Marcus glanced sharply down at the speaker, and, seeing the boy’s intention, the old fellow laughed again.
“Oh, yes, you are thinking I lie. There’s two of them, my lad, and one’s as good a leg as ever stepped; but as for the other, it’s years ago now, when I was with Julius, and I got a swoop from a Gallic sword; the savage ducked down as I struck at him, and brought his blade round to catch me just above the heel. But he never made another blow,” continued the old man, grimly. “My short, sharp sword took him in the chest, and he never hurt a Roman again.”
“But you got over your wound?” cried Marcus, eagerly.
“It soon healed up, my lad, but he had cut through the tendon, and I was never fit to march again, or I shouldn’t be talking to you here. But look here, old fellow, you were ready enough to twit me about not being with the army. Why are you not there?”
“Can’t you see we are too late?” growled Serge, angrily.
“Oh yes, that’s plain enough,” said the old man, maliciously, as he rested upon his staff, “and some great fighting men who win great battles with their tongues are always too late to strike a blow. How is it you are late like that?”
“Oh, that’s what you want to know, is it?” said Serge, surlily.
“Yes,” said the old man. “A man with legs like yours ought to have been there.”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Serge. “It was like this. My chariot had gone to have new wheels. But perhaps I might have made the old ones do. But both my chariot horses were down with a sort of fever. Then the driver had gone away to get married and couldn’t be found, and so I had to walk. And now you know.”
“Bah!” cried the old man. “Look at your rough hands! You have been like me. You never had a chariot or horses of your own. You’re only a working man. All lies.”