Aragaris gave him, with an oath, his last ration of biscuit. He himself had eaten overnight enough for two days, of fat pork and bean pottage.
"Attention! Hark!" he said halting. "There's a trumpet! We're not far from the camp. We must steer round to the north.... I don't mind bears," added Aragaris thoughtfully, "but that centurion..."
The soldiers had nicknamed this hated centurion "Cedo Alteram," because he used to cry out gleefully every time he broke the rod with which he was striking a delinquent, Cedo alteram! that is to say, "Give us another!"
"I'm certain," said the barbarian—"I'll wager that Cedo Alteram will tan my back as a tanner whacks a bullock's hide. It's abominable, my friend, abominable."
The worthy pair were now stragglers behind the army, because Aragaris according to his custom had got dead drunk in a plundered village and Strombix had been thrashed. The little Syrian had made a fruitless attempt to obtain the favours of a handsome Frankish girl. This sixteen-year-old-beauty, daughter of a barbarian killed in the fight, had administered to him two such blows that he had fallen on his back and had then fairly stamped upon him.
"She wasn't a girl but a devil," declared Strombix. "I hardly took hold of her and she nearly broke every rib in my body."
The note of the trumpet became more and more distinct. Aragaris, sniffing the wind like a blood-hound, noticed the smell of smoke; the bivouacs must be but a short way off.
The night became pitch dark. They could hardly make out the road; the path was lost in marshes in which they leapt from tussock to tussock. Fog began to rise. Suddenly from a great yew, with branches from which moss hung like long grey beards, something fled away with a harsh cry. Strombix crouched down with fear. It was a black cock.
They finally lost their bearings. Strombix climbed a tree.
"The bivouacs lie northwards—not far off. There's a wide river below."