Chapter 7: Winter, 54 B.C., to Winter, 53 B.C

“‘But where can we draw water,’
Said Pearse to Conolly,
‘When all the wells are parched away?’
‘Oh plain as plain can be,
There’s nothing but our own red blood
Can make a right Rose Tree.’”
_Yeats._

Every now and then Titus Barrus would begin wondering whether he oughtn’t to free Meromic. He saw him looking unhappy, and understood what it was about, that after this glimpse of the old life, the contrast in his slave’s mind was no longer between now and the Roman house of fear and pain, but between now and the open woods or his welcome, as the Wolf, into Louaven’s house. And in some ways Titus would have liked to free him; he knew exactly how the Gaul’s face would change, his eyes light, how grateful he would be; but then----? Once he was free, Meromic would be away off to his own people in his own Canton, and no wonder; but he didn’t want that. Perhaps he might free him on condition that he stayed, but that was hardly worth doing. Besides, his grandfather never freed a slave without getting at least seven years’ service out of him, and he had only had Meromic for a little more than one year: that was no reason, of course, but--well anyhow, he was not going to do it! If he wanted the man and chose to keep him, he was the master and the other was his slave, and so they were going to stay! But all the same he did his best to make Meromic happy.

And quite often Meromic was happy, and even when he was not he could always think about having killed Gandoc; he felt much more at peace now that he’d got his revenge. The woad wore off him gradually--it is a fast dye--and things got more and more to be as they used; he was perfectly charming to Lerrys and made him feel that miserable summer and autumn had been worth while, to bring his friend back at the end. Now that he had no cause to hate the Britons, he used to help Dith, and talk to him, and stand up for him when their master was angry; very soon Dith, who was a simple-minded creature, forgot how he had been bullied and only felt that Meromic was more his kin than any one else, and went to him naturally when he was feeling miserable. Meromic told him it was quite useless to think of escaping in winter when there were no ships trading to Britain, and that he’d only get caught and sold to some one else; and he and Lerrys explained to him what slavery could be like, till Dith shivered and realized that he might be much worse off.

But Titus couldn’t very well keep three slaves up there on government rations; many of the officers had no more than one. So as soon as he could find any one to take him, he arranged to send Dith down to the Province, to be kept there till he was ready to have him again. The Briton was to be under the charge of a dealer who was going south with a whole gang of slaves to sell and a few, like Dith, who belonged to officers who wanted them kept safe for the moment. So as to be sure his own property shouldn’t get mixed up with the others, Titus had an iron collar made with his name and rank stamped on it, and told Meromic to take Dith off to the smithy and see it put on. Poor Dith had almost to be dragged there; he begged Meromic to speak to their master, to ask to be let off this; but Meromic pulled him along impatiently: “Dith, don’t be a fool! It’s the only way you’ll ever get claimed again once you get among that lot, unless you want to be branded.” Then, as Dith still wouldn’t go with him: “Oh, curse you, Dith, come on! I tell you, I’ve been a slave two years and more, I, the Wolf, the Pride of the Islands, and if I have to stand it, so have you!”

Said Dith: “How can you, Meromic, how can you? I was a free man and a fighter, and it’s hard enough; but if I’d been a chief I’d have killed myself or him before now!”

“It’s easy to talk like that, but--oh my God, Dith, do you think I like it?”

“No; but you like him--your master, your enemy, the man who keeps you this way; I’d be ashamed to!”

“Well, I’m not ashamed, not after he saved my life.”

“You can be grateful for that, but you needn’t like him, you needn’t come back after you’re free!”

“That was an oath.”

“Oath! You wouldn’t have come back if it had been nothing but that. And when you did you went jumping about and kissing his knees like a dog--oh, Meromic, don’t!” For Meromic had turned on him savagely and beat him about the face with clenched fists. At the smithy Meromic blew the fire while the smith fastened on the collar; a drop of melted solder fell on to Dith’s neck and burned him; the Briton whimpered and Meromic laughed--Dith getting what he deserved! Lerrys rubbed oil on to the blister when they got back, and gave him food to take with him, but all the same it was Meromic that Dith wanted most to say good-bye to. “Meromic, I’m sorry!” he said. “I oughtn’t to have said that; you mind as much as I do. And you’ve been a good friend to me. Wish me luck now!” And Meromic wished him good luck and shook hands, and Titus Barrus told the dealer to be kind to him, and him to be obedient to the dealer, and they went off.

