swiftly as a deer.
Marcus stared in astonishment, looking so surprised that Serge lowered the butt of his spear and rested upon its shaft in his familiar home attitude when the staff he carried was terminated by a crook instead of a keenly-pointed blade.
“There, you see, my lad. That’s the sort of dead man you have got to beware of after a fight. They are a very dangerous sort; like that fellow, they are crippled a bit, but they won’t stop to be buried. They don’t like the idea. What they do is to play sham till their enemy has marched by ’em, thinking they are real, and then when some poor fellow is looking forward, one of them dead barbarians lets him have it in the back. There, we will go and sit up on the top there, and I’ll lean up against your back, and you shall lean up against mine while we eat our breakfast and are busy with our teeth, and leave our four eyes to play watchful sentry till we’ve done.”
Marcus felt quite willing now that the excitement caused by the flying foe was at an end, and, soon after, Serge’s little store was drawn upon, and, quite happy and contented, the two old companions made what Marcus thought was the most appetising breakfast he had ever had in his life.
“Hah!” cried Serge, as they rose at last. “Now let’s go down to the stream for a drink. Always camp, my lad, beside a river or a lake; and if you can’t—” He stopped short.
“Well, if you can’t?” said Marcus.
“Why, then you must go thirsty, same as you must go hungry too sometimes. Didn’t I always teach you that a soldier’s first duty was to learn how to fast?”
“Oh, yes, I remember,” said Marcus, as he lay down to drink, while his companion watched, and then drank in turn, rising to say, as he drew a long, deep breath:
“There, that’s as much as I want now. Nice clear water, and we’ve left plenty for the next as comes. But a deal of trouble I used to have in the face of plenty to make you believe it was a soldier’s duty to learn how to fast. You always were the hungriest boy I ever knew.”
Marcus laughed, and looked wonderingly at his companion, who now stood up stiffly with his hands resting upon his spear.
“Well, Serge, what now?” cried Marcus.
“Only waiting, captain. Orders to advance.”
“Forward!” cried Marcus; and, the next minute, with eyes eagerly scanning the track in front, they were marching together side by side on the way to Rome.
Chapter Fifteen.Wearing Armour.It was some hours afterwards, when the sun was beating down hotly, that Serge suggested that they should have half an hour’s rest in the shade of a clump of huge, spiral-barked chestnuts, whose dark, glossy-green leaves were spread over a bend of the track which had evidently been slightly diverted so that those who followed it might take advantage of the shade.The trees were approached cautiously, and the pair scouted round the clump to make sure it was untenanted before they stretched themselves amongst the mossy, radiating roots that spread far and wide.“There seem to have been plenty of people here,” said Marcus, pointing to where the soft, moist earth was full of imprints. “There have been wheeled carriages here.”“Yes,” grunted Serge. “Those are ox waggons. See?”“Yes,” said Marcus. “But those others are different.”“Yes,” said Serge. “Chariot wheels, those.”“How do you know?” said Marcus, sharply.“Look at ’em,” grunted the old soldier. “Can’t you see they are light? They are made to gallop. Those others were made to crawl. Why, it’s printed all about that they were chariot wheels. Look at the marks of the horses’ hoofs.”“Oh yes, I see,” cried Marcus. “The waggons show nothing but the feet of oxen. But how come there to be chariot wheels about here?”“How did that Roman general, Caius Julius, come to the farm?”“I don’t know,” said Marcus, starting. “I never thought of that.”“I did,” said Serge, with a grunt which might have been copied from one of the swine he had so often driven.“How did he come?” cried Marcus.“Same way as he went back to Rome.”“Of course,” cried the boy, impatiently. “But how was that?”“With chariots and horsemen.”“Are you sure? I saw none.”“Didn’t go down to the village to look?”“No; I had too much to think of.”“So had I,” said Serge; “but I went and looked all the same. There was a grand chariot and a lot of horsemen, and it was in that chariot that, after walking down to the village, the master went away.”