“Oh yes,” said Marcus, with mock seriousness. “The poor wolves! I shall be sorry for them. I know what will happen then. At the first bite you will jump up in a rage, catch them one at a time by the tail, give them one swing round, and knock their brains out against the stones. You wouldn’t give them much chance to bite again.”
A grim smile gradually dawned once more upon the old soldier’s countenance, and, slowly raising one of his hands, he began to scratch the side of his thickly-grizzled head, his brow wrinkling up more deeply the while, as he gazed into the merry, mocking eyes that looked back so frankly into his.
“You are laughing at me, boy,” he said, at last.
“Of course I am, Serge. Oh my! You are down in the dumps! I say, how many wolves do you think you could kill like that? But, oh nonsense! You wouldn’t be alone. If old Lupe saw you going off with your bundle he’d spring at you, get it in his teeth, and follow you carrying it wherever you went.”
“Hah! Good old Lupe!” said the man, thoughtfully. “I’d forgotten him. Yes, he’d be sure to follow me. You’d have to shut him up in the wine-press.”
“And hear him howl to get out?” cried Marcus. “No, I shouldn’t, because I shouldn’t be there.”
“Why, where would you be?” said Serge, wonderingly.
“Along with you, of course.”
“Along o’ me?”
“Yes. If you left home and went away for what was all my fault, do you think I should be such a miserable cur as to stop behind? No; I should go with you, Serge, and take my sword, and you and Lupe and I could pretty well tackle as many wolves as would be likely to come up at us on the mountain side.”