“What about him?”
“What are we to do with him?”
“Nothing,” said Serge, promptly; “he’ll do for himself. Why, if you made up your mind to leave him behind he’d come.”
“I suppose so, Serge. There’s no press-house here in which to shut him up.”
“No, and there’s no other way of getting rid of him but cutting off his head,” said the old soldier, grimly; “and you wouldn’t like to do that.”
“Serge!” cried Marcus, taking for the moment his companion’s words as being meant seriously.
“Ah, I thought you wouldn’t, boy,” said the old fellow, smiling. “He’ll hop into the chariot, of course, and when the way’s clear we can let him down for a run, and do him good. But no more talking; we’ve got to get ready.”
“No,” said Marcus; “we’re soldiers, and all ready now. I can see nothing to do but wait till we see that it is time to go.”
“And that isn’t far away,” said Serge, “for here comes back one of the captains. Why, Marcus, boy, I feel happy enough to begin to dance. Just think of it: here we are off on quite a holiday, straight away for the Roman camp, to get to your father at once, and—Oh, my thick head! I never thought of that!”
“Thought of what?” said Marcus.