“There, don’t groan like that, boy,” cried the old soldier, sharply. “It sounded as if you hadn’t had anything to eat for a week, and I’m sure you’re not cold.”
“Then you’re wrong,” cried Marcus, “for I am bitterly cold.”
“That shows you haven’t worked hard enough. Come on and let’s get behind the chariot and help the horses with a push.”
“Yes, presently,” said Marcus, as he glanced at the brave little beasts, which looked hot in spite of the fact that a chilly wind was blowing down the gorge, and that they were standing up to their knees in snow. “I’m a bit out of breath too.”
“Don’t talk, then, boy,” growled Serge. “Save your wind.”
“But I want to talk,” continued Marcus. “You’ve been over this pass before?”
“Nay, not this one, boy, but one like it farther east.”
“Like this? But was it so strange?”
“What do you mean by strange, my lad?”
“Why, for us to be going to rest last night with the country all round seeming to be in summer, while as we’ve come along to-day we’ve got into autumn, and now we’re going right into the depth of winter.”