There had been rain some hours before, which had left the earth softened and refreshed, ready, too, for yielding to the pressure of horses’ hoofs and the clearly-indicated lines formed by chariot wheels. These formed a splendid guide for the adventurers, who added their own traces as they pressed eagerly on.
“They are our people, Marcus, boy, and they are not far ahead.”
“Think so, Serge?”
“Sure of it, boy. It has rained since morning, and whoever passed along here has made these marks since the rain.”
“And it’s certainly not a retreat, Serge, for there’s no sign of fighting.”
“Not a bit, my boy. It’s our army on the march, and all those signs show that our men were in full fettle, ready for anything, and are pushing forward into the middle of the enemy’s country. See yon mountains?”
“Mountains!” said Marcus. “You might call them hills.”
“Well, hills, then; and it strikes me that we shall find these tracks lead straight to one of those green nicely-rounded tops with a pleasant slope all round. Now, there’s that one there,” continued Serge, pointing to a hill standing by itself; “that’s just the sort of place my old officer would have picked out for his next halting camp, lead his men right to the top, mark out their places, and have them all at work before sundown, busy as bees digging out a ditch and throwing up a wall of earth in front for our men to fight behind, in case they were attacked.”
Serge had hardly ceased speaking as he walked with Marcus on one side of their horses, the driver on the other, to rest the brave little animals as much as possible, when, passing round a clump of trees, following the bend of the track made by the marching army, they came more fully in view of the hills whose tops only they had seen before.
Nearest of all was the one to which Serge had drawn attention, and as this opened out more and more in the evening sunshine Marcus uttered an ejaculation and caught at his companion’s arm.