“No,” said Serge, hoarsely; “he’s up again and tearing after us.”
But the next minute the dog had dropped again, and as far as those in the chariot could make out in the increasing distance, was busily engaged in licking his flank, and Marcus said so.
“Not sure,” cried Serge, “but I’m afraid he has got an ugly dig. Is he going to lie down and die?”
“Surely not!” cried Marcus, excitedly. “No, he is up again, and here he comes.”
“Then perhaps it is not so bad as I thought, boy. Yes, here he comes as hard as he can pelt. He can’t be very bad, unless this is his last struggle to get to your side.”
“And yours, Serge,” said Marcus, mournfully.
“No, boy; it’s you that he wants to reach,” said the old soldier, with a grim smile. “He likes me, but you need not talk—he loves you; and if he’s very badly hurt he is putting all the strength he has left in him to get here to you.”
“Oh, Serge,” cried Marcus, as the ponies tore on, with the dog in full pursuit, “it can’t be so bad as you think!”
“Well, boy, I’m beginning to think you’re right. He can’t be so very bad, or he wouldn’t be able to stretch himself out like that and come over the ground faster than the horses are going, and that isn’t slow. Look at the brave old fellow; that’s just the stride he takes—”
“Stride!” cried Marcus, proudly. “He’s coming on in bounds.”