Chapter Two.
Old Serge.
Marcus, son of Cracis, was a good deal hurt, but his injuries were of a temporary and superficial kind, and, as he stood listening, so little importance did he attach to his injuries that a broad grin began to gather upon his frank young face, and he uttered a low, chuckling laugh; for, as he stood wiping his brow and listening, he could hear the sounds of blows, yells and cries, the worrying growl of the dog, and the harsh encouraging voice of the man pretty close at hand, all of which taught him that the enemy had been checked in their retreat and were being horribly routed by the reinforcements—a cohort of dog and man.
“The young ruffians!” said Marcus, softly, as, unwillingly dragging himself from where he could have the satisfaction of hearing the punishment that was being awarded, he hurried back into the villa and stopped in the court, where he sank upon his knees by the cool, plashing fountain, whose clear waters he tinged as he bathed his face and swollen eye.
He had some intention of hurrying back to the scene of battle to look upon the damaged vines, and see if any prisoners had been made; but, while he was still occupied in his surgical effort to make his injured eye see as well as the other, he was startled into rising up and turning to face the owner of a deep, gruff voice, who had approached him unheard, to growl out:
“Well, you were a pretty fellow, boy! Why didn’t you beat ’em?”
The speaker was a big, thick-set, grizzled man of fifty, his bare arms and legs brown-skinned, hairy and muscular, his chest open, and his little clothing consisting of a belted garment similar to that worn by the boy, at whom he gazed with a grim look of satisfaction which lit up his rugged face and fine eyes.
“Weren’t running away, were you?”
“No!” shouted Marcus, angrily. “I kept at it till you came, Serge. But there were six.”
“Yes, I know. You didn’t go the right way to work. Were they at the grapes?”