Then he knew, and there was fierce anger in the low tones of his voice, which formed the self-accusatory words:
“Why, I’ve been asleep!”
He struck a sharp blow with the staff of his spear; but it was not at the imaginary patriarch of the home herd, but at his own head, which was saved from harm by his helmet, the stroke causing a sharp sound sufficiently loud to make Lupe utter an ominous growl, and the horses where they were tethered start and stamp.
“And sarve you right too!” growled Serge, removing his helmet, which he had knocked on one side, and softly rubbing one spot that had felt the bottom edge keenly. “And here have I been going on about being honest and keeping a true watch over that boy! Here, I’m proud of myself, I am! If I go to sleep again it shall be standing up, anyhow.” And pulling himself together he shouldered his spear and commenced pacing up and down, to keep it up steadily hour after hour, only pausing to listen from time to time, to hear nothing more suspicious than the regular night sounds of a camp surrounded by sentries and scouts and on the watch for an enemy known to be near at hand.
Marcus slept well till daybreak, when the first warning of the enemy’s movements was given, and he sprang to his feet, to find himself face to face with Serge.
“What was that?” he cried.
“Trumpet, boy. Make ready. The enemy’s going to stir us up again.”