“It arn’t, boy!” cried the old soldier, firmly, and letting his sword rest, brightly polished and sharp as it was, he now raised his head and looked smilingly in the boy’s face. “Haven’t you got proof of it that things are not as bad as you say?”
“No,” cried Marcus, angrily. “I was entrusted with a message to my father and Caius Julius, and I have not done my task.”
“Not yet, boy, but you are going to at the first chance. Why, look here, my lad, if things were half as bad as you say they are we shouldn’t be here. If we have escaped once from being taken or killed we have got through a dozen times. Look at us. Why, we haven’t got a scratch, and here we are, better, ever so much, than when we started.”
“Better?” cried Marcus.
“Yes, better. We are a bit hungry.”
“I tell you I’m half starved,” cried Marcus.
“Take your belt up another hole, then, boy. That’s a splendid tightener. Hungry! Why, you talk about it as if it was a disease, when it’s a thing you can cure yourself the first time you get hold of a big cake and a bowl of goat’s milk.”
“Oh, how you talk!” cried the boy, holding out his arm and trying to span his wrist with his fingers. “Look how thin I am getting.”
“Thin!” cried Serge. “Why, you look prime. You have got rid of a lot of that nasty fat that was filling out your skin through doing nothing but sit on a stool all day making scratches with a stylus on a plate of wax. What does a soldier want with fat? Your armour’s quite heavy enough to carry, without your being loaded up with a lot of fat. That’s right enough for women and girls; makes ’em look smooth and nice and pretty, and fills up all the holes and corners; but a soldier wants bone and muscle—good, hard, tough muscle and sinew, and that’s what you have got now. Look at me.”
“Yes, I have looked at you time after time, Serge, and you look hollow-cheeked and haggard and worn.”