“Luck?—Luck?” said the same voice, slowly.
“Yes, I never saw anything like you. Sprang forward, you did, just as the general’s horse reared up, and saved him from an ugly death by the thrust you gave that Gaul.”
“Who did?” said the same voice, feebly heard in the horrible dream.
“Who did? Why, you did, and covered him afterwards with your shield all the while he was pinned down by his dead charger. Why, Marcus, boy, if you were a man you’d be made a big officer at once. But what’s the matter with you, boy?”
“I—I don’t know, Serge.”
“But I do!” roared the old soldier, with a roar like a lion. “Why, who did this?”
“That—that Gaul,” said the boy, faintly, as he felt himself seized and pressed back, to lie with his head pillowed upon the dead charger’s neck, while he was conscious of his old comrade’s hands being busily unbuckling his armour and then bandaging him tightly to stop the flowing blood.
“Feel better now, boy?” cried Serge, at last, as he bent down close to the wounded lad’s face.
“Yes; not so sick,” was the reply. “But tell me, Serge, about the fight,” and as Marcus uttered these words he was conscious that they were his own.
“Tell you about the fight? Ah, that’s a sign you are better. A nasty cut, my boy, between the shoulder and the neck. But it’s nothing to hurt.”