“Every word of it,” said Serge, grinning, “’cept that it’s true about me and the youngster here having to walk like our dog. But we want to get there, brother, as soon as we can, so put us on our way to overtake the army, or by a short track to cut it off.”
“Do you mean it?” said the old soldier.
“Mean it? Of course!” cried Marcus, excitedly. “The division, mind, that’s led by Caius Julius.”
“Ho, ho, my young cockerel!” cried the old man. “Then nothing will do for you but the best?”
“Nothing,” cried Marcus, eagerly. “We want to be where that great general is that Julius went to seek. Now put us on the way.”
“That’s easily done,” cried the old man. “There’s a troop of horse that sets off to-night to follow the rear-guard, and they’ll have chariots with them too. Go and see if you can get along with them. You’ve no horses, but you might run beside the chariots, and their drivers, as soon as they see there’s stuff in you and that you want to fight, will give you a lift from time to time.”
“Run beside the chariots, eh?” said Serge, with a laugh, as he glanced at Marcus. “Running would suit you better, my lad, than it would me. I’ve got a deal more flesh to carry than you have, and running is not good in armour with a big helmet on your head. You’d have something to grumble at about feeling sore, or I’m mistaken. But never mind; we want to get there, don’t we?”
“Oh yes, we must get on,” cried Marcus, “and if we can’t run we can walk.”
“What I was going to say,” cried Serge, “so put us on the right way, old comrade,” he continued, to the old cripple, “and you shan’t want for something to pay for to-morrow; eh, Marcus, my lad?”
“Oh no,” cried the boy, thrusting his hand into his pouch; but Serge clapped a hand upon his arm.