There was not much to see, only Marcus half kneeling half sitting upon the ragged back of one of his prisoners, and reaching over to grind the nose of the other a little more closely into the earth every time he squealed.
But that was enough for the return party, which clustered together on all fours with their faces approaching and eyes questioning, like so many quadrupeds.
They looked the more animal-like from their silence during the next few minutes, when the two prisoners made a concerted effort to get free—an effort which only resulted in making their position worse, for, as he mastered them, reducing them to obedience again, the boy jammed his knees fiercely into the ribs of the one upon whom he squatted, and lifted up and banged down again the head of the other.
The result was a piteous burst of shrieks which were too much for their friends and supplied them with the courage in which they were wanting, making them with one consent spring forward to their comrades’ help, influenced, however, by the feeling that they were six to one.
So sudden and unexpected was the attack, which accompanied a loud shout—one which made the prisoners join in and heave themselves up to get free—that Marcus was jerked over, and, before he could gain his feet, found himself the centre of a combined attack in which he rapidly began to get the worst of it, for, while he fought bravely and pommelled and banged enemies in front, getting on so well that he succeeded in seizing two by the neck and hammering their heads together, two others leaped on him from behind in his weak rear, in spite of his splendid kicking powers, while two more attacked in front.
Marcus was a young Roman, and fought like the Romans of old; but then the six young roughs were Romans too, and they fought like the Romans of old, and six to one is rather long odds.
Breath began to come short, perspiration was streaming, and an unlucky blow on the nose set another stream flowing, while, all at once, a dab in the eye made the optic flinch, close its lid from intense pain, and refuse to open again, so that one-eyed like a regular old Cyclops, and panting like the same gentleman from the exertions of using his hammer—two in this case, and natural—Marcus fought on, grinding his teeth, rapidly weakening, but determined as ever, though he felt that he was being thoroughly worsted by his foes.
“I’m about done,” he said to himself; but he did not utter a sound save his panting, while suddenly it began to grow dark; for, feeling that the day was their own, the enemy combined in a final rush, closed him in, hung on to him wherever they could get a hold, and were dragging him down to take vengeance for the past—for they were old enemies, Marcus and they—when, all at once, there was a fierce, deep, growling bark, a rush, a man’s deep voice as if encouraging a dog, and Marcus was free, to stand there breathless and giddy, listening to the retreating steps of his foes and the shouts to the dog of Serge, who had come to his help in the nick of time.