but at the same moment another enemy sprang upon his
back, and he went down, his foes hurling themselves upon him with a
shout of triumph, which turned into a yell of dismay as the boy
literally leaped amongst them as if to join in the mastery over the
fallen man.

But though Marcus sprang quickly into their midst, his spear moved far
more quickly than his feet, and he darted in to right and left two of
the thrusts that he had learned from Serge in one of his mock combats at
home when his spear had been only a short, light pole, cut and trimmed
by the old soldier for the purpose in hand.

All that was sham, but this was startlingly real to the boy, as, at each
thrust, he saw blood start, and heard the yells of pain given by the
receivers of the point.

Those cries were auxiliaries, for they pierced the ears of those who
attacked, making them turn in their surprise to find amongst them a
fully-armed warrior whose arms flashed in the morning sun, as, advancing
his shield ready for a blow, he darted his spear forward at another, who
avoided the thrust by a backward leap, and, once started, dashed away as
hard as they could go. Fighting men are prone to follow their leader,
sometimes to victory, sometimes in panic flight. This latter was the
case here. Marcus' next thrust, delivered with all his might, coming
too late, for it was at a flying foe, three men running swiftly, one
limping away, another running more slowly, nursing his right arm, and
the sixth, who had been struck down by the Roman soldier's sword,
crawling along towards the rivulet, by which he stopped to bathe his
wound.

It was a matter of very few moments, and Marcus had hardly realised the
fact that his daring surprise had completely turned the tables, for his
first thought was, "They couldn't have seen what a boy I am," when his
next led him to turn back to see how the beaten-down soldier had fared,
just in time to meet him face to face, as, half stunned, he struggled to
his knees and pressing his sword upon one of the stones hard by, used it
as a staff to enable him to gain his feet.

The next moment he was afoot, passing his sword into his shield-bearing
hand so that he might raise his big helmet, which, in the struggle, had
been driven down over his eyes. Then it was that he stared at his
deliverer, and his deliverer stared at him.

"Thank you, whoever you are--" began the soldier, and then his jaw
dropped and he was silent. Not so Marcus,