Marcus: the Young Centurion | Page 3

couple of
springs came down upon them like fate, gripping them by the backs of
their necks and sending them face downwards amongst the vine leaves
and damaged bunches that had been torn from the vine, kneeling upon
one and pressing the head of the other down into the soil, regardless of
the shrieks and yells which made the two seated above drop down and
follow the other two, who had taken to flight, while the noise that was
made startled the sleeping swine outside to add their shrill squeals and
heavy grunts to the turmoil of the cultivated ground within.
It was hard work to keep down the two young marauders, who joined to
their struggling piteous appeals for mercy; but Right strengthened the
hands of Marcus, and he was gaining a complete triumph, and
calculating where he should secure his two prisoners until either his
father or Serge came back, the latter probably from his tramp through
the forest to see after the young acorn-eating pigs.
But the prisoners' shouts reached and added wings to their flying
friends' heels for the moment, then checked them, and a feeling of
comradeship prevailed. The young rascals stopped short after going
some distance; then one looked back, and his example was followed by
another and another, till all four were hesitating as to what they should
do.
They were on the balance when a more pitiful yell than ever from their
trapped companions sent the scale down in the latter's favour. They
looked at one another questioningly and then began to steal back to see
what was happening, all the while fully on the alert to dash again
through the trees which shaded their approach to the garden.
In this way, with their fellows' bellowing ringing in their ears, they at
last stole up to the palisading through which they had at first broken,
and then, dropping on hands and knees, they crept cautiously up to the

edge of the little vineyard and, sheltering themselves well, peered in.
The first and boldest got a good glimpse at once, and beckoned and
made way for the others to see what was happening.
There was not much to see, only Marcus half kneeling half sitting upon
the ragged back of one of his prisoners, and reaching over to grind the
nose of the other a little more closely into the earth every time he
squealed.
But that was enough for the return party, which clustered together on
all fours with their faces approaching and eyes questioning, like so
many quadrupeds.
They looked the more animal-like from their silence during the next
few minutes, when the two prisoners made a concerted effort to get
free--an effort which only resulted in making their position worse, for,
as he mastered them, reducing them to obedience again, the boy
jammed his knees fiercely into the ribs of the one upon whom he
squatted, and lifted up and banged down again the head of the other.
The result was a piteous burst of shrieks which were too much for their
friends and supplied them with the courage in which they were wanting,
making them with one consent spring forward to their comrades' help,
influenced, however, by the feeling that they were six to one.
So sudden and unexpected was the attack, which accompanied a loud
shout--one which made the prisoners join in and heave themselves up
to get free--that Marcus was jerked over, and, before he could gain his
feet, found himself the centre of a combined attack in which he rapidly
began to get the worst of it, for, while he fought bravely and
pommelled and banged enemies in front, getting on so well that he
succeeded in seizing two by the neck and hammering their heads
together, two others leaped on him from behind in his weak rear, in
spite of his splendid kicking powers, while two more attacked in front.
Marcus was a young Roman, and fought like the Romans of old; but
then the six young roughs were Romans too, and they fought like the

Romans of old, and six to one is rather long odds.
Breath began to come short, perspiration was streaming, and an
unlucky blow on the nose set another stream flowing, while, all at once,
a dab in the eye made the optic flinch, close its lid from intense pain,
and refuse to open again, so that one-eyed like a regular old Cyclops,
and panting like the same gentleman from the exertions of using his
hammer-- two in this case, and natural--Marcus fought on, grinding his
teeth, rapidly weakening, but determined as ever, though he felt that he
was being thoroughly worsted by his foes.
"I'm about done," he said to himself; but he did not utter a sound save
his panting,