Because of the drought the crops had been poor that year all over Gaul, and then on the top of it, Cæsar had taken half the corn for his legions; very soon the country would be starving. The chiefs were fretting already against the Roman occupation: now they would have their tribes behind them. To the officers in their winter-quarters everything seemed peaceful; but all of a sudden it broke up. News came first of the murder of Cæsar’s friend, Tasgetius, who had been made king of the Carnutes; a legion was sent off to find and punish the murderers and check the rebellion that was sure to follow. Titus was more than ever glad to have Meromic back for this; he had everything ready for the start, nothing forgotten or broken, food, fodder, arms, equipment, blankets, all packed as small as possible, and he and Lerrys only waiting to be told what next. On the march, Titus asked him if he knew the country. “I’ve been here once, sir,” he said, “but I don’t know it well. There might be a friend of mine somewhere, though.” “Who’s he?” “Molhir; he’s a Druid.” Titus frowned; he had heard of Molhir, one of the rebels, almost certainly one of the murderers: “Tell me if you hear of him.” Meromic said he would, rather surprised at his master taking so much interest in his friends.

He was a little afraid of meeting Molhir; last time they had been fighting together against the Romans; now--it was just these contrasts that he was trying all the time to avoid. He talked to Lerrys about it, who asked him if he was sure Molhir was alive. “Yes,” he said, “I heard--later; he wasn’t wounded and he escaped; he was with Viridovix afterwards. If I’d known--but it’s no good thinking of that. Only I wonder what he’ll say to me.” “Wait till you see him. Things are always changing.” So they asked whoever they could about Molhir: prisoners and suspects, country people and servants of the Carnutic nobles who came to the camp to give information or bring hostages. At last they heard he had gone off to join Ambiorix, the chief of the Eburones, who was behind so much of the trouble in Gaul; Meromic was disappointed, he found he had really been wanting to see his friend. He told his master the same day at supper; Titus looked up from his plate with, “Well, I’m glad!” but he didn’t say why.

When they got back they heard of the horrible affair at Atuatuca, how Sabinus and Cotta with a legion and a half had been lured out of their camp and betrayed by Ambiorix, how, far outnumbered in the pit of a grim valley, they had fought a whole day till all the officers and almost all the men were dead or dying under the broken eagles. After that there was war through the midwinter weeks: siege and relief, forced marches and hardly-fought battles against the bravest of the Gauls; but much of this time Titus was in the main camp at Samarobriva, which Crassus was holding for Cæsar. By the end of winter Gaul was comparatively quiet, though half the Northern tribes were still in arms, only waiting for their moment, and--worse--had been inviting the Germans to come over the border and help them. But Cæsar was waiting for his moment too; before they were ready he came down on them at one side, Labienus at the other; the chiefs were scattered or killed, the tribes submitted. There was little left to do but to revenge on Ambiorix the Roman dead.

Titus was sent north to the wet, woody country of the Eburones and their savage neighbours, where Ambiorix was hiding; his slaves went with him, mud all over after a day’s march. He had little time to talk to them, but he wondered sometimes how the Gaul was standing it. So did Lerrys; one day he asked Meromic, who answered angrily that these Belgians were not his people, and he didn’t care what happened to them either way. But all the same he was minding: he kept out of the way as much as he could when there was looting or burning to do; he never made friends with the soldiers, though many of them didn’t mind talking to a slave almost as an equal so long as he was a decent sort of man; and every time Ambiorix got away, he was glad.

One morning the officers’ servants had been sent out to forage; Meromic, as usual, strayed off from the others, sick of their talk and hating their ways. He went down along a wet path towards a deserted farm, where, he thought, there might be corn and fodder left; the empty corn-sack over his shoulders kept him fairly dry and he walked quickly to get to the place before the others. He found the clearing, and the farm with its doors flapping open, and looked about among the sheds and stacks; he came on an overlooked corn-chest, and half filled his sack. The door of the barn was stuck, but he put his shoulder to it and got it open; inside it was dark and smelt of rotten hay; he thought of taking back a bale for the horses, but it was sodden with the rain coming in under the door; probably the farm folk had taken all that was any use. He was turning to go out again when suddenly he heard a sound that made him jump: his own name called in a husky whisper from the far corner of the barn. His hand was on his axe, and he was over at the door, panting. But the voice went on, urgently: “Meromic, Meromic! Come back, help me!”

