In the Snowy Pass.
Serge’s announcement was quite correct, for while the Romans rested, the enemy had been gathering together again among the hills, and were coming on in force to attack the camp; but what they had failed to do by their night attack proved doubly difficult in the light of day. The little Roman force, though vastly outnumbered and surrounded, was well commanded by a skilful officer, who was able, by keeping his well-disciplined men together, to roll back the desultory attacks delivered on all sides, till, quite disheartened, the enemy retreated in all directions and the march was resumed again.
That day’s tramp and the many that followed were a succession of marches through an enemy’s country, with the foe always on the watch to harass the little force, and cut it off from joining the main invading body far ahead.
Every day brought its skirmishes, with victory constantly on the Roman side.
There was no want of bravery on the enemy’s part, but the discipline of the little civilised division with its strong coherence was too much for the loose dashes, ambushes, and traps that were laid.
The consequence was a slow, steady advance that nothing could impede, through the fertile plains of the South and ever onward, with the snow-capped mountains growing nearer and nearer, till the great pass was at hand that had been traversed by the main army, and no difficulty was then experienced as to the route, for its passage was marked plainly enough by the traces of the many encounters and the ruin and destruction that indicated its way.
“Shall we never overtake them?” said Marcus, one evening.
“Well, if we keep on I suppose we shall,” replied the old soldier. “But what’s your hurry? Are you tired out?”
“Oh, no,” cried the boy; “we don’t go fast enough for that; but I am anxious to join father once again.”
“Humph!” grunted Serge. “I don’t feel so much in a hurry myself. Perhaps we shan’t overtake him at all.”