“Hear it, yes! And it would not take much to make me set old Lupe after them. He’d soon catch them up, and then—”
“Yah–h–ah!”
“Fetch them down, boy!” shouted the old soldier, and, with a fierce roar, the dog dashed off in a series of tremendous bounds, but only to be checked by a shrill whistle from Marcus, which stopped the fierce beast and brought him trotting slowly back, to crouch down at his young master’s feet.
“Why did you do that, lad?” cried the old soldier, staring.
“Because I didn’t want Lupe to get amongst them, worrying and tearing. What would my father have said?”
The old soldier let his crook fall into the hollow of his left arm and pushed off his battered straw hat, to let it slide down between his shoulders, where it hung by its string, while, with his grim sun-tanned face as full of wrinkles as a walnut shell, he slowly swept the drops of moisture from his brow.
“Hah, yes,” he said; “I didn’t think of that. He wouldn’t have liked it. He’s got so soft and easy with people since he took to volumes and skins covered with writing. Why, his sword would be all rusty if it wasn’t for me. It’s all waste of time, for he’ll never use it again, but I don’t like to see a good blade such as his all covered with spots. Yes, boy,” added the man, thoughtfully, “I’m glad you stopped old Lupe. Haw-haw-haw! I should rather liked to have seen him, though, nibbling their heels and making them run.”
“Nibbling!” laughed Marcus. “Nibbling, Serge!” And the boy stooped down, raised the great dog’s muzzle, and pulled up one of his lips to show the great, white fangs. “Not much of nibblers, these.”
“Well, no, my lad,” said the old soldier; “they don’t look nibbley. Nibblers wouldn’t do for him, would they, Lupe, old man? He wants good tools to tackle the wolves in winter. There, it’s all over, and I don’t feel so savage now. Here, you had better go and have a good wash while I see to the vine poles and put in a new un or two from the stack. I expect I shall have to prune a bit too, and tie, where those young ruffians have been at work. Let’s get a bit tidy before the master comes back, though I don’t suppose he’d take any notice if there wasn’t a grape bunch left. But he’d see the dirt and scratches on your face first thing.”
“Yes, of course,” cried the boy, hastily, as he held up his knuckles, two of which were minus skin, and showing traces of dried blood. “But I say, Serge, look at my face. Is it much knocked about?”