Chapter Nine.How to treat an Enemy.“Well, but is that all?” said Punch.“Yes, and now you are tired and had better have a nap, and by the time you wake I will have some more milk for you.”“Bother the old milk! I’m sick of it; and I don’t want to go to sleep. I feel sometimes as if I had nearly slept my head off. A fellow can’t be always sleeping. Now, look here; I tell you what you have got to do some day. You must serve that uncle of yours out.”“Let him rest. You are tired and weak.”“No, I ain’t. All that about you has done me good. I did not know that you had had such a lot of trouble, sir.”“Ah, what’s that, Punch!” cried Pen sharply. “Don’t you say ‘sir’ to me again!”“Shall if I like. Ain’t you a gentleman?”“No, sir. Only Private Penton Gray, of the —th Rifles.”“Well, you are a-saying ‘sir’ to me.”“Yes, but I don’t mean it as you do. While I am in the regiment we are equals.”“Oh yes, I like that!” said the boy with a faint laugh. “Wish we was. Only Private Penton Gray of the —th! Well, ain’t that being a gentleman? Don’t our chaps all carry rifles? They are not like the line regiments with their common Brown Besses. Sharpshooters, that’s what we are. But they didn’t shoot sharp enough the other day, or else we shouldn’t be here. I have been thinking when I have been lying half-asleep that there were so many Frenchies that they got our lads between two fires and shot ’em all down.”“I hope not, Punch. What makes you think that?”“Because if they had been all right they would have been after us before now to cut us out, and—and—I say, my head’s beginning to swim again.”“Exactly, you are tired out and must go to sleep again.”“But I tell you I don’t—”The poor boy stopped short, to gaze appealingly in his companion’s eyes as if asking for help, and the help Pen gave was to lay his hand gently on his eyelids and keep it there till he felt that the sufferer had sunk into a deep sleep.The next day the poor fellow had quite a serious relapse, and lay looking so feeble that once more Pen in his alarm stood watching and blaming himself for rousing the boy into such a state of excitement that he seemed to have caused him serious harm.But just as Punch seemed at the worst he brightened up again.“Look here,” he said, “I ain’t bad. I know what it is.”“So do I,” replied Pen. “You have been trying your strength too much.”“Wrong!” cried the boy faintly. “It was you give me too much to eat. You ought to have treated me like a doctor would, or as if I was a prisoner, and given me dry bread.”“Ah!” sighed Pen. “But where was the bread to come from?”“Jusso,” said Punch, with a faint little laugh; “and you can’t make bread without flour, can you? But don’t you think I’m going to die, because I am ever so much better to-day, and shall be all right soon. Now, go on talking to me again about your uncle.”“No,” said Pen, “you have heard too much of my troubles already.”“Oh no, I ain’t. I want to hear you talk about it.”“Then you will have to wait, Punch.”“All right, then. I shall lie and think till my head begins to go round and round, and I shall go on thinking about myself till I get all miserable and go backwards. You don’t want that, do you?”“You know I don’t.”“Very well, then, let’s have some more uncle. It’s like doctor’s stuff to me. I’ve been thinking that you might wait a bit, and then go and see that lawyer chap and punch his head, only that would be such a common sort of way. It would be all right if it was me, but it wouldn’t do for you. This would be better. I have thought it out.”“Yes, you think too much, Punch,” said Pen, laying his hand upon his companion’s forehead.“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” cried the boy pettishly. “It’s nice and cool now.”“Yes, it is better now. That last sleep did you good.”“Not it, for I was thinking all the time.”“Nonsense! You were fast asleep.”“Yesterday,” said the boy; “but I was only shamming to-day, so that I could think, and I have been thinking that this would do. You must wait till we have whopped the French and gone back to England, and got our new uniforms served out, and burnt all our rags. Then we must go and see your uncle, and—”“That’ll do, Punch. I want to see to your wound now.”“What for? It’s going on all right. Here, whatcher doing of? You ain’t going to cut up that other sleeve of your shirt, are you?”“Yes; it is quite time that you had a fresh bandage.”“Ah, that’s because you keep getting it into your head that I’m worse and that I’m going to die; and it’s all wrong, for I am going to be all right. The Frenchies thought they’d done for me; but I won’t die, out of spite. I am going to get strong again, and as soon as the colonel lets me carry a rifle I will let some of them have it, and— Oh, very well; if you must do it, I suppose I must lie still; only get it over. But—ya! I don’t mean to die. What’s the good of it, when there’s so much for us to do in walloping the French? But when we do get back to the regiment you see how I will stick up for you, and what a lot I will make the chaps think of you!”“Will you keep your tongue quiet, Punch?”“No, I sha’n’t,” said the boy with a mocking laugh. “There, you needn’t tie that so tight so as to make it hurt me, because I shall go on talking all the same—worse. You always begin to shy and kick out like one of those old mules when I begin talking to you like this. You hates to hear the truth. I shall tell the chaps every blessed thing.”But, all the same, Punch lay perfectly still now until the dressing of his wound was at an end; and then very faintly, almost in a whisper, he said, “Yes; our chaps never knew what a good chap—”“Ah! Asleep again!” said Pen, with a sigh of relief. “There must be slight delirium, and I suppose I shall be doing no good by trying to stop him. Poor fellow! He doesn’t know how he hurts me when he goes wandering on like this. I wish I could think out some way of getting a change of food. Plenty of milk, plenty of fish. I have been as far as I dared in every direction, but there isn’t a trace of a cottage. I don’t want much—only one of those black-bread cakes now and then. Any one would have thought that the people in a country like this would have kept plenty of fowls. Perhaps they do where there are any cottages. Ah, there’s no shamming now. He’s fast enough asleep, and perhaps when he awakes he will be more himself.”But poor Punch’s sleep only lasted about half an hour, and then he woke up with his eyes glittering and with a strangely eager look in his countenance, as he stretched out the one hand that he could use.“Yes,” he said, “that’s it. I know what you will have to do. Go to that uncle of yours—”“Punch, lad,” cried Pen, laying his hand softly upon the one that had closed upon his wrist, “don’t talk now.”“I won’t much, only it stops my head from going round. I just want to say—”“Yes, I know; but I have been watching a deal while you slept.”“What for?” cried the boy.“To make sure that the enemy did not surprise us.”“Ah, you are a good chap,” said the boy, pressing his wrist.“And I am very tired, and when you talk my head begins to go round too.”“Does it? Well, then, I won’t say much; only I have got this into my head, and something seems to make me tell you.”“Leave it till to-morrow morning, then.”“No; it must come now, for fear I should forget it. What you have to do is to go to your uncle like an officer and a gentleman—”“Punch, Punch!”“All right; I have just done. Pistols like an officer—same as they uses when they fights duels. Then you walks straight up to him, with your head in the air, and you says to him, ‘You don’t desarve it, sir, but I won’t take any dirty advantage of you; so there’s the pistols,’ you says. ‘Which will you choose? For we are going to settle this little affair.’ Then I’ll tell you how it is. Old Pat Reilly—who was a corporal once, before he was put back into the ranks—I heerd him telling our chaps over their pipes how he went with the doctor of the regiment he was in to carry his tools to mend the one of them who was hurt. He called it—he was an Irishman, you know—a jool; and he said when you fight a jool, and marches so many paces, and somebody—not the doctor, but what they calls the second—only I think Pat made a mistake, because there can’t be two seconds; one of them must be a first or a third—”“There, Punch, tell me the rest to-morrow.”“No,” said the boy obstinately; but his voice was growing weaker. “I have just done, and I shall be better then, for what I wanted to say will have left off worrying me. Let’s see what it was. Oh, I know. You stands opposite to your uncle, turns sideways, raises your pistol, takes a good aim at him, and shoots him dead. Now then, what do you say to that?”“That I don’t want to shoot him dead, Punch.”“You don’t?”“No.”“Why, isn’t he your enemy?”“I don’t know.”“Then I suppose that won’t do.”“I’m afraid not, Punch.”“Then you must wait a little longer till you get promoted for bravery in the field. You will be Captain Gray then, and then you can go to him, and look him full in the face, and smile at him as if you felt that he was no better than a worm, and ask him what he thinks of that.”“What! Of my captain’s uniform, Punch?”“No, I mean you smiling down at him as if he wasn’t worth your notice.”“Ah, that sounds better, Punch.”“Then, you think that will do?”“Yes.”“Then, now I will go to sleep.”“Ah, and get better, Punch.”“Oh yes, I am going to get better now.”With a sigh of satisfaction, the boy closed his eyes, utterly exhausted, and lay breathing steadily and well, while Pen stood leaning over him waiting till he felt sure that the boy was asleep; and then, as he laid his hand lightly upon his patient’s brow, a sense of hopefulness came over him on feeling that he was cool and calm.“There are moments,” he thought to himself, “when it seems as if I ought to give up as prisoners, for it is impossible to go on like this. Poor fellow, he wants suitable food, and think how I will I don’t know what I could do to get him better food. I should be to blame if I stand by and see him die for want of proper nourishment.” And it seemed to him that his depressing thoughts had affected his eyes, for the cabin had grown dull and gloomy, and his despair became more deep.“Oh, it’s no use to give way,” he muttered. “There must be food of some kind to be found if I knew where to forage for it. Why not kill one of the kids?”He stopped short in his planning and took a step forward, to pass round the rough heather pallet, thus bringing him out of the shadow into the light and face to face with a girl of about seventeen or eighteen, who was resting one hand upon the doorpost and peering in at the occupant of the rough bed, but who now uttered a faint cry and turned to run.
