Marcus had raised himself to look over the front of his chariot—a movement which excited the dog, who began to whine, and then watched his master eagerly as if to see what he would do next.
“It looks as if we are going to make a fresh start,” thought Marcus; “and a good thing too, for it is chilly and cheerless; but we can’t get away from here without fighting.”
This last thought came with a look of excitement, for the boy’s brain was growing clearer and he was rapidly grasping the fact that they were surrounded by a vast number of the enemy.
“What has become of Serge?” he said, half aloud.
The old soldier came into sight almost as he asked the question, carrying a vessel of water in one hand and something that looked like a cake of bread in the other.
“Awake, boy?” he said, as he came out. “I thought you’d be hungry when you did open your eyes, and so I managed to get this, but I’ve nigh had it snatched away three times as I came back, for our fellows are getting savage for want of food. Not that it matters much, for they’ll fight all the better to get down to the plains and plunder.”
“Then we’re going to fight, Serge?” cried Marcus, eagerly.
“Not much doubt about that, boy.”
“And start downward for the plains?”
“Ah, there’s a deal of doubt about that, my lad. I dare say the chief would like to, but we’re regularly shut up in this rocky hole.”