“Who is it?” asked Meromic, trying to see into the dark.

“It’s me, Molhir--Molhir of the Carnutes. Give me a drink, Meromic.”

Meromic knelt beside him: “Molhir! I never thought---- Where are you hurt?”

“My side: a spear. Three days ago.”

“And you’ve been left alone with it!”

“I got as far as here and then I couldn’t get any further. There’s water in the trough outside.” Meromic brought it in his hands, and Molhir drank and said, “I’ve been sucking wet hay, but it’s bad. Now lift me a little.” Meromic put an arm under his back to shift him, but he groaned sharply: “No, stop! It’s no use; the spear went too deep. Keep your arm there, though; I like it. I didn’t think I’d find a friend again. I woke when the door opened and saw some one walking about, but I thought it was a Roman. And it was you all the time! I thought you were dead. You’ll stay with me now?”

“Yes, surely.”

“What are you doing here, Meromic?” Meromic bit his lip, not knowing what to say, but Molhir went on in his low, even whisper: “But it doesn’t matter. I was so afraid of their taking me prisoner. It’s good to have some one of one’s own folk again. Did he escape last time?”

“Ambiorix? Yes.”

“That’s all I care for; so long as he’s left. Gaul will be free yet. You’ll live to see it; you’ll be part of it. But I’m part of it too: though I die. And Ar-roud, your sword: you see how I remember! You’ll both fight. Meromic, put Ar-roud into my hand!”

“I--I left Ar-roud with my horse; shall I get it?”

“No, don’t move. Where have you been all this time?”

He thought for a moment: “In Britain; I killed Gandoc.”

“Good. That leaves you free to kill Romans.”

“Yes.” Molhir shut his eyes; Meromic heard the slow, painful breathing, and felt his friend’s shoulders pressing down hard as every heart-beat centred itself on the wound. When he spoke again, it was fainter, so that Meromic could only just hear it. “I want you to give Ambiorix a message from me; you’ll surely see him soon. Tell him I died, and that I know--I hope--oh, freedom’s not a dream! Meromic, you must say what I want to say, you can. I’m too tired.”

“Yes,” whispered Meromic, “yes, I’ll do it.” He had never felt the shame of his slavery like this before; his tears dropped warm on to Molhir’s cheek and roused him.

“Don’t cry, Meromic, not for me. It’s a good death ... if one has to die. But I knew They wanted me; last time I sacrificed: no heart. I never told the others; I’m not a Druid for nothing. And He said.... Meromic, what am I talking about? Oh yes. If Lugh were willing---- You don’t understand. I’m happy about that; I know enough. But I want to be remembered; my people were kings before we had a republic. Make a song about me, Meromic, a good song for men to sing by their own fires when Gaul is free. And put in everything: about our battle, and then Viridovix; and how I was the first to strike Tasgetius--you’ll not forget that? I struck him in the throat.” Meromic nodded; suddenly it came to him why his master had wanted to know where Molhir was; he shivered. Molhir noticed and said: “Are you cold? You’ll wait with me, though? Even if I’m all night dying?”

“I’ll wait; and afterwards I’ll give you a good burning, Molhir.” It was beginning to get late; the rain was coming down again and dripping through the thatch; he wondered a little what Lerrys would think had happened. Molhir moved uneasily: “Is your horse out in this? You should go....” Meromic shook his head and Molhir drowsed off again.

Slowly it got darker inside the barn; by and by it was night; perhaps Lerrys had found some corn; it was lucky no one else had come to the farm. His arm was getting cramped, he moved it a little, but Molhir moaned and clutched at him in the dark: “Don’t go!”

“I’m not going.”

“That’s good. I wish it was day still. But it’s light in the Island. He’ll make me well; I shall run on grass again.” He was quiet after that, only grinding his teeth from time to time as the pain gripped him. Stretched alongside, Meromic fell asleep himself; rousing, he saw it had cleared and there was starlight outside, and then he heard his friend talking in broken sentences. It sounded as if he was quarrelling with some one; Meromic shook him and called his name, but he did not heed, only waved one hand and went on in his fierce whisper: “No! No! I tell you, no!” and then, “I’ll not have a Roman here or a Roman’s dog! Out with him, I say! Out, out, out!” He raised himself on one hand, pointing at the open door, then suddenly fell back and rolled half over. Meromic crouched by his chest, listening for the heart, but everything was still. He sat beside him with his back to the wall of the barn, very wide awake.

