There was another halt of the chariots, to enable a portion of the troops from the rear to close up and pass through to the front to join the advance, a manoeuvre which the panting men, as they struggled over the beaten snow, obeyed with alacrity, eager to get into action and bring to an end the hours of suspense through which they had passed in comparative inaction while listening to the echoes of the fighting going on in front and rear.
“There, boy,” said Serge, cheerfully, as they found time now to talk as well as rest; “this don’t look like being beaten, does it?”
“I don’t know,” said Marcus, dubiously. “We seem as much shut up as ever.”
“Nay, not us! Why, the walls are ever so much farther back, and we have got more room to breathe.”
“But it’s horribly dark still,” said Marcus, rather wearily, “and the snow seems as deep.”
“Not it,” cried Serge. “And see how it’s trampled down. Then it isn’t so cold.”
“Not so cold!” cried Marcus. “Why, it’s terrible!”
“Not it! Why, since we have been coming down a bit we have got more into shelter, and that cutting wind that came up the pass isn’t whistling about one’s ears.”
“Well, no,” said Marcus. “That is better.”
“Better, yes; and so’s everything else. It won’t be long now before the pass widens ever so much, and we shall begin to leave the snow behind; and then as soon as we get on to level ground the captain will get his horse to work to drive the barbarians back towards the plains below, and then—you’ll see that our turn will come.”