“Oh, then they must be far ahead,” cried Marcus.“Yes; at Rome before now.”“And I have been expecting that we might come upon them at any moment,” said Marcus, with a sigh of relief. “Then we shan’t see them till we get there?”“And like enough not then,” said Serge, with a grim smile; “so you may make yourself comfortable about this scolding that’s got to come, for it won’t be yet.”“But we shall see my father as soon as we get to the army.”“Some time perhaps,” said Serge; “but the army will be miles long perhaps on the march, and it’s hard work, boy, to find one in a hundred thousand men.”“Then we may not find him!” cried Marcus, in an agonised tone.“Well, no, my lad, but you may make your mind happy about that. One man’s not bound to find his general, but his general’s pretty sure to find him, or the legion he is in. There, don’t you fidget about that. If you and me hadn’t done any harm we should be pretty safe, but so sure as one does what one ought not to do, one may make up one’s mind that he’ll be found out.”The rest was pleasant, but Marcus did not feel so satisfied in his own mind when they started once again on the tramp.It was on the evening of a hot and wearying day that Marcus sat in a shady grove, gladly resting, while Serge was relieving him of his armour and carefully hanging it piece by piece from, one or other of the branches by which they were surrounded.“Grand thing, armour,” said the old soldier, as he watched the tired boy from the corners of his eyes.Marcus started from a waking dream of Rome and its glories as he pictured it in his own mind.“Oh yes,” he said, hastily; “glorious!”“Nice and bright and shining, and makes a man seem worth looking at when it’s on, eh?”“Yes,” said Marcus, with a faint sigh.“How proud you felt when you’d got yours; eh, my lad?”“Yes, very,” said Marcus.“Nice dress to walk in.”“But it’s rather heavy in this hot weather,” ventured Marcus.“Heavy, boy? Why, of course it is. If it wasn’t heavy the barbarians’ swords and spears would go through it as if it was sheep skin. But yours fits you beautifully, and will for ever so long yet—if you don’t grow,” added the man, slily.Marcus turned upon him peevishly.“Well, I can’t help growing, can I?” he cried.“Oh no, boy; course you can’t till you’ve done growing, and then you won’t grow any more.”“Do you think I don’t know that?” snapped out the boy.“No. Oh no; but what’s the matter with your shoulder?”“Nothing much,” said Marcus, sourly. “Those shoulder straps rub that one, and the back part frets my neck.”“Does it? That’s bad; but I’ll put that right when you put it on in the morning. Don’t you mind about that: after a bit your skin’ll get hard, and what feels to worry and rub you will be soft as a duck’s breast.”“Nonsense! How can bronze and brass get to be soft as feathers, Serge?”“Oh, I dunno, my lad,” replied the old soldier, slowly, “but it do. I suppose,” he added, mockingly, “you get so much glory on your shoulders that it pads you out and makes your armour fit like wax. It is heavy, though, at first. Mine worried me the first day, because I hadn’t worn it for years; but it sits lovely now, and I could run and jump and do anything. Helmet too did feel a bit lumpy; but I felt it more in my toes than on my head.”“Are you laughing at me, Serge?” cried Marcus, turning upon the man, sharply.“Can’t you see I’m not, boy? Why, I’m as serious as a centurion with a new command.”“But do you think I’m going to believe that you felt your heavy helmet in your toes?”“Of course I do, boy,” said the man, chuckling. “If it’s heavy, don’t the weight go right down to the bottom and drive your toes hard to the very end of your sandals?”“I didn’t think of that, Serge,” said the boy, a trifle less irritably.“S’pose not, boy. You haven’t got to the end of everything that there is to know. Besides, your helmet is light.”“Light?” cried Marcus, bitterly.“Well, of course it aren’t as light as a straw hat as you can tilt off every time you come into the shade, and let it hang between your shoulders, same as you do your shield.”“And I suppose that is?” said Marcus, sharply.“What, as a straw hat, boy? Well, I don’t say that,” said Serge, drily, “because it do weigh a tidy bit. But that helmet of yours, as I took care should be just right for a boy, is too light altogether.”