“Ought we not to stop and help him, Serge?” cried Marcus.
“No, boy; you know we ought not. We’ve got to get on with that message, and we must think of nothing else now we are clear. We must not even slacken while the path is so good; so keep on. You wanted a big gallop, so take it and be content, for the horses are going fast enough to satisfy anyone.”
“Yes,” sighed Marcus. “But poor old Lupe!”
“He must take care of himself, boy,” growled Serge. “Look at him, charging at the enemy as he is, when he is doing no good and running the risks for nothing.”
“He has stopped the pursuit,” said Marcus.
“Yes; but why can’t he be content now he has done it, and come on, instead of asking them as plainly as a dog can speak, to thrust a spear through his ribs?”
“But he knows no better,” pleaded Marcus, who was watching all that was going on, and feeling proud of the dog’s bravery in charging the enemy furiously from time to time, and escaping every thrust as if by a miracle. “I don’t want to lose time, Serge,” cried Marcus, raising his voice so that his companion could hear, “but I am going to check the horses for a few moments so that I can shout to Lupe. If he hears my voice calling him he will come.”
“He’s coming without, boy,” cried Serge, angrily. “Oh! Poor old fellow! But it’s his own fault. I knew he’d get it at last, and he has. That thrust has been too much for him. Look!”
Marcus was already looking sharply enough to have seen, at the same moment as his companion, Lupe make a rush at the halting enemy, whose spears flashed in the bright light; and then the dog rushed away again, to stand apparently barking furiously at his enemies, before dashing off after the chariot for about a hundred yards, and then stopping short to roll over and over.
“Killed!” cried Marcus, in a voice full of anguish.