THE FRONTIER.
COTTA. LUCIUS. THEIR CHIEF.
COTTA. Would God the route would come for home!
My God! this place, day after day,
A month of heavy march from Rome!
This camp, the troopers' huts of clay,
The horses tugging at their pins,
The roaring brook and then the whins,
And nothing new to do or say!
LUCIUS. They say the tribes are up.
COTTA. Who knows!
LUCIUS. Our scouts say that they saw their fires.
COTTA. Well, if we fight it's only blows
And bogging horses in the mires.
LUCIUS. Their raiders crossed the line last night,
Eastward from this, to raid the stud;
They stole our old chief's stallion, Kite.
He's in pursuit.
COTTA. That looks like blood.
LUCIUS. Well, better that than dicing here
Beside this everlasting stream.