Then morning came with sunshine sparkling on a hundred pools, and the woods misted with pale, early green. There were some dry things in the farm: a table, a chest, and some bundles of straw; he heaped them together and carried Molhir over, cold and stiffening; he spread the corn-sack and laid him on it with his head to the West. At his belt was the little knife his master had given him in Rome; there were flints outside. The straw flared in a minute, the wood caught; Molhir lay still in the heart of it. The flames were leaping; with any luck they would fire the thatch and then the walls, and light the dead man well on his journey.

Meromic watched a moment from the door, then turned; he went up along the path he had come by, further and further from the drifting smoke. If he went back to the camp he could never take the message; if he took the message he could never go back. Molhir was his friend; but Lerrys was his friend too. And Titus Barrus? He was a friend--or an enemy?

He tripped on a bramble and fell into the mud; he had clay on his hands and knees. Once he had kept his oath; must he keep it again? Oath or not, Molhir was a Gaul: that must come first. But which way to Ambiorix?

A swinging branch caught him across the face and scratched him. He had no sword, nothing. And these Belgians: he knew so little of them, their manners and customs; what would they make of him? He would never be able to prove he was a chief. But at least he would be free, no coming back this time! He would find Ambiorix.

The path seemed to be going north: that was all to the good. It was a twisty path. Well, he would follow it and see.

He began thinking about the other thing, the song he was going to make for his friend; the lilt of it began to come in his head, the words sang themselves after. But the odd thing was how difficult he found it to sing about Molhir; it was all about himself instead. He frowned, intent on the lines, hardly noticing if he went up hill, or down. Suddenly the path turned a corner and he almost ran into a Roman sentry; he stopped and stared, with the song still clouding the back of his head. The sentry, who knew him, called to him that he could pass; he seemed to have stepped back into real life after a long dream. But yet the camp was strange, or else he was seeing it differently. His master was standing by the tent, talking to one of his centurions; the centurion saluted and went off down the lines.

Titus Barrus turned with a start, feeling somebody looking at him; he saw his slave who had been missing for a day and a night. “So there you are at last!” he said. “Now, what’s the meaning of it? And what have you done with my sack?”

“It’s burnt.”

“Burnt! In the name of fortune, how? Don’t stand there gaping, man: come here! And make haste!” He spoke angrily, and Meromic came forward a few steps, his hands hanging at his sides. “Well, where have you been?”

“Away. In the woods.”

“Is that all you’ve got to say? Out with it! What have you done?” The Gaul came close, and all at once Titus saw how queer he was looking, and the dark stains on his tunic. “Why, what’s happened to you? What’s that on your sleeve? Blood!”

“Yes.”

“Good God, are you hurt? Tell me quick! Did you get among the enemy?”

Meromic turned his eyes slowly on to his master: “I wish I had.”

“Come into the tent, Meromic. Now: look at me straight and tell me everything. First, where did you go?”

“To a farm.”

“And then? What was there? _Who_ was there?”

At this Meromic looked all round a little wildly and then threw himself down in front of his master, with, “If you’d known, if I’d brought him back, if he’d lived, what would you have done? Would you have killed him?”

“Who is it, Meromic?”

“It was my friend, Molhir of the Carnutes.”

“I see. Is he dead?”

“He died last night.”

“Well then, that’s settled. But--you want me to answer truly? My duty would have been to give him up. But I think I should have let you both have a chance to escape first.”

Meromic looked up: “Oh, you would! I wondered all last night in the barn. But he was dying when I found him: the last one of my old friends.”

He slid down into a heap on the ground; Titus, on one knee beside him, spoke very patiently: “That’s not all. What else happened?”

“He thought I was on his side; he gave me a message for Ambiorix.”

“And you wanted to take it?”

“Oh God, I meant to! And then--I never looked where I was going and the woods are so thick and the path twisted! So I’m back.”

“You were under the hand of your Gods, Meromic. What was the message to Ambiorix?”

“Only to say Molhir was dead, and--and--about Gaul being free; he thought I was fighting still. Oh, sir, he asked me for my sword!”

“I’m sorry, Meromic; it’s hard on you. But you can’t take the message, you see.”

“No, sir.”

