Bevis, who had gone to light the fire with the matches in his pocket, now returned through the gap, and asked if anything had been seen of Pompey’s men. As he spoke a Pompeian appeared, and mounting the spars of the distant gate displayed a standard, to which was attached a white handkerchief, which fluttered in the breeze. “They’re ready,” said Mark Antony. “Come on. Which way shall we march? Which way are you going?” The smoke of Caesar’s fire rose over the hedge, and swept down by the gale trailed along the ground towards Pompey’s. Bevis hastened back to the camp, and tied his handkerchief to the top of an eagle, Mark followed. “Which way are you going?” he repeated. “Where shall we meet them? What are you going to do?” “I don’t know,” said Caesar, angrily pushing him. “Get away.” “There,” growled Mark Antony to Scipio, “he doesn’t know what he’s going to do, and Phil is as cunning as--” The standard-bearer sent by Caesar pushed by him, got through the gap, and held up the white flag, waving it to attract more attention. In half a minute, Pompey’s flag was hauled down, and directly afterwards some one climbed over the gate and set out running towards them. It was Charlie. “Run, Tim,” said Caesar Bevis; “we’re ready.” Tim dashed through the gap, and set off with all his might. “Two and two,” shouted Caesar. “Stand still, will you?” as they moved towards the opening. “Take down that flag.” The eagle-bearer resumed his place behind him. Caesar signing to the legions to remain where they were, went forward and stood on the mound. He watched the runners and saw them pass each other nearly about the middle of the great field, for though little, Charlie was swift of foot, and full of the energy which is more effective than size. “Let’s go.” “Now then.” “Start.” The legions were impatient and stamped their feet, but Caesar would not move. In a minute or two Charlie reached him, red and panting with running. “Now,” shouted Bevis, “march!” and he leaped into the field; Charlie came next for he would not wait to take his place in the ranks. The legions rushed through anyhow, eager to begin the fray. “Two and two,” shouted Caesar, who would have no disorder. “Two and two,” repeated his first lieutenant, Mark Antony. “Two and two,” said Scipio Cecil, punching his men into place. On they went, with Caesar leading, straight across the wind-swept plain for Pompey’s camp. The black swifts flew about them, but just clearing the grass, and passing so close as to seem almost under foot. There were hundreds of them, they come down from the upper air, and congregate in a great gale; they glided over the field in endless turns and windings. Steadily marching, the army had now advanced a third part of the way across the field. “Where’s Pompey?” said Scipio Cecil. “Where shall we meet and fight?” said Mark Antony. “Silence,” shouted Bevis, “or I’ll degrade you from your rank, and you shan’t be officers.”