eir camp," said the decurion, after a short pause, "and deserted.
Let us go forward cautiously; perhaps we shall find food."

Step by step they crept up, walking faster and more erect as they drew
nearer and as the evidence that life was not there became more apparent.

"They have left it only to-night," said Decius, clambering up the mound
of earth and sniffing the air. "Had it been a day old, we should have
smelt it long ago, though the wind blows from us."

Then, as they descended and traversed the silent lanes, a puzzled
expression came to his face, and he halted from time to time.

Sergius eyed him inquiringly.

"Do you not smell fresh blood?" said the veteran, at last. "I remember
when we marched with Lucius Aemilius, after the Gauls had beaten the
praetor's army at Clusium. There were ten thousand men just slain, and
the air was salt like the sea--by Jupiter! What is this?"

Resuming their advance, they had come upon a space of open ground near
the centre of the camp, doubtless the spot reserved for a market; but
what meat was it that cumbered the shambles, without buyer or seller?
Piled in ghastly heaps, or covering the ground two and three deep, lay
a fresh-reaped harvest of corpses, stripped, distorted, gleaming in the
moonlight. Could it be that the camp had been taken? But these were
no African dead, nor yet was this a Roman camp. There was a set
deliberation, too, about the slaughter, that told no tale of battle.

Suddenly Decius cried out and, stooping down, raised the hands of one
of the victims--hands upon which the shackles still hung.

"Slaves," murmured Sergius; "but why--"

"Say, rather, prisoners," said the centurion, grimly.

Sergius struck his thigh. It was all clear to him now.

"May the plague fall upon him! may he go to a thousand crosses! Do you
not see? He is _escaping_. He has made for the passes and slain his
prisoners, that they may not hamper his march. Who knows but that by
now he is on the road to Rome? Gods! This was Hostilius' duty and
mine, and we wasted our time and our men on a few score of miserable
Numidians. Come, my Marcus, come: there are no such things as wounds
or weariness or caution. We must reach the dictator at once, and may
the gods grant that it be not too late!"

Marcus Decius had been gazing gloomily at the young man, as the words
burst from his lips.

"Where shall we go, and how?" he said, with a despairing gesture.

"On our feet," cri