“Ah! Where are they then?”
“Shut up fast alone with the wine-press. They won’t get out of there with Lupus looking on.”
“Capital!” cried Marcus, forgetting all his sufferings in the triumphant news. “Here, Serge, what shall we do with them?”
“I’m not going to do anything with them,” said the man, gruffly. “I’ve had my turn, and it’s yours now. You’ve got to fight the lot.”
“Yes,” cried the boy, flushing, and his fists began to clench. “But I say, Serge, I should like to, but I’m a bit tired, and they’re still six to one.”
“Yes,” said the man, “but that’s what I want you to see. It won’t hurt you to know how, even if you’re never going to be a soldier. You come along o’ me.”
“What, to fight them?” cried Marcus.
“Yes. Aren’t afraid, are you?”
“Not a bit,” cried the boy, flushing angrily. “Come and see.”
The man chuckled as he went off with his young companion to the lower side of the villa, where stood a low-roofed stone building with heavy chestnut plank doors, before which crouched a big, shaggy wolf-hound which pricked up its ears and uttered a deep growl as it lifted up its bushy tail, and rapped the earth in recognition of the new-comers, but did not take its eyes from the door beyond which were the prisoners it had been set to guard.