Chapter 3. An Old-Fashioned Fight

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_ CHAPTER THREE. AN OLD-FASHIONED FIGHT

Serge had been standing leaning over his crook, but now, taking it in both hands and holding it before him, he stepped quickly towards the big lad, who backed more and more away; but his effort to escape was in vain, for, quick as thought, Serge brought down his crook as if to strike the lad a violent blow, making him wince and bound aside, when, before he knew what was happening, he was hooked by the leg like an obstinate swine, and dragged, yelling and calling for help, out into the middle of the stone shed.

"Got you," said Serge, coolly. "There, it's no use to kick. Here, you other boys, close up and see fair."

Satisfied at once that they were outside the trouble, the other lads began to grin, and, obeying the old soldier, they closed in together, whispering to their companion who had just been hauled out, as they believed, to bear the brunt of the expected punishment.

Their whispers were ill received by the selected victim, who, as soon as his leg was released from the crook, made as if to back away again; but his companions put a stop to this and began urging him on, trying to incite him to begin, he reluctant and resisting all the time, till his ire was roused by Marcus, who, at a word from the old soldier, dashed in to make a beginning, using his fists upon his enemy so well that, at the end of two or three minutes, the latter threw himself down, howling dismally and covering his face with his arms.

"Here, you are not half done!" cried Serge, poking him in the ribs with the butt end of his crook. "Get up, will you, or I'll make the other fellows stand you in a corner to be thrashed."

"Oh, let him be, Serge," cried Marcus. "I did give it him well, and hit him as hard as I could."

"Oh, very well," said the old soldier, hooking the boy again and dragging him, resisting all he could, to the door.

"Just hold it open, Marcus, my lad. That'll do. No, no, Lupe, we don't want you. Now then, young fellow, off you go, and if ever I see you here again I'll set the dog at you, and if he once gets hold he won't let you off so easily as I do."

One minute the boy was resisting and tugging to get his leg free of the crook; the next, as soon as he realised that he was being set free, he dashed off, yelling threats of what he meant to do, till the dog sprang up with a growl, and the yells gave place to a shriek of fear, uttering which he disappeared from view.

"Oh, no, you don't!" cried Serge, as, taking advantage of the dog's back being turned, the others cautiously approached the door, and were about to make a dash for liberty.

As the old soldier spoke he thrust his crook across the doorway, and, as the boys fell back again, the dog resumed its watchful position and the door was closed.

Directly after, to Marcus' great enjoyment, there was a repetition of the previous proceedings, Serge selecting another victim with his crook from the five prisoners, dragging him out into the middle, where Marcus, who now thoroughly enjoyed his task, attacked him as Serge fell back, and, between him and the other lads, the second prisoner was forced to fight; but it was a sorry exhibition of cowardice, resulting in a certain amount of punishment, before he too lay down and howled, and was then set at liberty.

The proceedings were repeated till the other four had received a thrashing, and the last had clashed off, shamming terrible injury one minute till he was outside the door, and yelling defiance the next; and then, as the footsteps died out, Marcus threw himself upon the ground under the shady vines.

"Hallo!" cried Serge, anxiously. "Have they hurt you, boy?"

"No," was the reply; "but I hurt myself a good deal against their thick heads. But I say, Serge, do you think that was fair?"

"Fair? Of course it was!"

"But it seemed so one-sided, and as if I had it all my own way. They couldn't fight because they were afraid of you."

"Of you, you mean, boy, when it was man to man."

"No," said Marcus; "they'd have fought better if you and the dog hadn't been here."

"Yes, and they could all have come on you at once. A set of mongrel young hounds--half savages, that's what they are. You didn't thrash them half enough."

"Quite as much as I wanted to," cried the boy, "for my knuckles are as sore as sore. But oh, I say, Serge, it was comic!"

"They didn't think it was, my lad."

"I mean, to see you hooking them out one after another with your old crook, yelling and squealing like pigs."

"Humph!" grunted the old soldier, with his grim face relaxing. "Well, it has given them a pretty good scaring, and I don't suppose that they will come after our grapes again."

"Yah-h-ah!" came in a defiant chorus from a distance, where the young marauders had gathered together, and the dog sprang upon his feet, growling fiercely, before bursting into a deep, baying bark.

"Hear that?" cried Marcus.

"Hear it, yes! And it would not take much to make me set old Lupe after them. He'd soon catch them up, and then--"

"Yah-h-ah!"

"Fetch them down, boy!" shouted the old soldier, and, with a fierce roar, the dog dashed off in a series of tremendous bounds, but only to be checked by a shrill whistle from Marcus, which stopped the fierce beast and brought him trotting slowly back, to crouch down at his young master's feet.

"Why did you do that, lad?" cried the old soldier, staring.

"Because I didn't want Lupe to get amongst them, worrying and tearing. What would my father have said?"

The old soldier let his crook fall into the hollow of his left arm and pushed off his battered straw hat, to let it slide down between his shoulders, where it hung by its string, while, with his grim sun-tanned face as full of wrinkles as a walnut shell, he slowly swept the drops of moisture from his brow.

"Hah, yes," he said; "I didn't think of that. He wouldn't have liked it. He's got so soft and easy with people since he took to volumes and skins covered with writing. Why, his sword would be all rusty if it wasn't for me. It's all waste of time, for he'll never use it again, but I don't like to see a good blade such as his all covered with spots. Yes, boy," added the man, thoughtfully, "I'm glad you stopped old Lupe. Haw-haw-haw! I should rather liked to have seen him, though, nibbling their heels and making them run."

