Marcus: the Young Centurion Part 32

"No, my lad," he replied; "they're not getting the better of our men, and they will not. We hear so much of what is going on because the sound comes up as if through a trumpet."

"Comes up, Serge?"

"Yes, my lad; we're a couple of thousand feet higher than they are below yonder, and the reason the fight lasts so long is because the enemy keep on bringing up fresh men."

"Think so?" said Marcus.

"I'm sure of it, my lad. Yesterday and before there were thousands of them scattered in droves all about us; now the pa.s.s is so narrow that they are all squeezed up together; and so much the better for us."

"Why?" asked Marcus.

"Because we've got such a narrow front to defend. Why, you know what a sc.r.a.p of road there was where the captain halted his men."

"Yes," said Marcus; "just like a gash cut through the rock."

"That's right," said the old soldier. "Well, a line of twenty men would have been sufficient to guard that bit."

"More than enough," said Marcus.

"Right, boy. Well, he has got six or seven hundred there, and no army that the enemy can bring up can drive our men from that stronghold.

There are only two things that can master them."

"What are they?" said Marcus, anxiously.

"Cold and hunger."

"Ah!" sighed Marcus.

"There, don't groan like that, boy," cried the old soldier, sharply.

"It sounded as if you hadn't had anything to eat for a week, and I'm sure you're not cold."

"Then you're wrong," cried Marcus, "for I am bitterly cold."

"That shows you haven't worked hard enough. Come on and let's get behind the chariot and help the horses with a push."

"Yes, presently," said Marcus, as he glanced at the brave little beasts, which looked hot in spite of the fact that a chilly wind was blowing down the gorge, and that they were standing up to their knees in snow.

"I'm a bit out of breath too."

"Don't talk, then, boy," growled Serge. "Save your wind."

"But I want to talk," continued Marcus. "You've been over this pa.s.s before?"

"Nay, not this one, boy, but one like it farther east."

"Like this? But was it so strange?"

"What do you mean by strange, my lad?"

"Why, for us to be going to rest last night with the country all round seeming to be in summer, while as we've come along to-day we've got into autumn, and now we're going right into the depth of winter."

"Yes, my lad, but it's summer all the same. It's only because we're so high up, same as you used to see it at home when you looked up towards the mountains and saw them covered with snow."

"But this doesn't look like snow, Serge," said the boy, kicking up the icy particles. "It is more like piled-up heaps of hail after a heavy storm. Ugh! It does look winterly! Ice and snow everywhere, and not a green thing to be seen."

"All the more reason, boy, why we should push on, get over the highest bit, and then every step we take will be for the better."

"Shall we be out of this cutting icy wind that comes roaring up between these two great walls of rock?"

"To be sure we shall," said Serge, cheerfully; "and it'll be something to talk about when we've done it and are down below in the warm sunshine to-morrow morning, eating new bread and drinking milk."

"I don't want to talk about it, Serge," said Marcus, beginning to talk in a dull, drowsy way. "I shall want to sleep and rest. I feel as if I could do so now."

"Do you? Then you mustn't; and we must stop anyone who tries to. Why, it reminds me, boy, of old times when we crossed that other pa.s.s. Some of our men would lie down to sleep, but they never got up again."

"Why?" cried Marcus, in a horrified tone.

"Frozen stiff, boy. Once you're up amongst the snow you can't stop, only to get breath; you must push on; and I wish someone would give me orders to go on now."

Marcus was silent for a few moments, as if thinking deeply.

"Don't feel more sleepy, boy, do you?" said Serge, sharply.

"No; that seems to have woke me up," was the reply; and taking a few steps forward with difficulty, for his feet sank right in at every step, Marcus leaned over into the car and caught Lupe by the ear where he lay curled up with his rough coat on end.

The boy's movement was quickly and excitedly performed, a feeling of dread having attacked him that the dog might have been frozen stiff; but at the touch the animal gave a cheery bark, bounded out of the car, and began to plough his way through the snow, at first after the fashion of a pig, and then by throwing himself down first on one side and then upon the other.

"I was half afraid, Serge," said Marcus.

"You needn't have been, boy," replied the old soldier. "You see, Nature's given him a warm, thick coat, and he makes it thicker whenever he likes by setting his bristles up on end."

"But that would make it more open and thinner, Serge."

"Nay, but it don't, boy. Somehow it keeps warm all inside between the hairs, and the cold can't get through."

"I don't understand why that should be, Serge," said Marcus, thoughtfully.

"I don't neither," said the man, "but it is so. It's one of those funny things in Nature. Why, look at the birds. What do they do when a snow storm comes down from the mountains in winter? They don't squeeze their feathers down tight, do they?"

"No," said Marcus, thoughtfully; "they seem to set them all up on end, just as they do when they go to roost, and they look twice as big."

"To be sure they do, boy. You don't feel sleepy now?"

"No, not a bit. But I say, Serge, will there be more snow higher up the pa.s.s?"

"Most likely, boy; and I want to get at the job of fighting our way through it. We ought to be going on. Hallo! Hear that?"

"Yes. What does it mean?"