Marcus: the Young Centurion | Page 4

past--for they were old enemies, Marcus and they--when, all at once, there was a fierce, deep, growling bark, a rush, a man's deep voice as if encouraging a dog, and Marcus was free, to stand there breathless and giddy, listening to the retreating steps of his foes and the shouts to the dog of Serge, who had come to his help in the nick of time.
CHAPTER TWO.
OLD SERGE.
Marcus, son of Cracis, was a good deal hurt, but his injuries were of a temporary and superficial kind, and, as he stood listening, so little importance did he attach to his injuries that a broad grin began to gather upon his frank young face, and he uttered a low, chuckling laugh; for, as he stood wiping his brow and listening, he could hear the sounds of blows, yells and cries, the worrying growl of the dog, and the harsh encouraging voice of the man pretty close at hand, all of which taught him that the enemy had been checked in their retreat and were being horribly routed by the reinforcements--a cohort of dog and man.
"The young ruffians!" said Marcus, softly, as, unwillingly dragging himself from where he could have the satisfaction of hearing the punishment that was being awarded, he hurried back into the villa and stopped in the court, where he sank upon his knees by the cool, plashing fountain, whose clear waters he tinged as he bathed his face and swollen eye.
He had some intention of hurrying back to the scene of battle to look upon the damaged vines, and see if any prisoners had been made; but, while he was still occupied in his surgical effort to make his injured eye see as well as the other, he was startled into rising up and turning to face the owner of a deep, gruff voice, who had approached him unheard, to growl out:
"Well, you were a pretty fellow, boy! Why didn't you beat 'em?"
The speaker was a big, thick-set, grizzled man of fifty, his bare arms and legs brown-skinned, hairy and muscular, his chest open, and his little clothing consisting of a belted garment similar to that worn by the boy, at whom he gazed with a grim look of satisfaction which lit up his rugged face and fine eyes.
"Weren't running away, were you?"
"No!" shouted Marcus, angrily. "I kept at it till you came, Serge. But there were six."
"Yes, I know. You didn't go the right way to work. Were they at the grapes?"
"Yes. They woke me up; I had been writing, and I dropped asleep."
"Writing?" said the man contemptuously and with a deep grunt of scorn. "Enough to send anybody to sleep on a day like this. I say, lucky for you I came back!"
"Yes," said Marcus, giving his face a final wipe; "I was getting the worst of it."
"Course you were. That's reading and writing, that is. Now, if you had been taught to be a soldier instead of a volumer, you'd have known that when the enemy's many more than you, you ought to attack him in bits, not take him all at once and get yourself surrounded. Yes, it's lucky for you I came."
"Yes, and I hope you gave them something to remember it," said the boy, with his eyes fixed upon the stout crook upon which the new-comer leaned.
"Oh yes, I made them feel this," said the man, with a chuckle; "and old Lupus tickled them up a bit and made them squeak."
"That's right," cried Marcus; "but where is he?"
"On guard," said the man.
"On guard?"
"Yes," said the man, with a chuckle. "We took the whole six of them prisoners."
"Ah! Where are they then?"
"Shut up fast alone with the wine-press. They won't get out of there with Lupus looking on."
"Capital!" cried Marcus, forgetting all his sufferings in the triumphant news. "Here, Serge, what shall we do with them?"
"I'm not going to do anything with them," said the man, gruffly. "I've had my turn, and it's yours now. You've got to fight the lot."
"Yes," cried the boy, flushing, and his fists began to clench. "But I say, Serge, I should like to, but I'm a bit tired, and they're still six to one."
"Yes," said the man, "but that's what I want you to see. It won't hurt you to know how, even if you're never going to be a soldier. You come along o' me."
"What, to fight them?" cried Marcus.
"Yes. Aren't afraid, are you?"
"Not a bit," cried the boy, flushing angrily. "Come and see."
The man chuckled as he went off with his young companion to the lower side of the villa, where stood a low-roofed stone building with heavy chestnut plank doors, before which crouched a big, shaggy wolf-hound which pricked up its ears and uttered a deep growl as it lifted up its bushy tail, and