“Lost your spear?” cried Marcus, staring. “Yes, boy; this ’ere’s only a savage one.”
“But you are not hurt?” cried Marcus again.
“Not hurt?” cried Serge. “Why, boy, I just am. Battered and banged and hit all over. If it hadn’t been for the goodness of my armour there wouldn’t have been no Serge—nothing left but a few bits. But you, my boy?”
“Oh, I’m very sore and bruised and sprained, but nothing worse. But that officer, Serge, that we went to help?”
“Ah!” cried Serge. “That officer we went to help! What about him? You didn’t let him be killed, boy?”
“No; I remember he got up and fought again.”
“That’s right, boy; but where is he now?”
“I don’t know,” cried Marcus. “I was trampled down and lost my senses. Don’t you know what became of him?”
“No,” said Serge, “and I don’t care, boy now that I have found you. Here, don’t let’s stand talking, but help to get out that chariot. I want to get up to the Roman camp.”
“Can we? Did our people win?”