"Nibbling!" laughed Marcus. "Nibbling, Serge!" And the boy stooped down, raised the great dog's muzzle, and pulled up one of his lips to show the great, white fangs. "Not much of nibblers, these."

"Well, no, my lad," said the old soldier; "they don't look nibbley. Nibblers wouldn't do for him, would they, Lupe, old man? He wants good tools to tackle the wolves in winter. There, it's all over, and I don't feel so savage now. Here, you had better go and have a good wash while I see to the vine poles and put in a new un or two from the stack. I expect I shall have to prune a bit too, and tie, where those young ruffians have been at work. Let's get a bit tidy before the master comes back, though I don't suppose he'd take any notice if there wasn't a grape bunch left. But he'd see the dirt and scratches on your face first thing."

"Yes, of course," cried the boy, hastily, as he held up his knuckles, two of which were minus skin, and showing traces of dried blood. "But I say, Serge, look at my face. Is it much knocked about?"

"Well, pretty tidy, my lad. You look as if you had been in the wars. Nose is a little bit knocked on one side."

"Oh, Serge!" cried the boy, showing real excitement now.

"Left eye looks a bit sleepy, too."

"Serge!"

"Well, you asked me, my lad--and your bottom lip has been cut against your tooth."

"Oh, what will he say?" cried the boy, wildly.

"I dunno," growled the old soldier, grimly. "Yes, I do," and his eyes twinkled with satisfaction and pride in the prowess his young master had displayed.

"What will he say?" cried the boy, anxiously, and as if he placed full confidence in the old servant's words.

"Say you oughtn't to have been fighting, but been busy scratting about with your stylus and making marks on that wax."

"But I was busy, only it was so hot and one couldn't keep awake; and when I heard those fellows breaking down the vines--"

"Why, you went out and walloped them, of course," cried the man. "Quite nat'ral. What boy wouldn't who had got any stuff in him at all? There, don't you fret yourself about it, lad. The master will grumble at you a bit, of course, same as he does at me; but he's a right to, and it's only his way as he's got into now since he took to his books and writing. But there was a time--ah! And not so very long ago, my lad-- when if he'd caught those ragged young cubs tearing down his vines, he'd have stood and laughed and enjoyed seeing you thrash 'em, and helped you with his stick. And done them good too, made men of them, knowing what was right. But there, those days have all passed away. No more marching in the legion with the men's plumes dancing in the sunshine, and every man's armour as bright and clean as hands can make it. Ah, Marcus, my boy, those were grand old days, when we marched out to conquer, and came back and made grand processions, and the prisoners carrying all the spoil. I did hope to have seen you as fine a young centurion, growing into a general, as your father was before you. But-- but--There, don't stand staring at me with your eyes shining, your face red, and your mouth half open like that. Be off at once and have a good wash, and bathe those cuts and bruises till they look better."

"Yes! I had better go," said the boy, with a sigh. "It was a great bother for those boys to come. I meant when you came back for us to have some practice with the shield and spear, and then for you to show me again how to use the sword."

"Hah, yes," growled the old man, drawing a deep breath through his dilating nostrils, and unconsciously he whirled up his crook with one hand, and as he dropped into a picturesque attitude with one foot advanced and let the stout staff drop into his extended left hand, "that's the way," he cried. "Fancy, boy, a thousand spears presented all at once like that to the coming barbarians, and then the advance slowly and steadily, driving them scattered back, while the trumpets sounded and the ground quivered like a coming earthquake beneath the army's tramp. That's how we conquered and made the fame of grand old Rome. Bah! What an old fool I am!" he cried, as he stamped the end of his crook down once more, "I forget I'm not a soldier now, boy, only Cracis' man who tends his farm and keeps his swine."

"Never mind, Serge; we are very nice and happy here. The place is so beautiful. Father likes you."

"Bah! Not he! He only looks upon me as a slave."

"That he doesn't!" cried the boy, indignantly. "Why, only the other day he was talking about you."

"About me?"

"Yes, and saying what a happy, peaceful place this was."

"Peaceful! Bah!"

"And that it didn't matter what came to pass, he had me with him."

"Of course! Spoken like a father."

"And you," continued the boy, "a true old friend in whom he could trust."

"What!" cried the old soldier. "What! Friend? Did he say that?"

"Of course. He often talks like that."

"A friend in whom he could trust!" muttered the old soldier. "And here have I been listening to you and doing what I know he'd hate."

He gripped the boy sharply by the wrist as he spoke.

"Why, Serge, what do you mean?" cried the boy, wonderingly.

"Mean! Why, what have I been doing? Doesn't he want you to grow up as one who hates fighting, and a lover of peace? And here have I been teaching you how to use the sword and spear and shield, making of you one who knows how to lead a phalanx to the fight--a man of war. What would he say if he knew?"

Marcus was silent.

"I have done wrong, boy," continued the old soldier, "and some day he'll find us out."

The boy was still silent for a few moments. Then quickly--

"I must tell him some day, Serge, that it was all my doing--that I wouldn't let you rest until you had taught me what I know."

"That's true, boy," said Serge, in a sombre tone, "and it all comes of letting you see me take so much care of his old armour and his sword and spear. Yes, like my own old arms and weapons, I have kept them all bright and ready for use, for it's always seemed to me as if the time might come and bring the order for us to march to tackle some of Rome's old enemies, or to make new conquests--perhaps to Gaul--and that we must be ready for that day. I oughtn't to have done it, boy, but I was an old soldier, one who loved to see his weapons ready for the fight, and somehow I did. There, off you go! It's no use to think now of what is done." _

Read next: Chapter 4. Caught

Read previous: Chapter 2. Old Serge

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