“What for?” growled Serge. “S’pose you and me was at home and were out among the pastures and up the lowest slopes of the mountains where we drive the goats.”
“Well, what then?” cried Marcus, impatiently.
“And suppose we saw crows flying round and round. What would you say then?”
“That there was a dead lamb or a kid lying somewhere about, or that the wolves had been down and killed a sheep.”
“Well?” said Serge, with a dry look on his wrinkled face.
Marcus was silent for a few moments, and then, “Oh, Serge,” he cried, with a look of horror, “you don’t think—”
“Yes, I do, boy. Nay, I feel sure. There’s been a big fight yonder where those crows are flying about.”
“Yes: I see,” cried Marcus. “But—but which side has won?”
“Ah, that we are going to see, my boy, and before long too. Turn a bit more to the right, my man,” he continued, laying his hand upon the driver’s shoulder, and their direction was a trifle altered, with the result that before long they were passing by the side of a portion of the plain where it was evident that a desperate encounter had taken place from the large number of ghastly relics of the engagement that lay scattered about, spread over the space of quite a mile.
The scene was passed in silence, Marcus pressing their driver to urge on the ponies till they were well ahead, after grasping the fact that a stubborn stand must have been made, and that the action had been continued onward to where they stood.