“I thought something of this sort might happen; that’s what your oath is for. But I am sorry, all the same. Now, I’ve got to go; you’d better get yourself something to eat; and you can stay in the tent for a little, if you like.” Titus went off on duty; on his way he found Lerrys and told him to go to Meromic; they talked about it all, and at the end Lerrys said, “If you ever do go, to Ambiorix or anyone else, you’ll take me, Meromic? Remember, I fought against them too.” But Meromic shook his head and went back to his work.

For the next few days Titus kept rather a sharp eye on Meromic; he never quite knew what he mightn’t do next; but the Gaul said nothing more about his friend, and Titus said nothing about the lost sack. But then one evening he was sitting inside his tent after supper, checking a roll of names, and the two slaves were banking the fire with wet earth so that it would last till morning; Meromic was singing something. For a moment Titus had thought vaguely that now the man was settling down again, but then he began to listen to the song; he laid his hand on the open roll and called Meromic over: “What’s that song of yours?”

“Oh, nothing, sir.”

“Well, sing it me now.”

Meromic looked uncomfortably at the ground: “Very well, sir.” And he sang it:

“He that’s a fighting man
Far has to go;
Hard my friend hasted there,
I must be slow.
Born to the battle,
The ships and the spears,
No man could better him
All down the years!
He killed a Roman
And he killed a king,
Swords would come after him,
Axes would swing!
He has gone flitting now
Out of the flames
Far to that sea-circled
Isle of sweet names;
There he goes hunting
The boar and the roe
Down those deep valleys
Where sea breezes blow.
He goes as freely as
Eagle on air:
Would I could ride with him,
Would I were there!
I can not follow
By land or by sea;
Ay, though his friend is,
The Wolf is not free!”

Titus fingered the edge of his roll: “I see. Don’t sing it again. That’s all.” Meromic muttered something inaudible and went off; and that was the last of Molhir, for the time, anyway.

Early in spring, Publius Crassus, their young legate, went to join his father, the profiteer, in Parthia. His officers wished him luck, and some of them went with him; Titus was hoping he might be taken--he wanted to see this new country--but it couldn’t be arranged. Most of that summer was spent in the North; it was a war of punishment and starvation, and Titus was beginning to find Cæsar not always merciful. The Eburones were not powerful enough to make mercy worth while, and besides--there were Cotta and Sabinus and six thousand soldiers to be avenged. So the country was stripped bare of corn and cattle; the men were killed, the women and children sold, and for miles the woods were rotten with unburied bodies.

Then in the middle of it all news came of the battle of Carrhæ in Parthia, the utter defeat of the Roman army; their Crassus with his thousand Gauls, surrounded but fighting to the last on those hot sands, the Parthian horsemen carrying his head in triumph on a lance; his General and father murdered, facing his death most bravely; and the great army scattered through the deserts, the power of the eagles broken in the East! And the Conservatives had carried all before them at the Elections in Rome. Cæsar was out of favour there; he had to finish with Gaul if it were anyway possible; he could not be everywhere at once, and what might not be happening? These revolts came one after another, destroying the work of years; he hated the barbarians sometimes, as only a conqueror can hate. That spread down to officers and men. The tribes were smashed, cowed, beaten to the ground; and then--peace?

In Autumn he summoned the Gallic Council; the chiefs were given their orders; they had never hated the Romans so much before, but with Cæsar there they dared do nothing. Acco of the Senones was convicted of rebellion; they could not save him; under the Roman law he was beaten to death. They had to look on in horror, half of them thinking that it might be their turn next. And Titus looked on too, that being part of his duty. Meromic stood behind him with his fists clenched; but if the chiefs did nothing, what could he do?

After that they went back to winter-quarters again, and Titus wrote to his grandfather, not quite so much about Cæsar as usual, but just a little home-sick after two years out of Italy. He spent a long time over the letter he got in answer, puzzled and thinking vaguely about all sorts of new things. At last he threw the second sheet over to Meromic, who read it with some difficulty. “Well?” asked Titus.

Meromic handed back the letter: “Do you want to marry her, sir?”

“I don’t know, Meromic. I shall have to marry some day, of course. I used to think about it a great deal.”

“There’s no need yet, sir, is there? You’re not much older than me, after all.”

“One ought to have children.”

“Yes, I’d like to see that. Only--it does make everything different being married.”

“It means one’s got to get things straight with oneself.”

