it was
but a matter of minutes before the pressure ceased as the ranks passed
on and a big, heavy-looking man came up, and by signs--for no voice
could make itself heard--seemed to be urging other men to seize and drag
the dead horse off the prisoned officer, who was saving himself from
falling prone, possibly to be trampled to death by the advancing ranks,
by clasping his hands round Marcus' waist as he still stood over him
with ready sword and shield.

The start having been made, there were willing hands in plenty to drag
the horse away, and its rider stood up, holding on by Marcus' arms, as
once more a wave of the enemy seemed to rise up out of the tumultuous
sea of carnage, sweeping between the two Romans and their friends, the
former being left to face the bristling spears of the Gauls, and death
appearing inevitable for Marcus and the officer he had saved.

The boy was borne back by half a score of the hirsute semi-savages,
leaving his companion standing erect with nothing to defend himself but
his clenched hand, when, half maddened by the scene, Marcus uttered a
wild cry, recovered himself, and dashed forward to the rescue,
staggering the foe with astonishment by the fierceness of his onslaught,
as he literally hurled himself between the officer and his fate, the
upraised shield turning aside the spears gliding with deadly aim toward
his throat.

At that moment the deadly wave of destruction was checked in its onward
sweep by the rebound of a line of Roman veterans, the Gauls fell back,
and the officer drew himself up panting and waving one arm on high, when
a couple of officers rode up, one of whom dismounted and held his
stirrup, when, without a word, the companion of Marcus in peril sprang
upon the charger's back and dashed forward, the late rider holding on by
the mane.

"Well done, boy! Grand!" was shouted in Marcus' ear, as he stood there
wondering whether it was all real, that noise of men tramping by, the
clash of arms, and the roar as of muttering thunder ahead, and not some
horrible dream in which, faint and sick, everything was whirling slowly
round.

"That you, Serge?" someone said, for they did not seem to be his words.

"Yes, boy; grand, but we ought to be along with our cohort, and it's far
ahead, so we must join the ranks of one of these that are going by."

"Are we losing?" said Marcus, faintly, and still it was as if someone
else was speaking.

"Losing!" cried the old soldier. "Winni