“Well, but is that all?” said Punch.
“Yes, and now you are tired and had better have a nap, and by the time you wake I will have some more milk for you.”
“Bother the old milk! I’m sick of it; and I don’t want to go to sleep. I feel sometimes as if I had nearly slept my head off. A fellow can’t be always sleeping. Now, look here; I tell you what you have got to do some day. You must serve that uncle of yours out.”
“Let him rest. You are tired and weak.”
“No, I ain’t. All that about you has done me good. I did not know that you had had such a lot of trouble, sir.”
“Ah, what’s that, Punch!” cried Pen sharply. “Don’t you say ‘sir’ to me again!”
“Shall if I like. Ain’t you a gentleman?”
“No, sir. Only Private Penton Gray, of the —th Rifles.”
“Well, you are a-saying ‘sir’ to me.”
“Yes, but I don’t mean it as you do. While I am in the regiment we are equals.”
“Oh yes, I like that!” said the boy with a faint laugh. “Wish we was. Only Private Penton Gray of the —th! Well, ain’t that being a gentleman? Don’t our chaps all carry rifles? They are not like the line regiments with their common Brown Besses. Sharpshooters, that’s what we are. But they didn’t shoot sharp enough the other day, or else we shouldn’t be here. I have been thinking when I have been lying half-asleep that there were so many Frenchies that they got our lads between two fires and shot ’em all down.”
“I hope not, Punch. What makes you think that?”
“Because if they had been all right they would have been after us before now to cut us out, and—and—I say, my head’s beginning to swim again.”
“Exactly, you are tired out and must go to sleep again.”
“But I tell you I don’t—”
The poor boy stopped short, to gaze appealingly in his companion’s eyes as if asking for help, and the help Pen gave was to lay his hand gently on his eyelids and keep it there till he felt that the sufferer had sunk into a deep sleep.
The next day the poor fellow had quite a serious relapse, and lay looking so feeble that once more Pen in his alarm stood watching and blaming himself for rousing the boy into such a state of excitement that he seemed to have caused him serious harm.
But just as Punch seemed at the worst he brightened up again.
“Look here,” he said, “I ain’t bad. I know what it is.”
“So do I,” replied Pen. “You have been trying your strength too much.”
“Wrong!” cried the boy faintly. “It was you give me too much to eat. You ought to have treated me like a doctor would, or as if I was a prisoner, and given me dry bread.”
“Ah!” sighed Pen. “But where was the bread to come from?”
“Jusso,” said Punch, with a faint little laugh; “and you can’t make bread without flour, can you? But don’t you think I’m going to die, because I am ever so much better to-day, and shall be all right soon. Now, go on talking to me again about your uncle.”
“No,” said Pen, “you have heard too much of my troubles already.”
“Oh no, I ain’t. I want to hear you talk about it.”
“Then you will have to wait, Punch.”
“All right, then. I shall lie and think till my head begins to go round and round, and I shall go on thinking about myself till I get all miserable and go backwards. You don’t want that, do you?”
“You know I don’t.”
“Very well, then, let’s have some more uncle. It’s like doctor’s stuff to me. I’ve been thinking that you might wait a bit, and then go and see that lawyer chap and punch his head, only that would be such a common sort of way. It would be all right if it was me, but it wouldn’t do for you. This would be better. I have thought it out.”
“Yes, you think too much, Punch,” said Pen, laying his hand upon his companion’s forehead.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” cried the boy pettishly. “It’s nice and cool now.”
“Yes, it is better now. That last sleep did you good.”
“Not it, for I was thinking all the time.”
“Nonsense! You were fast asleep.”
“Yesterday,” said the boy; “but I was only shamming to-day, so that I could think, and I have been thinking that this would do. You must wait till we have whopped the French and gone back to England, and got our new uniforms served out, and burnt all our rags. Then we must go and see your uncle, and—”
“That’ll do, Punch. I want to see to your wound now.”
“What for? It’s going on all right. Here, whatcher doing of? You ain’t going to cut up that other sleeve of your shirt, are you?”
“Yes; it is quite time that you had a fresh bandage.”
“Ah, that’s because you keep getting it into your head that I’m worse and that I’m going to die; and it’s all wrong, for I am going to be all right. The Frenchies thought they’d done for me; but I won’t die, out of spite. I am going to get strong again, and as soon as the colonel lets me carry a rifle I will let some of them have it, and— Oh, very well; if you must do it, I suppose I must lie still; only get it over. But—ya! I don’t mean to die. What’s the good of it, when there’s so much for us to do in walloping the French? But when we do get back to the regiment you see how I will stick up for you, and what a lot I will make the chaps think of you!”
“Will you keep your tongue quiet, Punch?”
“No, I sha’n’t,” said the boy with a mocking laugh. “There, you needn’t tie that so tight so as to make it hurt me, because I shall go on talking all the same—worse. You always begin to shy and kick out like one of those old mules when I begin talking to you like this. You hates to hear the truth. I shall tell the chaps every blessed thing.”
But, all the same, Punch lay perfectly still now until the dressing of his wound was at an end; and then very faintly, almost in a whisper, he said, “Yes; our chaps never knew what a good chap—”
“Ah! Asleep again!” said Pen, with a sigh of relief. “There must be slight delirium, and I suppose I shall be doing no good by trying to stop him. Poor fellow! He doesn’t know how he hurts me when he goes wandering on like this. I wish I could think out some way of getting a change of food. Plenty of milk, plenty of fish. I have been as far as I dared in every direction, but there isn’t a trace of a cottage. I don’t want much—only one of those black-bread cakes now and then. Any one would have thought that the people in a country like this would have kept plenty of fowls. Perhaps they do where there are any cottages. Ah, there’s no shamming now. He’s fast enough asleep, and perhaps when he awakes he will be more himself.”
But poor Punch’s sleep only lasted about half an hour, and then he woke up with his eyes glittering and with a strangely eager look in his countenance, as he stretched out the one hand that he could use.