“Have you ever seen her, sir?”

“Yes, once; she was just a child then: she can’t be very old now. I went to see her father about a book, something of Plato’s, the _Lysis_.... I wonder if you’d like Plato, Meromic.... She was in the garden, playing ball among the apple trees, a little slip of a thing with long dark hair. She ran away as soon as she saw me.”

“Æmilia: it’s a pretty name.”

“Yes. My grandfather would like me to marry her; I can’t see anything against it.”

“You wouldn’t marry her at once?”

“She’s not likely to come out here! And I shan’t be going home for months.”

“Well, sir, it’s for you to settle.”

Here Lerrys came in; Titus turned to him: “I think I’m going to get married, Lerrys. And what do you say to it?”

Lerrys gasped: “Oh, really, sir? That’ll be splendid! When will it be, sir?”

“I’m not in such a hurry!” Titus laughed. But later he wrote back, saying he was very unlikely to be able to come home for some time, but, in the interval, would his grandfather do as he thought fit about the marriage?

About a fortnight later Lerrys fell desperately in love with a red-haired Hæduan, the daughter of a small landowner whose farm had been confiscated by Dumnorix, and who was now living, rather meagrely, under the protection of the army. Lerrys had never been so much moved before; his many other love-affairs were forgotten, and indeed they had mostly been very temporary. Now he was either ridiculously happy because she’d smiled at him, or fearfully depressed because she’d passed without seeing him. He dragged her somehow into every talk, even with his master--the turn of her neck, the light in her eyes, her wonderfully clear skin, or the warm softness of her splendid hair. At first Meromic was sympathetic, then amused, and finally quite sick of the girl. It went on for weeks; Lerrys was not very sure what he wanted, and anyhow he made no progress; he was always going off to look for Coisha, leaving his work half done, or else just mooning about, quite unable to attend to anything. Meromic did the extra work, but took every opportunity of telling Lerrys what he thought of him, and refused to listen when he started on Coisha--not that it made any difference: Lerrys went on talking just the same.

One morning they were redding up the hut, shaking out blankets and scouring metalwork, with the sun coming in through the open door. Meromic was whistling and hunting for a lost strap; Lerrys paused with a breastplate in one hand and a brush in the other to tell the world in general that he’d been helping her to draw water at dawn and that her arms were--etc., etc. “Do get on with your work!” said Meromic crossly. “Or am I to do it all as usual?”

Lerrys started his cleaning again: “If only you were in love, Meromic! It’s so wonderful!”

Meromic grunted. “I don’t want to get like you.”

“But you don’t know anything about it!”

“Oh, don’t I! What about that little girl over the river?”

“That’s not love! Can’t you see it, Meromic! She’s no more fit to be compared with my Coisha than----”

“Oh stop! I suppose you think she’s different to every other woman simply because she won’t kiss you. I wish she would; then you’d get tired of her quick enough!” At this Lerrys snatched up an iron plate and threw it with all his might at Meromic, who ducked in time and said, “I’m not going to fight you about your girl, Lerrys, so don’t think it! I tell you, I wish you may get her!”

Lerrys groaned. “There’s little enough chance of that as things stand now. But yet I think she loves me; she says so.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Her father wants her to be married.”

“Well, can’t you take her on now, and marry her later? You’re sure to be freed some time.”

“The father won’t let her come. Besides, it’s all very well now, but I can’t drag her half over Gaul if there’s fighting next year. And then--do you think he’s going to free us?”

“He’s never said anything about it. I don’t know; I suppose it’s just what one hopes. If I were free--oh God, I wish you hadn’t started talking about it, Lerrys!”

“I didn’t! Meromic, have you heard about that bay filly with the white patch? I was told----”

They began to talk about racing.

Titus Barrus was rather annoyed with Lerrys; it was all very well being in love, but really the man was carrying it too far! He scolded him and threatened him, and he was pathetically apologetic, but it didn’t stop him running off after Coisha whenever he possibly could. And instead of getting better after a time, it got worse; obviously he was very unhappy, and it appeared that there was another suitor coming after Coisha, who could offer her marriage and whom her father approved. Titus suddenly made up his mind; he called Lerrys and said, “If I free you and let you marry her, do you think you’re going to do your work decently?”

“Oh!” cried Lerrys, “oh, I’ll do anything!” and he kissed his master’s boots.

