"Who are behind you?" asked Sergius, sternly. "Speak and lie not, food for Acheron!"
"They who are burning the farm."
Sergius' eyes glittered, and he leaned forward to catch the words, as he began to gather their import.
"Speak quickly, and you shall be safe," he said, in more reassuring tones. "Whose farm is it that is burning? Loose him, Marcus."
Released from the hands that held him, the fugitive seemed to waver for a moment between speech and flight. Perhaps exhaustion turned the balance, for, still panting for breath, he threw himself on his knees before Sergius' bridle and gasped:—
"My master's farm—a veteran of the first war—a centurion—the Numidians."
"Where is it? How many are there?"
The man pointed down the slope up which he had scrambled.
"I did not note their numbers, lord. Perhaps a hundred—perhaps more."
As he spoke, the sky began to brighten as with fire, and Sergius, wheeling his horse, urged him downward toward the plain. Decius was by his side in an instant, and behind them came the cavalry at a speed that threatened to hurl them headlong to the foot of the rocky declivity. Joy and fury shone on the faces of the men: only Marcus Decius seemed troubled and abstracted.