“Yes,” he said, “that’s it. I know what you will have to do. Go to that uncle of yours—”
“Punch, lad,” cried Pen, laying his hand softly upon the one that had closed upon his wrist, “don’t talk now.”
“I won’t much, only it stops my head from going round. I just want to say—”
“Yes, I know; but I have been watching a deal while you slept.”
“What for?” cried the boy.
“To make sure that the enemy did not surprise us.”
“Ah, you are a good chap,” said the boy, pressing his wrist.
“And I am very tired, and when you talk my head begins to go round too.”
“Does it? Well, then, I won’t say much; only I have got this into my head, and something seems to make me tell you.”
“Leave it till to-morrow morning, then.”
“No; it must come now, for fear I should forget it. What you have to do is to go to your uncle like an officer and a gentleman—”
“Punch, Punch!”
“All right; I have just done. Pistols like an officer—same as they uses when they fights duels. Then you walks straight up to him, with your head in the air, and you says to him, ‘You don’t desarve it, sir, but I won’t take any dirty advantage of you; so there’s the pistols,’ you says. ‘Which will you choose? For we are going to settle this little affair.’ Then I’ll tell you how it is. Old Pat Reilly—who was a corporal once, before he was put back into the ranks—I heerd him telling our chaps over their pipes how he went with the doctor of the regiment he was in to carry his tools to mend the one of them who was hurt. He called it—he was an Irishman, you know—a jool; and he said when you fight a jool, and marches so many paces, and somebody—not the doctor, but what they calls the second—only I think Pat made a mistake, because there can’t be two seconds; one of them must be a first or a third—”
“There, Punch, tell me the rest to-morrow.”
“No,” said the boy obstinately; but his voice was growing weaker. “I have just done, and I shall be better then, for what I wanted to say will have left off worrying me. Let’s see what it was. Oh, I know. You stands opposite to your uncle, turns sideways, raises your pistol, takes a good aim at him, and shoots him dead. Now then, what do you say to that?”
“That I don’t want to shoot him dead, Punch.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Why, isn’t he your enemy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then I suppose that won’t do.”
“I’m afraid not, Punch.”
“Then you must wait a little longer till you get promoted for bravery in the field. You will be Captain Gray then, and then you can go to him, and look him full in the face, and smile at him as if you felt that he was no better than a worm, and ask him what he thinks of that.”
“What! Of my captain’s uniform, Punch?”
“No, I mean you smiling down at him as if he wasn’t worth your notice.”
“Ah, that sounds better, Punch.”
“Then, you think that will do?”
“Yes.”
“Then, now I will go to sleep.”
“Ah, and get better, Punch.”
“Oh yes, I am going to get better now.”
With a sigh of satisfaction, the boy closed his eyes, utterly exhausted, and lay breathing steadily and well, while Pen stood leaning over him waiting till he felt sure that the boy was asleep; and then, as he laid his hand lightly upon his patient’s brow, a sense of hopefulness came over him on feeling that he was cool and calm.
“There are moments,” he thought to himself, “when it seems as if I ought to give up as prisoners, for it is impossible to go on like this. Poor fellow, he wants suitable food, and think how I will I don’t know what I could do to get him better food. I should be to blame if I stand by and see him die for want of proper nourishment.” And it seemed to him that his depressing thoughts had affected his eyes, for the cabin had grown dull and gloomy, and his despair became more deep.
“Oh, it’s no use to give way,” he muttered. “There must be food of some kind to be found if I knew where to forage for it. Why not kill one of the kids?”
He stopped short in his planning and took a step forward, to pass round the rough heather pallet, thus bringing him out of the shadow into the light and face to face with a girl of about seventeen or eighteen, who was resting one hand upon the doorpost and peering in at the occupant of the rough bed, but who now uttered a faint cry and turned to run.
Chapter Ten.Talking in his Sleep.“No, no! Pray, pray, stop!” cried Pen, dashing out after his strange visitor, who was making for the edge of the nearest patch of wood.The imploring tone of his words had its effect, though the tongue was foreign that fell upon the girl’s ears, and she stopped slowly, to look back at him; and, then as it seemed to dawn upon her what her pursuer was, she slowly raised her hands imploringly towards him, the gesture seeming to speak of itself, and say, “Don’t hurt me! I am only a helpless girl.”Then she looked up at him in wonder, for Pen raised his in turn, as he exclaimed, “Don’t run away. I want your help.”The girl shook her head.“Inglés.”“Si, si, Inglés, Inglés. Don’t go. I won’t hurt you.”“Si, si, Inglés,” said the girl with some animation now.“Ah, she understands that!” thought Pen; and then aloud, “Help! Wounded!” and he pointed at the open door.The girl looked at him, then at the door, and then shook her head.“Can you understand French?” cried Pen eagerly; and the girl shook her head again.“How stupid to ask like that!” muttered Pen; and then aloud, “Help! Wounded.”The girl shook her head once more, and then started and struggled slightly as Pen caught her by the arm.“Don’t fight,” he cried. “Help! help!” And he gesticulated towards the hut as he pointed through the door at the dimly seen bed, while the girl held back at arm’s-length, gazing at him wildly, until a happy thought struck him, for he recalled the words that he had more than once heard used by the villagers while he and his fellows were foraging.“El pano,” he cried; “el pano—bread, bread!” And he pointed to the dimly seen boy and then to his own mouth.“Si, el pano!” cried the girl, ceasing her faint struggle.“Si, si!” cried Pen again, and he joined his hands together for a moment before slowly beckoning their visitor to follow him into the cottage.He stepped in, and then turned to look back, but only to find that the girl still held aloof, and then turned to look round again as if in search of help. As she once more glanced in his direction with eyes that were full of doubt, Pen walked round to the back of the rough pallet, placing the bed between them, and then beckoned to the girl to come nearer as he pointed downward at his sleeping patient.Their visitor still held aloof, till Pen raised his hands towards her, joining them imploringly, and his heart leaped with satisfaction as she began slowly and cautiously to approach.And now for his part he sank upon his knees, and as she watched him, looking ready to dart away at any moment, he placed one finger upon his lips and raised his left hand as if to ask for silence, while he uttered softly the one word, “Hush!”To his great satisfaction the girl now approached till her shadow fell across the bed, and, supporting herself by one hand, she peered in.“I’d give something if I could speak Spanish now,” thought Pen. “What can I do to make her understand that he is wounded? She ought to be able to see. Ah, I know!”He pointed quickly to his rifle, which was leaning against the bed, and then downward at where the last-applied bandage displayed one end. Then, pointing to poor Punch’s face, he looked at the girl sadly and shook his head.It was growing quite dusk inside the hut, but Pen was able to see the girl’s face light up as, without a moment’s hesitation now she stepped quickly through the rough portal and bent down so that she could lightly touch the sleeper’s hand, which she took in hers as she bent lower and then rose slowly, to meet Pen’s inquiring look; and as she shook her head at him sadly he saw that her eyes were filling with tears.“Sick,” he whispered; “dying.El pano, el pano;” and his next movement was telling though grotesque, for he opened his mouth and made signs of eating, before pointing downward at the boy.“Si, si,” cried the girl quickly, and, turning to the door again, she passed through, signing to him to follow, but only to turn back, point to the little pail that stood upon the floor by the bed’s head, and indicate that she wanted it.Pen grasped her meaning, caught up the pail, handed it to her, and quite simply and naturally sank upon one knee and bent over to lightly kiss the girl’s extended hand, which closed upon the edge of the little vessel.She shrank quickly, and a look of half-dread, half-annoyance came upon her countenance; but, as Pen drew back, her face smoothed and she nodded quickly, pointed in the direction of the big fall, made two or three significant gestures that might or might not have meant, “I’ll soon be back,” and then whispered, “El pano, el pano;” and ran off over the rugged stones as swiftly as one of her own mountain goats.