“Very well,” said Titus, “we’ll make an agreement: I to free you and give you enough money to keep Coisha, and you to stay with me just as we are now until the Army is sent out of Gaul or I don’t need you any longer; that means that if this peace lasts you’ll have her all the time, if it doesn’t, you must leave her behind somewhere and march--and no whining about it! Is that right, Lerrys?”

Lerrys got to his feet with his head reeling; it was all so sudden: five minutes ago he had been miserable, almost hopeless; now--he thought of Coisha panting in his arms, her hot hair loose against his face, her white throat under his kisses, every delight his own at last! He could hardly speak, only to stammer his consent and thanks.

Titus watched him, amused and rather touched: it meant all that! “Go and tell her, man!” he said, “and say I want to speak to her father; I’ll see it’s all right. Your hand on it, Lerrys!” And it seemed as if the whole world was smiling on him, on Lerrys, the Colchian, who was going to be free again after eleven years of slavery!

And then Meromic came in. Lerrys looked at him for a moment with his mouth open; then he asked low, “Can’t he be freed, too?”

“No!” said Titus, startled.

Lerrys stood very stiff with his head back and said to his master, “Then--I can’t. Not without him.”

Titus swore under his breath, muttered, “Lerrys, you fool----” and spoke hardly: “There’s an end of your girl, then!”

Lerrys turned to go out, blindly, his hands over his mouth; Meromic stopped him in the doorway and whispered, “What is it? Dear, is something wrong? Coisha?” Lerrys nodded. “But tell me! What has he to do with it?” But Lerrys swayed against the doorpost and answered nothing. Suddenly Meromic saw: “Was he going to free you? On conditions? Lerrys, was it about me? You said--oh, it’s that!”

Lerrys caught at his hands: “Don’t say anything! I made him angry!”

“You’re the best friend in the world! But listen: go back, say you’re sorry. It’s no matter about me. If he won’t free me, he won’t, and you can’t help this way. Go on!”

Inside the hut Titus could hear them; he was fiercely angry with Lerrys, too angry to think of his motives. He looked round for something to break, but considered it would be undignified; he really wanted to hurt Lerrys, he picked up a stick; but then all at once he felt ashamed and curiously exhausted. Abruptly, he sat down and began pulling at the blanket; the slaves were still whispering in the doorway; he called them: “Meromic! Lerrys! Get on with your work and don’t talk!” Meromic hesitated, came in, knelt down on one knee and said, “Don’t think of what Lerrys said just now, sir. Free him like you were going to, and let him be happy.”

Titus drummed on the edge of the bench: “Curse you, Meromic, it’s none of your business!”

“It is my business, sir. He refused because of me. Now--he’s willing without that.”

“Willing! A slave willing to get his freedom! And what if his master isn’t willing? I made one offer; he didn’t take it; I’m not going to make it again!”

“Oh God, sir, you wouldn’t say that if you knew what it meant to us--to him! It’s--it’s--”

“Be quiet, Meromic!”

“But, sir----”

“Oh, very well, very well; he shall have it. Here: Lerrys!” Lerrys crept in. “I’ll give you your freedom on the old conditions. This is my last word. Will you take it?”

Lerrys looked down and thought of Coisha; it would be unbearable to give her up. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“To-morrow, then. Now, get out quick!”

Lerrys went off quietly; Meromic got up: “Sir, can I go?”

“No: stay where you are. Why are you looking at me that way? I’ve the right to free who I like and keep who I like; why should I free you?”

“I didn’t ask you to, sir.”

“I suppose you want to be free?”

“Want! I do want.”

“To go away and leave me.”

“I’ve not seen my country for three years. I can’t be the Wolf here.”

“Well, I don’t choose to free you!”

“I’ve served you well, sir, haven’t I? I used to have slaves of my own. And a great ship, and my sword, and friends.”

“Aren’t I your friend?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“If I’m not, why did you come back twice when you might have got away?”

“I suppose ... because of my oath.”

“You don’t mind very much about keeping oaths, Meromic.”

“That’s what Dith said.”

“Well?”

“Of course I can’t tell what’s been happening at home; I expect some one else will have taken our land. And I wouldn’t like not being with you--in a lot of ways.”

“If you’ll stay, I’d as soon have you free as slave. But will you hate me for keeping you?”

“Never.”

“Well then, I’ll free you. Now, I’m going to ride. Come on, Wolf.”