“Barbarous! Aren’t they barbarians? Why, I don’t believe you could manage it in a better way.”
Chapter Seventeen.
Too Late.
It was the beginning of a tramp that lasted days.
Rome had been soon reached, but they were too late to witness the turmoil of excitement that had preceded and accompanied the departure of the last division of the army which, Marcus and his companion gathered from a group of invalided soldiers left behind, had been tarrying and awaiting the return of Caius Julius to assume the supreme command. He, they were told, had been away upon a mission to claim the assistance of some great general who was supposed to be an old friend full of wisdom; and he, they told Serge, had been brought in triumph to the city, to place himself with Julius at the head of the waiting men.
“You should have been here then,” said one old man, “and seen the welcome they had from our gallant boys and the women who crowded the streets waiting to see them go. Ah, it made the tears come into my old eyes to think that I should be left behind.”
“Then why were you left behind?” growled Serge. “You are not an older man than I.”
“No,” said the old soldier, laughing softly, “but you have two legs to march on. I have only one and this stick.”