“Ha!” said Pen softly, as he sighed with satisfaction, “el panomeans bread, plain enough, and she must have understood that. Gone,” he added, as the girl disappeared. “Then there must be another cottage somewhere in that direction, and I am going to hope that she will come back soon with something to eat. Who could have thought it?—But suppose she has gone to join some of the French who are about here, and comes back with a party to take us prisoners!—Oh, she wouldn’t be so treacherous; she can’t look upon us as enemies. We are not fighting against her people. But I don’t know; they must look upon us as made up of enemies. No, no, she was only frightened, and no wonder, to find us in her hut, for it must be hers or her people’s. Else she wouldn’t have come here. No, a girl like that, a simple country girl, would only think of helping two poor lads in distress, and she will come back and bring us some bread.”As Pen stood watching the place where the girl had disappeared his hand went involuntarily to his pocket, where he jingled a fewpesetasthat he had left; and then, as he canvassed to himself the possibility of the girl’s return before long, he went slowly back into the hut and stood looking down at the sleeper.“Bread and milk,” he said softly. “It will be like life to him. But how queer it seems that I should be worrying myself nearly to death, giving up my clothes to make him comfortable, playing doctor and nurse, and nearly starving myself, for a boy for whom I never cared a bit. I couldn’t have done any more for him if he had been my brother. Why, when I used to hear him speak it jarred upon me, he seemed so coarse and common. It’s human nature, I suppose, and I’m not going to doubt that poor girl again. She looks common and simple too—a Spanish peasant, I suppose, who had come to milk and see to the goats after perhaps being frightened away by the firing. A girl of seventeen or eighteen, I should say. Well, Spanish girls would be just as tender-hearted as ours at home. Of course; and she did just the same as one of them would have done. She looked sorry for poor Punch, and I saw one tear trickle over and fall down.—There, Punch, boy; we shall be all right now if the French don’t come.”Pen stepped out in the open and seated himself upon a piece of mossy rock where he could gaze in the direction where he had last seen his visitor. But it was all dull and misty now. There was the distant murmur of the great fall, the sharp, sibilant chirrup of crickets. The great planet which had seemed like a friend to him before had risen from behind the distant mountain, and there was a peculiar sweet, warm perfume in the air that made him feel drowsy and content.“Ah,” he sighed, “they say that when things are at their worst they begin to mend. They are mending now, and this valley never felt, never looked, so beautiful before. How one seems to breathe in the sweet, soft, dewy night-air! It’s lovely. I don’t think I ever felt so truly happy. There, it’s of no use for me to watch that patch of wood, for I could not see our visitor unless she was coming with a lantern; and perhaps she has had miles to go. Well, watching the spot is doing no good, and if she’s coming she will find her way, and she is more likely not to lose heart if I’m in the hut, for I might scare her away. Here, let’s go in and see how poor old Punch is getting on! But I never thought—I never could have imagined—when I was getting up my ‘lessons for to-morrow morning’ that the time would come when I should be waiting and watching in a Spanish peasant’s hut for some one to come and bring me in for a wounded comrade a cake of black-bread to keep us both alive.”Pen Gray walked softly in the direction of the dimly seen hut through heathery brush, rustling at every step and seeming to have the effect of making him walk on tiptoe for fear he should break the silence of the soft southern evening.The lad stopped and listened eagerly, for there was a distant shout that suggested the hailing of a French soldier who had lost his way in the forest. Then it was repeated, “Ahoy-y-hoy-hoy-y-y!” and answered from far away, and it brought up a suggestion of watchful enemies searching for others in the darkened woods.Then came another shout, and an ejaculation of impatience from the listener.“I ought to have known it was an owl. Hallo! What’s that? Has she come back by some other way?”For the sound of a voice came to him from inside the rough hut, making him hurry over the short distance that separated him from the door, where he stood for a moment or two listening, and he heard distinctly, “Not me! I mean to make a big fight for it out of spite. Shoot me down—a boy—for obeying orders! Cowards! How would they like it themselves?”“Why, Punch, lad,” said Pen, stepping to the bedside and leaning over his comrade, “what’s the matter? Talking in your sleep?”There was no reply, but the muttering voice ceased, and Pen laid his hand upon the boy’s forehead, as he said to himself, “Poor fellow! A good mess of bread-and-milk would save his life. I wonder how long she will be!”
“No, no! Pray, pray, stop!” cried Pen, dashing out after his strange visitor, who was making for the edge of the nearest patch of wood.
The imploring tone of his words had its effect, though the tongue was foreign that fell upon the girl’s ears, and she stopped slowly, to look back at him; and, then as it seemed to dawn upon her what her pursuer was, she slowly raised her hands imploringly towards him, the gesture seeming to speak of itself, and say, “Don’t hurt me! I am only a helpless girl.”
Then she looked up at him in wonder, for Pen raised his in turn, as he exclaimed, “Don’t run away. I want your help.”
The girl shook her head.
“Inglés.”
“Si, si, Inglés, Inglés. Don’t go. I won’t hurt you.”
“Si, si, Inglés,” said the girl with some animation now.
“Ah, she understands that!” thought Pen; and then aloud, “Help! Wounded!” and he pointed at the open door.
The girl looked at him, then at the door, and then shook her head.
“Can you understand French?” cried Pen eagerly; and the girl shook her head again.
“How stupid to ask like that!” muttered Pen; and then aloud, “Help! Wounded.”
The girl shook her head once more, and then started and struggled slightly as Pen caught her by the arm.
“Don’t fight,” he cried. “Help! help!” And he gesticulated towards the hut as he pointed through the door at the dimly seen bed, while the girl held back at arm’s-length, gazing at him wildly, until a happy thought struck him, for he recalled the words that he had more than once heard used by the villagers while he and his fellows were foraging.
“El pano,” he cried; “el pano—bread, bread!” And he pointed to the dimly seen boy and then to his own mouth.
“Si, el pano!” cried the girl, ceasing her faint struggle.
“Si, si!” cried Pen again, and he joined his hands together for a moment before slowly beckoning their visitor to follow him into the cottage.
He stepped in, and then turned to look back, but only to find that the girl still held aloof, and then turned to look round again as if in search of help. As she once more glanced in his direction with eyes that were full of doubt, Pen walked round to the back of the rough pallet, placing the bed between them, and then beckoned to the girl to come nearer as he pointed downward at his sleeping patient.
Their visitor still held aloof, till Pen raised his hands towards her, joining them imploringly, and his heart leaped with satisfaction as she began slowly and cautiously to approach.
And now for his part he sank upon his knees, and as she watched him, looking ready to dart away at any moment, he placed one finger upon his lips and raised his left hand as if to ask for silence, while he uttered softly the one word, “Hush!”
To his great satisfaction the girl now approached till her shadow fell across the bed, and, supporting herself by one hand, she peered in.
“I’d give something if I could speak Spanish now,” thought Pen. “What can I do to make her understand that he is wounded? She ought to be able to see. Ah, I know!”
He pointed quickly to his rifle, which was leaning against the bed, and then downward at where the last-applied bandage displayed one end. Then, pointing to poor Punch’s face, he looked at the girl sadly and shook his head.
It was growing quite dusk inside the hut, but Pen was able to see the girl’s face light up as, without a moment’s hesitation now she stepped quickly through the rough portal and bent down so that she could lightly touch the sleeper’s hand, which she took in hers as she bent lower and then rose slowly, to meet Pen’s inquiring look; and as she shook her head at him sadly he saw that her eyes were filling with tears.
“Sick,” he whispered; “dying.El pano, el pano;” and his next movement was telling though grotesque, for he opened his mouth and made signs of eating, before pointing downward at the boy.