“Bah!” cried Marcus. “Why, it has made my forehead and the back just behind my ears as sore as sore.”“Pooh! That isn’t because the helmet’s too heavy; it’s on account of your head being so soft and green. It’ll be hard enough before the end of this war. Why, if it were lighter, every crack you got in your first fight would make it give way like an eggshell; and then where would you be, my lad? Come, come, cheer up! You’re a bit tired with this tramp—the first big one you’ve had. You’ll be better in the morning, and before this time to-morrow night I dare say we shall be in sight of Rome and its hills and the Tiber, and, take my word for it, you won’t feel tired then.”“Think not. Serge?”“Sure of it, boy. Man who’s a bit worn out feels as if everything’s wrong, and the flies that come buzzing about seem to be as big as crows; but after a good sleep when the sun rises again to make everything look bright, he sees clearer; the flies don’t seem to buzz, only hum pleasant like, and what there is of them is golden-green and shiny, and not a bit bigger than a fly should be.”“But I’m disappointed, Serge. I hoped to see my father as soon as I reached Rome, and get this trouble off my mind.”“Instead of which it has to wait. Well, never mind, lad. It will be easier perhaps then. Now then, you do as I say: lie down at once close up there to that dry, sandy bit, and sleep as hard as you can till morning. Then we’ll set off and get to Rome as soon as we can, and hear about the army and which way it has gone.”“Perhaps it will not have started yet?” said Marcus, eagerly.“Like as not, my lad, but, if it has, we can follow it up. Now then, be sharp, for I want to lie down too. We shall be fresh as the field flowers in the morning, for no one is likely to disturb us here.”Marcus said nothing, for he knew that the old soldier’s words were meant to encourage him, and he thought so more than ever, as, free now from his heavy armour, he lay looking upward, listening to the faint hum of beetles and seeing the glint of the stars through the trees, while he thought of their journey and the disappointment he felt over Serge’s words, while it seemed to him all a part of his thinking instead of a dream—a confused dream when he fancied himself back at the old house seeking for Serge and finding the dog crouched down in the shed where the great stone cistern stood, and in the harvest time the grapes were trodden, those grown in their little vineyard and those from the neighbouring farms where there was no convenience of the kind.But as he was about to turn away and fasten the door, it seemed strange that the place should be lit up by sunshine coming aslant through the trees, when it was late in the evening and dark. But so it was, with Lupe couching down, making no attempt to follow or pass him as he closed the door, but resting his long, fierce-looking jaws upon his extended paws, till, after trying hard to puzzle out why it was so, Marcus came fully to his waking senses and sat up suddenly, while Lupe followed his example, to burst out into a deep, joyous bark.“What!” now came in a deep voice from behind Marcus. “Why, Lupe, dog, have you found your way here?”
It was some hours afterwards, when the sun was beating down hotly, that Serge suggested that they should have half an hour’s rest in the shade of a clump of huge, spiral-barked chestnuts, whose dark, glossy-green leaves were spread over a bend of the track which had evidently been slightly diverted so that those who followed it might take advantage of the shade.
The trees were approached cautiously, and the pair scouted round the clump to make sure it was untenanted before they stretched themselves amongst the mossy, radiating roots that spread far and wide.
“There seem to have been plenty of people here,” said Marcus, pointing to where the soft, moist earth was full of imprints. “There have been wheeled carriages here.”
“Yes,” grunted Serge. “Those are ox waggons. See?”
“Yes,” said Marcus. “But those others are different.”
“Yes,” said Serge. “Chariot wheels, those.”
“How do you know?” said Marcus, sharply.
“Look at ’em,” grunted the old soldier. “Can’t you see they are light? They are made to gallop. Those others were made to crawl. Why, it’s printed all about that they were chariot wheels. Look at the marks of the horses’ hoofs.”
