“Give in,” said Bill. “You’re caught—give in.”
“I shan’t,” gasped Val. “If I could only reach you,”—he hit viciously, but they were just an inch or two beyond his arm.
“Charge, Cecil!—Scipio, charge!” shouted Mark. Scipio had charged already, and the Pompeians, being divided into three parties, one on each side of the mound, and the third up in it, were easily scattered. Scipio himself found their eagle in the brambles, where the bearer had left it, as he jumped out of the hedge to run.
“Yield,” said Bill. “Give in—we’ve got your eagle.”
“All the eagles,” said Scipio, returning. “Every one—our two and Pompey’s two.”
“And Varro’s a prisoner—there he is,” said Mark. “Give in, Val.”
“I won’t. Let me out. Come near and hit then. If I could get at you!”
“But you can’t!”
“O!”—as they pressed him.
“Give in!”