“Si, si,” cried the girl quickly, and, turning to the door again, she passed through, signing to him to follow, but only to turn back, point to the little pail that stood upon the floor by the bed’s head, and indicate that she wanted it.
Pen grasped her meaning, caught up the pail, handed it to her, and quite simply and naturally sank upon one knee and bent over to lightly kiss the girl’s extended hand, which closed upon the edge of the little vessel.
She shrank quickly, and a look of half-dread, half-annoyance came upon her countenance; but, as Pen drew back, her face smoothed and she nodded quickly, pointed in the direction of the big fall, made two or three significant gestures that might or might not have meant, “I’ll soon be back,” and then whispered, “El pano, el pano;” and ran off over the rugged stones as swiftly as one of her own mountain goats.
“Ha!” said Pen softly, as he sighed with satisfaction, “el panomeans bread, plain enough, and she must have understood that. Gone,” he added, as the girl disappeared. “Then there must be another cottage somewhere in that direction, and I am going to hope that she will come back soon with something to eat. Who could have thought it?—But suppose she has gone to join some of the French who are about here, and comes back with a party to take us prisoners!—Oh, she wouldn’t be so treacherous; she can’t look upon us as enemies. We are not fighting against her people. But I don’t know; they must look upon us as made up of enemies. No, no, she was only frightened, and no wonder, to find us in her hut, for it must be hers or her people’s. Else she wouldn’t have come here. No, a girl like that, a simple country girl, would only think of helping two poor lads in distress, and she will come back and bring us some bread.”
As Pen stood watching the place where the girl had disappeared his hand went involuntarily to his pocket, where he jingled a fewpesetasthat he had left; and then, as he canvassed to himself the possibility of the girl’s return before long, he went slowly back into the hut and stood looking down at the sleeper.
“Bread and milk,” he said softly. “It will be like life to him. But how queer it seems that I should be worrying myself nearly to death, giving up my clothes to make him comfortable, playing doctor and nurse, and nearly starving myself, for a boy for whom I never cared a bit. I couldn’t have done any more for him if he had been my brother. Why, when I used to hear him speak it jarred upon me, he seemed so coarse and common. It’s human nature, I suppose, and I’m not going to doubt that poor girl again. She looks common and simple too—a Spanish peasant, I suppose, who had come to milk and see to the goats after perhaps being frightened away by the firing. A girl of seventeen or eighteen, I should say. Well, Spanish girls would be just as tender-hearted as ours at home. Of course; and she did just the same as one of them would have done. She looked sorry for poor Punch, and I saw one tear trickle over and fall down.—There, Punch, boy; we shall be all right now if the French don’t come.”
Pen stepped out in the open and seated himself upon a piece of mossy rock where he could gaze in the direction where he had last seen his visitor. But it was all dull and misty now. There was the distant murmur of the great fall, the sharp, sibilant chirrup of crickets. The great planet which had seemed like a friend to him before had risen from behind the distant mountain, and there was a peculiar sweet, warm perfume in the air that made him feel drowsy and content.
“Ah,” he sighed, “they say that when things are at their worst they begin to mend. They are mending now, and this valley never felt, never looked, so beautiful before. How one seems to breathe in the sweet, soft, dewy night-air! It’s lovely. I don’t think I ever felt so truly happy. There, it’s of no use for me to watch that patch of wood, for I could not see our visitor unless she was coming with a lantern; and perhaps she has had miles to go. Well, watching the spot is doing no good, and if she’s coming she will find her way, and she is more likely not to lose heart if I’m in the hut, for I might scare her away. Here, let’s go in and see how poor old Punch is getting on! But I never thought—I never could have imagined—when I was getting up my ‘lessons for to-morrow morning’ that the time would come when I should be waiting and watching in a Spanish peasant’s hut for some one to come and bring me in for a wounded comrade a cake of black-bread to keep us both alive.”
Pen Gray walked softly in the direction of the dimly seen hut through heathery brush, rustling at every step and seeming to have the effect of making him walk on tiptoe for fear he should break the silence of the soft southern evening.
The lad stopped and listened eagerly, for there was a distant shout that suggested the hailing of a French soldier who had lost his way in the forest. Then it was repeated, “Ahoy-y-hoy-hoy-y-y!” and answered from far away, and it brought up a suggestion of watchful enemies searching for others in the darkened woods.
Then came another shout, and an ejaculation of impatience from the listener.
“I ought to have known it was an owl. Hallo! What’s that? Has she come back by some other way?”
For the sound of a voice came to him from inside the rough hut, making him hurry over the short distance that separated him from the door, where he stood for a moment or two listening, and he heard distinctly, “Not me! I mean to make a big fight for it out of spite. Shoot me down—a boy—for obeying orders! Cowards! How would they like it themselves?”
“Why, Punch, lad,” said Pen, stepping to the bedside and leaning over his comrade, “what’s the matter? Talking in your sleep?”
There was no reply, but the muttering voice ceased, and Pen laid his hand upon the boy’s forehead, as he said to himself, “Poor fellow! A good mess of bread-and-milk would save his life. I wonder how long she will be!”
Chapter Eleven.Punch’s Commissariat.It was far longer than Pen anticipated, for the darkness grew deeper, the forest sounds fainter and fainter, and there were times when the watcher went out to listen and returned again and again to find Punch sleeping more restfully, while the very fact that the boy seemed so calm appeared to affect his comrade with a strange sense of drowsiness, out of which he kept on rousing himself, muttering the while with annoyance, “I can’t have her come and find me asleep. It’s so stupid. She must be here soon.”And after a trot up and down in the direction in which he had seen the girl pass, and back, he felt better.“Sleep is queer,” he said to himself. “I felt a few minutes ago as if I couldn’t possibly keep awake.”He softly touched Punch’s temples again, to find them now quite cool, and seating himself at the foot of the rough pallet he began to think hopefully of the future, and then with his back propped against the rough woodwork he stared wonderingly at the glowing orange disc of the sun, which was peering over the mountains and sending its level rays right through the open doorway of the hut.Pen gazed at the soft, warm glow wonderingly, for everything seemed strange and incomprehensible.There was the sun, and here was he lying back with his shoulders against the woodwork of the rough bed. But what did it all mean?Then came the self-evolved answer, “Why, I have been asleep!”Springing from the bed, he just glanced at his softly breathing companion as he ran out to look once more in the direction taken by the girl.Then he stepped back again in the hope that she might have returned during the night and brought some bread; but all was still, and not a sign of anybody having been there.Pen’s heart sank.“Grasping at shadows,” he muttered. “Here have I been wasting time over sleep instead of hunting for food.”Ignorant for the time being of the cause of the wretched feeling of depression which now stole over him, and with no friendly voice at hand to say, “Heart sinking? Despondent? Why, of course you are ready to think anything is about to occur now that you are literally starving!” Pen had accepted the first ill thought that had occurred to him, and this was that his companion had turned worse in the night and was dying.Bending over the poor fellow once more, he thrust a hand within the breast of his shirt, and his spirits sank lower, for there was no regular throbbing beat in response, for the simple reason that in his hurry and confusion of intellect he had not felt in the right place.“Oh!” he gasped, and his own voice startled him with its husky, despairing tone, while he bent lower, and it seemed to him that he could not detect the boy’s breath playing upon his cheek.“Oh, what have I done?” he panted, and catching at the boy’s shoulders he began to draw him up into a sitting position, with some wild idea that this would enable him to regain his breath.But the next moment he had lowered him back upon the rough pallet, for a cry Punch uttered proved that he was very much alive.“I say,” he cried, “whatcher doing of? Don’t! You hurt?”“Oh, Punch,” cried Pen, panting hard now, “how you frightened me!”“Why, I never did nothink,” cried the boy in an ill-used tone.“No, no. Lie still. I only thought you were getting worse. You were so still, and I could not hear you breathe.”“But you shouldn’t,” grumbled the wounded boy surlily, as he screwed first one shoulder up to his ear and then the other. “Hff! You did hurt! What did you expect? Think I ought to be snoring? I say, though, give a fellow some more of that milk, will you? I’m thirsty. Couldn’t you get some bread—not to eat, but to sop in it?”