Marcus: the Young Centurion Part 25

"No, no; I thought he would howl till someone came and let him out; but I didn't want him to follow me. Someone must have let him out in the morning."

"Oh, I don't know," said Serge, who began replacing his armour. "He'd have got out somehow, through the window or roof."

"He couldn't," cried Marcus.

"Think not? Then he'd have scratched a way for himself under the door."

"Well, but then?"

"Oh, then--he'd have stood and smelt about till he'd got hold of our scent, and then come on."

"What, all this way and all this time? The scent couldn't have lain so long."

"It never seems to me that there's any scent at all," said Serge, "but old Lupe there somehow seems to do it. He _is_ a dog, and no mistake.

Why, he's lost himself time after time going after the wolves when I have been out hunting, and it has seemed to me that I should never find him again. Why, you know, he's been away sometimes for days, but he's always found his way back. Well, now then, give yourself your orders to get ready to march, and let's get on to Rome."

"Yes, of course," cried Marcus.

"But how do you feel, lad? You seemed ready to knock up last night, tired out."

"Did I?" cried Marcus, flushing slightly.

"Did yer? Why, you seemed sore all over, whining about your armour and your helmet."

"Oh, nonsense!" cried the boy, as he hastily followed his companion's lead, handily buckling and securing his defensive armour the while. "We had had a very long march, and it was as hot as could be. I feel quite fresh this morning."

"Ready for anything, eh? Well, what about this chap?"

"Lupe?"

"Yes; we don't want him. The general won't want him to join."

"No-o," said Marcus, thoughtfully, as he stooped to pat the dog's head, a favour which Lupe responded to by leaning himself as hard as he could against his young master's legs. "I should like to have him with us, Serge."

"So should I, boy, if it comes to that. He'd have been splendid with us, and saved us scouting when those rough uns were hanging round. Why, if I had had him with me when those six came on they would have been no worse than three, and I shouldn't have wanted you."

"Yes," said Marcus, thoughtfully, "I should like to keep him with us, but I'm afraid we shall have to send him away."

"Send him away!" cried Serge. "You may try to send, but he won't go.

We can't take him with us," continued the man, drily, "and it looks to me as if we shall have to make an end of him and hang him on the nearest tree."

"What!" cried Marcus with a look of horror. "You wouldn't be such a brute?"

"No," said Serge, slowly, "I suppose I wouldn't; but what are we to do?

The first captain that we speak to when we get to the army and ask him to let us join his lot will shake his head at us if we bring a dog."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Marcus, thoughtfully.

"But look here, we wouldn't bring him. We didn't bring him. He came.

The country's free for all, and if he chooses to follow us we are not to blame."

"Well, that's right. Are you nearly ready?"

"Yes," said Marcus, taking his helmet from where it rested in the fork of a young tree, and lowering it slowly upon his head.

"Does it hurt?" said Serge.

"Oh no, it feels quite comfortable now. Why?"

"Because you put it on as if it were red hot. But give the word 'forward,' captain, and let's march. The first farm or house we come to we must halt and forage. My wallet's empty, and we want something very much better than water for our next meal."

"Forward, then!" cried Marcus, and the dog responded with a volley of his deep barking, and bounded off before them, old Serge smiling grimly the while.

"Got his nose straight for Rome," he said, with a laugh. "Why, if I was a general, Master Marcus, and going to lead our armies against the barbarians as won't let us alone but keep on attacking and wanting to come to plunder the riches of the place, and carry the Roman people off as slaves, do you know what I'd do?"

"Beat them and drive them back, and make them slaves instead," replied Marcus.

"Ah, but besides that, my lad, I'd get together an army of dogs like our Lupe, and set them to work to tear 'em down and chase 'em away."

"Oh, barbarous!" cried Marcus, laughing.

"Barbarous! Aren't they barbarians? Why, I don't believe you could manage it in a better way."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

TOO LATE.

It was the beginning of a tramp that lasted days.

Rome had been soon reached, but they were too late to witness the turmoil of excitement that had preceded and accompanied the departure of the last division of the army which, Marcus and his companion gathered from a group of invalided soldiers left behind, had been tarrying and awaiting the return of Caius Julius to a.s.sume the supreme command. He, they were told, had been away upon a mission to claim the a.s.sistance of some great general who was supposed to be an old friend full of wisdom; and he, they told Serge, had been brought in triumph to the city, to place himself with Julius at the head of the waiting men.

"You should have been here then," said one old man, "and seen the welcome they had from our gallant boys and the women who crowded the streets waiting to see them go. Ah, it made the tears come into my old eyes to think that I should be left behind."

"Then why were you left behind?" growled Serge. "You are not an older man than I."

"No," said the old soldier, laughing softly, "but you have two legs to march on. I have only one and this stick."

Marcus glanced sharply down at the speaker, and, seeing the boy's intention, the old fellow laughed again.

"Oh, yes, you are thinking I lie. There's two of them, my lad, and one's as good a leg as ever stepped; but as for the other, it's years ago now, when I was with Julius, and I got a swoop from a Gallic sword; the savage ducked down as I struck at him, and brought his blade round to catch me just above the heel. But he never made another blow,"

continued the old man, grimly. "My short, sharp sword took him in the chest, and he never hurt a Roman again."

"But you got over your wound?" cried Marcus, eagerly.

"It soon healed up, my lad, but he had cut through the tendon, and I was never fit to march again, or I shouldn't be talking to you here. But look here, old fellow, you were ready enough to twit me about not being with the army. Why are you not there?"

"Can't you see we are too late?" growled Serge, angrily.