the helmet's too heavy; it's on account of
your head being so soft and green. It'll be hard enough before the end
of this war. Why, if it were lighter, every crack you got in your first
fight would make it give way like an eggshell; and then where would you
be, my lad? Come, come, cheer up! You're a bit tired with this tramp--
the first big one you've had. You'll be better in the morning, and
before this time to-morrow night I dare say we shall be in sight of Rome
and its hills and the Tiber, and, take my word for it, you won't feel
tired then."

"Think not. Serge?"

"Sure of it, boy. Man who's a bit worn out feels as if everything's
wrong, and the flies that come buzzing about seem to be as big as crows;
but after a good sleep when the sun rises again to make everything look
bright, he sees clearer; the flies don't seem to buzz, only hum pleasant
like, and what there is of them is golden-green and shiny, and not a bit
bigger than a fly should be."

"But I'm disappointed, Serge. I hoped to see my father as soon as I
reached Rome, and get this trouble off my mind."

"Instead of which it has to wait. Well, never mind, lad. It will be
easier perhaps then. Now then, you do as I say: lie down at once close
up there to that dry, sandy bit, and sleep as hard as you can till
morning. Then we'll set off and get to Rome as soon as we can, and hear
about the army and which way it has gone."

"Perhaps it will not have started yet?" said Marcus, eagerly.

"Like as not, my lad, but, if it has, we can follow it up. Now then, be
sharp, for I want to lie down too. We shall be fresh as the field
flowers in the morning, for no one is likely to disturb us here."

Marcus said nothing, for he knew that the old soldier's words were meant
to encourage him, and he thought so more than ever, as, free now from
his heavy armour, he lay looking upward, listening to the faint hum of
beetles and seeing the glint of the stars through the trees, while he
thought of their journey and the disappointment he felt over Serge's
words, while it seemed to him all a part of his thinking instead of a
dream--a confused dream when he fancied himself back at the old house
seeking for Serge and finding the dog crouched down in the shed where
the great stone cistern stood, and in the harvest time the grapes were
trodden, those grown in their little vineyard and those from the
neighbouring farms where there was no convenience of the kind.

But a