“I don’t think I could eat anything, but—” The boy stopped short as he lay passing his tongue over his fever-cracked lips, for the doorway of the miserable cabin was suddenly darkened, and Pen sprang round to find himself face to face with his visitor of the previous evening, who stood before him with the wooden vessel in one hand and a coarse-looking bread-cake in the other.She looked searchingly and suspiciously at Pen for a few moments; and then, as if seeing no cause for fear, she stepped quickly in, placed the food she had brought upon the rough shelf, and then bent over Punch and laid one work-roughened hand upon the boy’s forehead, while he stared up at her wonderingly.The girl turned to look round at Pen, and uttered a few words hurriedly in her Spanish patois. Then, as if recollecting herself, she caught the bread-cake from where she had placed it, broke a piece off, and put it in the young rifleman’s hand, speaking again quickly, every word being incomprehensible, though her movements were plain enough as she signed to him to eat.“Yes, I know what you mean,” said Pen smiling; “but I want the bread for him,” and he pointed to the wounded boy.The peasant-girl showed on the instant that though she could not understand the stranger’s words his signs were clear enough. She broke off another piece of the bread and took down the little wooden-handled pail, which was half-full of warm milk. This she held up to Pen, and signed to him to drink; but he shook his head and pointed to Punch. This produced a quick, decisive nod of the head, as the girl wrinkled up her forehead and signed in an insistent way that Pen should drink first.He obeyed, and then the girl seated herself upon the bed and began to sop pieces of the bread and hold them to Punch’s lips.“Thenkye,” he said faintly, and for the first time for many days the boy showed his white teeth, as he smiled up in their visitor’s face. “’Tis good,” he said, and his lips parted to receive another fragment of the milk-softened bread, which was given in company with a bright girlish smile and a few more words.“I say,” said Punch, slowly turning his head from side to side, “I suppose you can’t understand plain English, can you?”The girl’s voice sounded very pleasant, as she laughingly replied.“Ah,” said Punch, “and I can’t understand plain Spanish. But I know what you mean, and I will try to eat.—’Tis good. Give us a bit more.”For the next ten minutes or so the peasant-girl remained seated upon the bedside attending to the wounded boy, breaking off the softer portions of the cake, soaking them in the warm milk, and placing them to the sufferer’s lips, and more than once handing portions of the cake to Pen and giving him the clean wood vessel so that he might drink, while the sun lit up the interior of the hut and lent a peculiar brightness to the intently gazing eyes of its three occupants, till the rustic breakfast came to an end, this being when Punch kept his lips closed, gazed up straight in the girl’s face, and smiled and shook his head.“Good!” said the girl in her native tongue, and she nodded and laughed in satisfaction before playfully making believe to close the boy’s eyes, and ending by keeping her hand across the lids so that he might understand that he was now to sleep.To this Punch responded by taking the girl’s hand in his and holding it for a few moments against his cheek before it was withdrawn, when the poor wounded lad turned his face away so that no one should see that a weak tear was stealing down his sun-browned cheek.But the girl saw it, and her own eyes were wet as she turned quickly to Pen, pointed to the bread and milk, signed to him that he should go on eating, and then hurried out into the bright sunshine, Pen following, to see that she was making straight for the waterfall.The next minute she had disappeared amongst the trees.“Well, Punch,” cried Pen, as he stepped back to the hut, “feel better for your breakfast?”“Better? Yes, of course. But I say, she didn’t see me snivelling, did she?”“Yes, I think so; and it made her snivel too, as you call it. Of course she was sorry to see you so weak and bad.”“Ah!” said Punch, after a few moments’ silence, during which he had lain with his eyes shut.“What is it? Does your wound hurt you?”“No; I forgot all about it. I say, I should like to give that girl something, because it was real kind of her; but I ain’t got nothing but a sixpence with a hole in it, and she wouldn’t care for that, because it’s English.”“Well, I don’t know, Punch. I dare say she would. A good-hearted girl like that wouldn’t look upon its value, but would keep it out of remembrance of our meeting.”“Think so?” said Punch eagerly, and with his eyes sparkling. “Oh, don’t I wish I could talk Spanish!”“Oh, never mind that,” said Pen. “Think about getting well. But, all the same, I wish I could make her understand so that she could guide me to where our fellows are.”“Eh?” cried the boy eagerly. “You ain’t a-going to run away and leave me here, are you?”“Is it likely, Punch?”“Of course not,” cried the boy. “Never you mind what I say. I get muddly and stupid in my head sometimes, and then I say things I don’t mean.”“Of course you do; I understand. It’s weakness,” said Pen cheerily; “but you are getting better.”“Think so, comrade? You see, I ain’t had no doctor.”“Yes, you have. Nature’s a fine doctor; and if we can keep in hiding here a few days more, and that girl will keep on bringing us bread and milk, you will soon be in marching order; so we are not going to be in the dumps. We will find our fellows somehow.”“To be sure we will,” said Punch cheerfully, as he wrenched himself a little over, wincing with pain the while.“What is it, Punch? Wound hurt you again?”“Yes; horrid,” said the boy with a sigh.“Then, why don’t you lie still? You should tell me you wanted to move.”“Yes, all right; I will next time. It did give me a stinger. Sets a fellow thinking what some of our poor chaps must feel who get shot down and lie out in the mountains without a comrade to help them—a comrade like you. I shall never—”“Look here, Punch,” interrupted Pen, “I don’t like butter.”“I do,” said the boy, with his eyes dancing merrily. “Wished I had had some with that bread’s morning.”“Now, you know what I mean,” cried Pen; “and mind this, if you get talking like that to me again I will go off and leave you.”“Ha, ha!” said the boy softly, “don’t believe you. All right then, I won’t say any more if you don’t like it; but I shall think about it all the more.”“There you go again,” cried Pen. “What is it you want? What are you trying to get? You are hurting yourself again.”“Oh, I was only trying to get at that there sixpence,” said the poor fellow, with a dismal look in his face. “I’m half-afraid it’s lost.—No, it ain’t! I just touched it then.”“Then don’t touch it any more.”“But I want it.”“No, you don’t, not till that girl comes; and you had better keep it till we say good-bye.”“Think so?” said Punch.Pen nodded.“You think she will come again, then?”“She is sure to.”“Ah,” said Punch, rather drowsily now, “I say, how nice it feels for any one to be kind to you when you are bad.”“Very,” said Pen thoughtfully. “Pain gone off?”“Yes; I am all right now. Think she will come back soon?”“No, not for hours and hours.”“Oh, I say, Pen. Think it would be safe for me to go to sleep?”“Yes, quite.”“Then I think I will, for I feel as if I could sleep for a week.”“Go to sleep then. It’s the best thing you can do.”“Well, I will. Only, promise me one thing: if she comes while I’m asleep, I—I—want you—promise—promise—wake—”“Poor fellow!” said Pen, “he’s as weak as weak. But that breakfast has been like life to him. Well, there’s some truth in what they say, that when things come to the worst they begin to mend.”A few minutes later, after noting that his poor wounded comrade had sunk into a deep sleep, Pen stole gently out among the trees, keeping a sharp lookout for danger as he swept the slopes of the valley in search of signs of the enemy, for he felt that it was too much to hope for the dark-green or scarlet of one of their own men.But the valley now seemed thoroughly deserted, and a restful feeling began to steal through the lad’s being, for everything looked peaceful and beautiful, and as if the horrors of war had never visited the land.The sun was rising higher, and he was glad to take shelter beneath the rugged boughs of a gnarled old cork-tree, where he stood listening to the low, soft, musical murmur of the fall. And as he pictured the clear, bright, foaming water flashing back the sun’s rays, and in imagination saw the shadowy forms of the trout darting here and there, he took a step or two outward, but checked himself directly and turned back to where he could command the door of the hut, for a feeling of doubt crossed his mind as to what might happen if he went away; and before long he stole back to the side of the rough pallet, where he found Punch sleeping heavily, feeling, as he seated himself upon a rough stool, that he could do nothing more but wait and watch. But it was with a feeling of hope, for there was something to look forward to in the coming of the peasant-girl.“And that can’t be for hours yet,” thought the lad; and then his mind drifted off to England, and the various changes of his life, and the causes of his being there. And then, as he listened to the soft hum of insect-life that floated through the open door, his eyelids grew heavy as if he had caught the drowsy infection from his companion. Weak as he was from light feeding, he too dropped asleep, so that the long, weary time that he had been wondering how he should be able to pass was but as a minute, for the sun was setting when he next unclosed his eyes, to meet the mirthful gaze of Punch, who burst into a feeble laugh as he exclaimed, “Why, you have been asleep!”