“Oh yes, I see,” cried Marcus. “The waggons show nothing but the feet of oxen. But how come there to be chariot wheels about here?”
“How did that Roman general, Caius Julius, come to the farm?”
“I don’t know,” said Marcus, starting. “I never thought of that.”
“I did,” said Serge, with a grunt which might have been copied from one of the swine he had so often driven.
“How did he come?” cried Marcus.
“Same way as he went back to Rome.”
“Of course,” cried the boy, impatiently. “But how was that?”
“With chariots and horsemen.”
“Are you sure? I saw none.”
“Didn’t go down to the village to look?”
“No; I had too much to think of.”
“So had I,” said Serge; “but I went and looked all the same. There was a grand chariot and a lot of horsemen, and it was in that chariot that, after walking down to the village, the master went away.”
“Oh, then they must be far ahead,” cried Marcus.
“Yes; at Rome before now.”
“And I have been expecting that we might come upon them at any moment,” said Marcus, with a sigh of relief. “Then we shan’t see them till we get there?”
“And like enough not then,” said Serge, with a grim smile; “so you may make yourself comfortable about this scolding that’s got to come, for it won’t be yet.”
“But we shall see my father as soon as we get to the army.”
“Some time perhaps,” said Serge; “but the army will be miles long perhaps on the march, and it’s hard work, boy, to find one in a hundred thousand men.”
“Then we may not find him!” cried Marcus, in an agonised tone.
“Well, no, my lad, but you may make your mind happy about that. One man’s not bound to find his general, but his general’s pretty sure to find him, or the legion he is in. There, don’t you fidget about that. If you and me hadn’t done any harm we should be pretty safe, but so sure as one does what one ought not to do, one may make up one’s mind that he’ll be found out.”
The rest was pleasant, but Marcus did not feel so satisfied in his own mind when they started once again on the tramp.
It was on the evening of a hot and wearying day that Marcus sat in a shady grove, gladly resting, while Serge was relieving him of his armour and carefully hanging it piece by piece from, one or other of the branches by which they were surrounded.
“Grand thing, armour,” said the old soldier, as he watched the tired boy from the corners of his eyes.
Marcus started from a waking dream of Rome and its glories as he pictured it in his own mind.
“Oh yes,” he said, hastily; “glorious!”
“Nice and bright and shining, and makes a man seem worth looking at when it’s on, eh?”
“Yes,” said Marcus, with a faint sigh.
“How proud you felt when you’d got yours; eh, my lad?”
“Yes, very,” said Marcus.
“Nice dress to walk in.”
“But it’s rather heavy in this hot weather,” ventured Marcus.
“Heavy, boy? Why, of course it is. If it wasn’t heavy the barbarians’ swords and spears would go through it as if it was sheep skin. But yours fits you beautifully, and will for ever so long yet—if you don’t grow,” added the man, slily.
Marcus turned upon him peevishly.
“Well, I can’t help growing, can I?” he cried.
“Oh no, boy; course you can’t till you’ve done growing, and then you won’t grow any more.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” snapped out the boy.
“No. Oh no; but what’s the matter with your shoulder?”
“Nothing much,” said Marcus, sourly. “Those shoulder straps rub that one, and the back part frets my neck.”
“Does it? That’s bad; but I’ll put that right when you put it on in the morning. Don’t you mind about that: after a bit your skin’ll get hard, and what feels to worry and rub you will be soft as a duck’s breast.”
“Nonsense! How can bronze and brass get to be soft as feathers, Serge?”
“Oh, I dunno, my lad,” replied the old soldier, slowly, “but it do. I suppose,” he added, mockingly, “you get so much glory on your shoulders that it pads you out and makes your armour fit like wax. It is heavy, though, at first. Mine worried me the first day, because I hadn’t worn it for years; but it sits lovely now, and I could run and jump and do anything. Helmet too did feel a bit lumpy; but I felt it more in my toes than on my head.”
