“But he ought not to have let the enemy shut us up, ought he?”
“It was a case of can’t help it, my boy,” growled Serge. “From the time we halted this morning the barbarians have been gathering round and streaming down from the mountains, till there they are, thousands upon thousands of them, hanging on the hills and running down the hollows till they look like human rivers. We were obliged to have a rest and refresh, for a man can’t go on fighting and marching for ever, even if he be a Roman; and ever since we’ve been resting the enemy has been collecting, till they are like you see. Well, why don’t you look round?”
“I did,” cried Marcus, “and saw all this before you came. Then we’re in a sore strait, Serge?”
“Yes, a very sore one, boy; but eat your bread.”
“Not now,” said Marcus, quickly. “Let me have a drink of water.”
He took hold of the vessel and had a long, deep draught, one which seemed to clear away the last mental cobweb from his brain.
“Now eat a bit,” said Serge, offering the cake; but the boy shook his head and swept the surroundings with anxious eyes.
“Very well,” said the old soldier. “You’ll be hungry by-and-by.” And slipping the cake into his wallet, he looked sternly at the boy, who turned to him directly.
“Then you think that we shall not be able to cut our way out, Serge?” he said.
“Sure of it, boy. They’re too many for us.”