It was far longer than Pen anticipated, for the darkness grew deeper, the forest sounds fainter and fainter, and there were times when the watcher went out to listen and returned again and again to find Punch sleeping more restfully, while the very fact that the boy seemed so calm appeared to affect his comrade with a strange sense of drowsiness, out of which he kept on rousing himself, muttering the while with annoyance, “I can’t have her come and find me asleep. It’s so stupid. She must be here soon.”
And after a trot up and down in the direction in which he had seen the girl pass, and back, he felt better.
“Sleep is queer,” he said to himself. “I felt a few minutes ago as if I couldn’t possibly keep awake.”
He softly touched Punch’s temples again, to find them now quite cool, and seating himself at the foot of the rough pallet he began to think hopefully of the future, and then with his back propped against the rough woodwork he stared wonderingly at the glowing orange disc of the sun, which was peering over the mountains and sending its level rays right through the open doorway of the hut.
Pen gazed at the soft, warm glow wonderingly, for everything seemed strange and incomprehensible.
There was the sun, and here was he lying back with his shoulders against the woodwork of the rough bed. But what did it all mean?
Then came the self-evolved answer, “Why, I have been asleep!”
Springing from the bed, he just glanced at his softly breathing companion as he ran out to look once more in the direction taken by the girl.
Then he stepped back again in the hope that she might have returned during the night and brought some bread; but all was still, and not a sign of anybody having been there.
Pen’s heart sank.
“Grasping at shadows,” he muttered. “Here have I been wasting time over sleep instead of hunting for food.”
Ignorant for the time being of the cause of the wretched feeling of depression which now stole over him, and with no friendly voice at hand to say, “Heart sinking? Despondent? Why, of course you are ready to think anything is about to occur now that you are literally starving!” Pen had accepted the first ill thought that had occurred to him, and this was that his companion had turned worse in the night and was dying.
Bending over the poor fellow once more, he thrust a hand within the breast of his shirt, and his spirits sank lower, for there was no regular throbbing beat in response, for the simple reason that in his hurry and confusion of intellect he had not felt in the right place.
“Oh!” he gasped, and his own voice startled him with its husky, despairing tone, while he bent lower, and it seemed to him that he could not detect the boy’s breath playing upon his cheek.
“Oh, what have I done?” he panted, and catching at the boy’s shoulders he began to draw him up into a sitting position, with some wild idea that this would enable him to regain his breath.
But the next moment he had lowered him back upon the rough pallet, for a cry Punch uttered proved that he was very much alive.
“I say,” he cried, “whatcher doing of? Don’t! You hurt?”
“Oh, Punch,” cried Pen, panting hard now, “how you frightened me!”
“Why, I never did nothink,” cried the boy in an ill-used tone.
“No, no. Lie still. I only thought you were getting worse. You were so still, and I could not hear you breathe.”
“But you shouldn’t,” grumbled the wounded boy surlily, as he screwed first one shoulder up to his ear and then the other. “Hff! You did hurt! What did you expect? Think I ought to be snoring? I say, though, give a fellow some more of that milk, will you? I’m thirsty. Couldn’t you get some bread—not to eat, but to sop in it?”
“I don’t think I could eat anything, but—” The boy stopped short as he lay passing his tongue over his fever-cracked lips, for the doorway of the miserable cabin was suddenly darkened, and Pen sprang round to find himself face to face with his visitor of the previous evening, who stood before him with the wooden vessel in one hand and a coarse-looking bread-cake in the other.
She looked searchingly and suspiciously at Pen for a few moments; and then, as if seeing no cause for fear, she stepped quickly in, placed the food she had brought upon the rough shelf, and then bent over Punch and laid one work-roughened hand upon the boy’s forehead, while he stared up at her wonderingly.
The girl turned to look round at Pen, and uttered a few words hurriedly in her Spanish patois. Then, as if recollecting herself, she caught the bread-cake from where she had placed it, broke a piece off, and put it in the young rifleman’s hand, speaking again quickly, every word being incomprehensible, though her movements were plain enough as she signed to him to eat.
“Yes, I know what you mean,” said Pen smiling; “but I want the bread for him,” and he pointed to the wounded boy.
The peasant-girl showed on the instant that though she could not understand the stranger’s words his signs were clear enough. She broke off another piece of the bread and took down the little wooden-handled pail, which was half-full of warm milk. This she held up to Pen, and signed to him to drink; but he shook his head and pointed to Punch. This produced a quick, decisive nod of the head, as the girl wrinkled up her forehead and signed in an insistent way that Pen should drink first.
He obeyed, and then the girl seated herself upon the bed and began to sop pieces of the bread and hold them to Punch’s lips.
“Thenkye,” he said faintly, and for the first time for many days the boy showed his white teeth, as he smiled up in their visitor’s face. “’Tis good,” he said, and his lips parted to receive another fragment of the milk-softened bread, which was given in company with a bright girlish smile and a few more words.
“I say,” said Punch, slowly turning his head from side to side, “I suppose you can’t understand plain English, can you?”
The girl’s voice sounded very pleasant, as she laughingly replied.
“Ah,” said Punch, “and I can’t understand plain Spanish. But I know what you mean, and I will try to eat.—’Tis good. Give us a bit more.”
For the next ten minutes or so the peasant-girl remained seated upon the bedside attending to the wounded boy, breaking off the softer portions of the cake, soaking them in the warm milk, and placing them to the sufferer’s lips, and more than once handing portions of the cake to Pen and giving him the clean wood vessel so that he might drink, while the sun lit up the interior of the hut and lent a peculiar brightness to the intently gazing eyes of its three occupants, till the rustic breakfast came to an end, this being when Punch kept his lips closed, gazed up straight in the girl’s face, and smiled and shook his head.
“Good!” said the girl in her native tongue, and she nodded and laughed in satisfaction before playfully making believe to close the boy’s eyes, and ending by keeping her hand across the lids so that he might understand that he was now to sleep.
To this Punch responded by taking the girl’s hand in his and holding it for a few moments against his cheek before it was withdrawn, when the poor wounded lad turned his face away so that no one should see that a weak tear was stealing down his sun-browned cheek.
But the girl saw it, and her own eyes were wet as she turned quickly to Pen, pointed to the bread and milk, signed to him that he should go on eating, and then hurried out into the bright sunshine, Pen following, to see that she was making straight for the waterfall.
