Then he turned giddy again, for a mental cloud seemed to close him in, and he snatched at his helmet and dragged it off, when the cool night wind that played upon his heated brow brought with it a sense of relief, and he thought clearly again, not of self but of Serge, and with a cry of horror he ran from where he had stood, to bend over each of the prostrate Roman soldiers in turn, uttering a sigh of relief as he raised himself up, replaced his helmet, and looked round, fully conscious now that the tide of war had swept right away to a distance. The fighting was still going on, and the cries and the clashing of weapons were strangely commingled, but faintly heard. One side had evidently won the battle and was driving its enemies before it. But were was Serge?
Marcus turned to where the driver was still soothing the horses, but he could give him no information. He had not seen Serge since he leapt from the chariot and was lost directly in the crowd of fighting men. Marcus stepped back to the spot where his own encounter had taken place, and looked round again for a few moments, but though he could see several prostrate bodies Serge’s was not one, and going on and on in the dim starlight he was to some extent able to follow the course of the fighting men by those they had left behind, till he grew confused as to his position and began to retrace his steps.
It was not easy, for he had nothing to guide him, and some considerable space of time had elapsed before, utterly worn out and disheartened, he made out a clump of trees, towards which he now directed his steps in the hope that it might be the one in which the chariot had been entangled.
To his great delight, as he approached, he heard the voice of the driver talking to the horses, and, hurrying on, he found that he was approaching the chariot from the opposite side to that he had left. The next minute he was tugging his sword from its sheath, for an armed man suddenly rose up from just in front, and as the boy’s sword fell to his side, caught him in his arms.
“And I thought you were dead—I thought you were dead!” came in a familiar, deep, gruff voice, broken by sobs. “Oh, Marcus, my boy, where have you been?”
“Looking for you, Serge.”
“You have? Well, that’s what I have been doing for you.”
“But where were you?” cried Marcus.
“I d’know, boy, only that I have been fighting. I was hard at it when there was a rush, and I was carried along with all the rest, getting a hit now and then at one of the enemy, but not often, for they don’t fight fair. They all crowd at you together, and I got the worst of it badly.”
“Then you are wounded?” cried Marcus. “No, boy; but I lost my spear.”