Marcus: the Young Centurion

by George Manville Fenn

For the dog was just between them, sitting up in the back of the car, sometimes turning his head towards one, sometimes towards the other, lolling out his vibrating tongue and sending out puffs of visible vapour-like steam from Vesuvius.

“He’s making believe that he’s been working very hard,” said Marcus, laughing, “when he’s been riding all the time. But all this does seem very strange, Serge. I couldn’t have believed this was possible at the end of summer.”

“Suppose not,” growled the old soldier. “You see, you don’t know everything yet, my boy. There’s a deal to learn, as I found out years ago when I first went to the war with the master. But it’s all doing you good, and you will like it by-and-by when you look back and think of it all, for there isn’t much time to think just now. I say, have you got your wind again?”

“Oh, yes, I am ready, and the horses are beginning to leave off panting. I shall be glad when we make a fresh start. I want to get to the top.”

“That’s what we all want, boy—to get to the top of everything—but the sooner we get to the end of this narrow crack and can expect that it will begin to open out and give us room to swing our arms, the better we shall all like it. The chief ought to be thinking of starting up afresh, for there’s a deal of fighting going on back and front.”

The sounds that came floating to their ears, echoed from the snowy walls, made this all plain enough, while the shouting from the rear grew nearer and nearer; and then it seemed that the rear-guard was coming more rapidly on, just as the order to move forward came from the front and passed along the line.

With a couple of halts for rest the troops plodded on and the horses struggled for another hour, and then, to the great delight of all, the word came back from the front that the height of the pass had been reached, that the head of the column was beginning to descend, and that not far in front their comrades were holding the enemy in check.

This intelligence was like an invigorating breath of air to the little force. The men stepped out and dragged and pushed, and the cries of the drivers had a cheering sound, as they called upon their horses in a tone of voice which made the struggling beasts exert themselves more than ever.

It was still terribly hard work, but there was no upward drag; the great strain was gone, for the descent was steep, and a great portion of the weight the chariot horses had to draw seemed to have been taken off.

The pass was still walled in by towering heights, but it was rapidly opening out, and at the end of another hour the advance force, which had contented themselves with holding one of the narrowest portions of the way, had been strengthened, and pressed back the enemy.