“Are you laughing at me, Serge?” cried Marcus, turning upon the man, sharply.
“Can’t you see I’m not, boy? Why, I’m as serious as a centurion with a new command.”
“But do you think I’m going to believe that you felt your heavy helmet in your toes?”
“Of course I do, boy,” said the man, chuckling. “If it’s heavy, don’t the weight go right down to the bottom and drive your toes hard to the very end of your sandals?”
“I didn’t think of that, Serge,” said the boy, a trifle less irritably.
“S’pose not, boy. You haven’t got to the end of everything that there is to know. Besides, your helmet is light.”
“Light?” cried Marcus, bitterly.
“Well, of course it aren’t as light as a straw hat as you can tilt off every time you come into the shade, and let it hang between your shoulders, same as you do your shield.”
“And I suppose that is?” said Marcus, sharply.
“What, as a straw hat, boy? Well, I don’t say that,” said Serge, drily, “because it do weigh a tidy bit. But that helmet of yours, as I took care should be just right for a boy, is too light altogether.”
“Bah!” cried Marcus. “Why, it has made my forehead and the back just behind my ears as sore as sore.”
“Pooh! That isn’t because the helmet’s too heavy; it’s on account of your head being so soft and green. It’ll be hard enough before the end of this war. Why, if it were lighter, every crack you got in your first fight would make it give way like an eggshell; and then where would you be, my lad? Come, come, cheer up! You’re a bit tired with this tramp—the first big one you’ve had. You’ll be better in the morning, and before this time to-morrow night I dare say we shall be in sight of Rome and its hills and the Tiber, and, take my word for it, you won’t feel tired then.”
“Think not. Serge?”
“Sure of it, boy. Man who’s a bit worn out feels as if everything’s wrong, and the flies that come buzzing about seem to be as big as crows; but after a good sleep when the sun rises again to make everything look bright, he sees clearer; the flies don’t seem to buzz, only hum pleasant like, and what there is of them is golden-green and shiny, and not a bit bigger than a fly should be.”
“But I’m disappointed, Serge. I hoped to see my father as soon as I reached Rome, and get this trouble off my mind.”
“Instead of which it has to wait. Well, never mind, lad. It will be easier perhaps then. Now then, you do as I say: lie down at once close up there to that dry, sandy bit, and sleep as hard as you can till morning. Then we’ll set off and get to Rome as soon as we can, and hear about the army and which way it has gone.”
“Perhaps it will not have started yet?” said Marcus, eagerly.
“Like as not, my lad, but, if it has, we can follow it up. Now then, be sharp, for I want to lie down too. We shall be fresh as the field flowers in the morning, for no one is likely to disturb us here.”
Marcus said nothing, for he knew that the old soldier’s words were meant to encourage him, and he thought so more than ever, as, free now from his heavy armour, he lay looking upward, listening to the faint hum of beetles and seeing the glint of the stars through the trees, while he thought of their journey and the disappointment he felt over Serge’s words, while it seemed to him all a part of his thinking instead of a dream—a confused dream when he fancied himself back at the old house seeking for Serge and finding the dog crouched down in the shed where the great stone cistern stood, and in the harvest time the grapes were trodden, those grown in their little vineyard and those from the neighbouring farms where there was no convenience of the kind.
But as he was about to turn away and fasten the door, it seemed strange that the place should be lit up by sunshine coming aslant through the trees, when it was late in the evening and dark. But so it was, with Lupe couching down, making no attempt to follow or pass him as he closed the door, but resting his long, fierce-looking jaws upon his extended paws, till, after trying hard to puzzle out why it was so, Marcus came fully to his waking senses and sat up suddenly, while Lupe followed his example, to burst out into a deep, joyous bark.
“What!” now came in a deep voice from behind Marcus. “Why, Lupe, dog, have you found your way here?”