“But it does, Serge.”
“Pooh! Only smarts. It hasn’t killed you. Soldiers expect wounds, and you’ve got yours.”
“But the fight—the fight?”
“Oh, just what I told you it would be, boy. The captain has brought his men down the pass, and the Gauls, taken between the two armies, are breaking up and streaming away to right and left. There’ll be no Gallic army by the time the litters come to carry the wounded off the field, and the first shall be for the lad who saved the life of Caius Julius.”
“Oh, Serge, it is impossible that I could have done that,” said Marcus, feebly.
“That’s what I should have said, boy, if I had not seen.”
“But, Serge?”
“I look out sharp, boy, so don’t doubt what I say. Your wound made you forget. I wonder whether the general will.”
“But you don’t tell me about the fight, Serge.”
“What, do you want to know more?”