“Well, but then?”
“Oh, then—he’d have stood and smelt about till he’d got hold of our scent, and then come on.”
“What, all this way and all this time? The scent couldn’t have lain so long.”
“It never seems to me that there’s any scent at all,” said Serge, “but old Lupe there somehow seems to do it. He is a dog, and no mistake. Why, he’s lost himself time after time going after the wolves when I have been out hunting, and it has seemed to me that I should never find him again. Why, you know, he’s been away sometimes for days, but he’s always found his way back. Well, now then, give yourself your orders to get ready to march, and let’s get on to Rome.”
“Yes, of course,” cried Marcus.
“But how do you feel, lad? You seemed ready to knock up last night, tired out.”
“Did I?” cried Marcus, flushing slightly.
“Did yer? Why, you seemed sore all over, whining about your armour and your helmet.”
“Oh, nonsense!” cried the boy, as he hastily followed his companion’s lead, handily buckling and securing his defensive armour the while. “We had had a very long march, and it was as hot as could be. I feel quite fresh this morning.”
“Ready for anything, eh? Well, what about this chap?”