turn, rising to say, as he drew a
long, deep breath:

"There, that's as much as I want now. Nice clear water, and we've left
plenty for the next as comes. But a deal of trouble I used to have in
the face of plenty to make you believe it was a soldier's duty to learn
how to fast. You always were the hungriest boy I ever knew."

Marcus laughed, and looked wonderingly at his companion, who now stood
up stiffly with his hands resting upon his spear.

"Well, Serge, what now?" cried Marcus.

"Only waiting, captain. Orders to advance."

"Forward!" cried Marcus; and, the next minute, with eyes eagerly
scanning the track in front, they were marching together side by side on
the way to Rome.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

WEARING ARMOUR.

It was some hours afterwards, when the sun was beating down hotly, that
Serge suggested that they should have half an hour's rest in the shade
of a clump of huge, spiral-barked chestnuts, whose dark, glossy-green
leaves were spread over a bend of the track which had evidently been
slightly diverted so that those who followed it might take advantage of
the shade.

The trees were approached cautiously, and the pair scouted round the
clump to make sure it was untenanted before they stretched themselves
amongst the mossy, radiating roots that spread far and wide.

"There seem to have been plenty of people here," said Marcus, pointing
to where the soft, moist earth was full of imprints. "There have been
wheeled carriages here."

"Yes," grunted Serge. "Those are ox waggons. See?"

"Yes," said Marcus. "But those others are different."

"Yes," said Serge. "Chariot wheels, those."

"How do you know?" said Marcus, sharply.

"Look at 'em," grunted the old soldier. "Can't you see they are light?
They are made to gallop. Those others were made to crawl. Why, it's
printed all about that they were chariot wheels. Look at the marks of
the horses' hoofs."

"Oh yes, I see," cried Marcus. "The waggons show nothing but the feet
of oxen. But how come there to be chariot wheels about here?"

"How did that Roman general, Caius Julius, come to the farm?"

"I don't know," said Marcus, starting. "I never thought of that."

"I did," said Serge, with a grunt which might have been copied from one
of the swine he had so often driven.

"How did he come?" cried Marcus.

"Same way as he went back to Rome."

"Of course," cried the boy, impatiently. "But how was that?"

"With chariots and h