rcus, modestly.

"But I say, oh yes. Don't you talk to me. They'd have killed me dead,
stripped off everything that was worth taking, and then left my body to
the wolves."

Marcus recalled the words of the speaker of his wandering away up the
mountains to lie down and die, and he felt ready to say: "Well, that
would have suited you;" but he thought it better not, and held his
tongue.

"As I said before, you have behaved uncommonly well over that, so I'll
forgive you for running away, and shake hands, if you'll agree to say
nothing more about it to me."

"Oh, very well," cried Marcus. "I don't feel that I can say any more to
you."

"Then I won't to you, my lad, and there's my hand on it. Only mind
this," cried Serge, as they stood with their hands clasped, "this is
only me, you know. I lose my place of looking after you, according to
the master's orders, by forsaking my post and going after him, so I
aren't no longer holding your rein, as you may say. What I mean is
this--I forgive you, but I am not going to answer for what your father
will say."

"Oh, of course not," cried Marcus. "We have both got to face that."

"Yes, my lad," said the old soldier, sourly, "and a nice hard time it's
going to be. I daren't think about it, but keep on putting it off till
it comes. That'll be time enough. So now then, you and me's going to
be friends, and try to help one another out of the mud. That is, unless
you think we'd better go back home together."

"Oh, no, no," cried Marcus. "Impossible! We must go on now."

"Yes," said Serge, bluntly. "Then it's vittles."

"Vittles?" said Marcus, staring.

"Yes. Don't you know what vittles are? Didn't you say you was hungry?"

"Oh!" cried Marcus.

"Have you got anything?"

"Scarcely anything," replied Marcus.

"Yah! And after all the pains I took with you! Didn't I always say
that an army on the march must always look well after its foraging? No
commander can expect his men to behave better than a bottle."

"Look here, Serge," cried Marcus, laughing, "why don't you speak out
plainly what you mean? What have men got to do with bottles?"

"Oh, a good deal sometimes," said the man, chuckling. "But that's only
my way. You can't hold a bottle up, no matter whether it's a goat-skin
or one of them big jars made of clay, and expect to pour something out
of it if you haven't first put something in?"

"No, of course not," said Marcus, who was busy polishing th