The next minute she had disappeared amongst the trees.
“Well, Punch,” cried Pen, as he stepped back to the hut, “feel better for your breakfast?”
“Better? Yes, of course. But I say, she didn’t see me snivelling, did she?”
“Yes, I think so; and it made her snivel too, as you call it. Of course she was sorry to see you so weak and bad.”
“Ah!” said Punch, after a few moments’ silence, during which he had lain with his eyes shut.
“What is it? Does your wound hurt you?”
“No; I forgot all about it. I say, I should like to give that girl something, because it was real kind of her; but I ain’t got nothing but a sixpence with a hole in it, and she wouldn’t care for that, because it’s English.”
“Well, I don’t know, Punch. I dare say she would. A good-hearted girl like that wouldn’t look upon its value, but would keep it out of remembrance of our meeting.”
“Think so?” said Punch eagerly, and with his eyes sparkling. “Oh, don’t I wish I could talk Spanish!”
“Oh, never mind that,” said Pen. “Think about getting well. But, all the same, I wish I could make her understand so that she could guide me to where our fellows are.”
“Eh?” cried the boy eagerly. “You ain’t a-going to run away and leave me here, are you?”
“Is it likely, Punch?”
“Of course not,” cried the boy. “Never you mind what I say. I get muddly and stupid in my head sometimes, and then I say things I don’t mean.”
“Of course you do; I understand. It’s weakness,” said Pen cheerily; “but you are getting better.”
“Think so, comrade? You see, I ain’t had no doctor.”
“Yes, you have. Nature’s a fine doctor; and if we can keep in hiding here a few days more, and that girl will keep on bringing us bread and milk, you will soon be in marching order; so we are not going to be in the dumps. We will find our fellows somehow.”
“To be sure we will,” said Punch cheerfully, as he wrenched himself a little over, wincing with pain the while.
“What is it, Punch? Wound hurt you again?”
“Yes; horrid,” said the boy with a sigh.
“Then, why don’t you lie still? You should tell me you wanted to move.”
“Yes, all right; I will next time. It did give me a stinger. Sets a fellow thinking what some of our poor chaps must feel who get shot down and lie out in the mountains without a comrade to help them—a comrade like you. I shall never—”
“Look here, Punch,” interrupted Pen, “I don’t like butter.”
“I do,” said the boy, with his eyes dancing merrily. “Wished I had had some with that bread’s morning.”
“Now, you know what I mean,” cried Pen; “and mind this, if you get talking like that to me again I will go off and leave you.”
“Ha, ha!” said the boy softly, “don’t believe you. All right then, I won’t say any more if you don’t like it; but I shall think about it all the more.”
“There you go again,” cried Pen. “What is it you want? What are you trying to get? You are hurting yourself again.”
“Oh, I was only trying to get at that there sixpence,” said the poor fellow, with a dismal look in his face. “I’m half-afraid it’s lost.—No, it ain’t! I just touched it then.”
“Then don’t touch it any more.”
“But I want it.”
“No, you don’t, not till that girl comes; and you had better keep it till we say good-bye.”
“Think so?” said Punch.
Pen nodded.
“You think she will come again, then?”
“She is sure to.”
“Ah,” said Punch, rather drowsily now, “I say, how nice it feels for any one to be kind to you when you are bad.”
“Very,” said Pen thoughtfully. “Pain gone off?”
“Yes; I am all right now. Think she will come back soon?”
“No, not for hours and hours.”
“Oh, I say, Pen. Think it would be safe for me to go to sleep?”
“Yes, quite.”
“Then I think I will, for I feel as if I could sleep for a week.”
“Go to sleep then. It’s the best thing you can do.”
“Well, I will. Only, promise me one thing: if she comes while I’m asleep, I—I—want you—promise—promise—wake—”
“Poor fellow!” said Pen, “he’s as weak as weak. But that breakfast has been like life to him. Well, there’s some truth in what they say, that when things come to the worst they begin to mend.”
A few minutes later, after noting that his poor wounded comrade had sunk into a deep sleep, Pen stole gently out among the trees, keeping a sharp lookout for danger as he swept the slopes of the valley in search of signs of the enemy, for he felt that it was too much to hope for the dark-green or scarlet of one of their own men.
But the valley now seemed thoroughly deserted, and a restful feeling began to steal through the lad’s being, for everything looked peaceful and beautiful, and as if the horrors of war had never visited the land.
The sun was rising higher, and he was glad to take shelter beneath the rugged boughs of a gnarled old cork-tree, where he stood listening to the low, soft, musical murmur of the fall. And as he pictured the clear, bright, foaming water flashing back the sun’s rays, and in imagination saw the shadowy forms of the trout darting here and there, he took a step or two outward, but checked himself directly and turned back to where he could command the door of the hut, for a feeling of doubt crossed his mind as to what might happen if he went away; and before long he stole back to the side of the rough pallet, where he found Punch sleeping heavily, feeling, as he seated himself upon a rough stool, that he could do nothing more but wait and watch. But it was with a feeling of hope, for there was something to look forward to in the coming of the peasant-girl.
“And that can’t be for hours yet,” thought the lad; and then his mind drifted off to England, and the various changes of his life, and the causes of his being there. And then, as he listened to the soft hum of insect-life that floated through the open door, his eyelids grew heavy as if he had caught the drowsy infection from his companion. Weak as he was from light feeding, he too dropped asleep, so that the long, weary time that he had been wondering how he should be able to pass was but as a minute, for the sun was setting when he next unclosed his eyes, to meet the mirthful gaze of Punch, who burst into a feeble laugh as he exclaimed, “Why, you have been asleep!”
Chapter Twelve.A Rustle among the Trees.“Asleep!” cried Pen, starting up and hurrying to the door.“Yes; I have been watching ever so long. I woke up hours ago, all in a fright, thinking that gal had come back; and I seemed to see her come in at the door and look round, and then go again.”“Ah, you saw her!” said Pen, looking sharply to right and left as if in expectation of some trace of her coming.“No,” said Punch, “it’s no use to look. I have done that lots of times. Hurt my shoulder, too, screwing myself round. She ain’t been and left nothing.”“But you saw her?” cried Pen.“Well,” said Punch, in a hesitating way, “I did and I didn’t, like as you may say. She seemed to come; not as I saw her at first—I only felt her, like. It was the same as I seemed to see things when I have been off my head a bit.”“Yes,” said Pen, “I understand.”“Do you?” said Punch dreamily. “Well, I don’t. I didn’t see her, only it was like a shadow going out of the door; but I feel as sure as sure that she came and stood close to me for ever so long, and I think I saw her back as she went out; and then I quite woke up and lay and listened, hoping that she would come again.”“I hope it was only a dream, Punch,” said Pen; “but I had no business to go to sleep like that.”“Why not? You waren’t on sentry-go; and there was nothing to do.”“I ought to have kept awake.”“No, you oughtn’t. I was jolly glad to see you sleep; and I lay here and thought of what a lot of times you must have kept awake and watched over me when I was so bad, and— Here, whatcher going to do?”“Going away till you have done talking nonsense.”“Oh, all right. I won’t say no more. You are such a touchy chap. Don’t go away. Give us a drink.”“Ah, now you are talking sense,” said Pen, as he made for the shelf upon which the little wooden vessel stood. “Here, Punch,” he said, “you mustn’t drink this. It has turned sour.”“Jolly glad of it. Chuck it away and fetch me a good drink of water. Only, I say, I’d give it a good rinse out first.”“Yes,” said Pen dryly, “I think it would be as well. Now, you don’t think that I should have given you water out of a dirty pail?”“Well, how should I know?” said the boy querulously. “But, where are you going to get it from?”“Out of the pool just below the waterfall.”“Ah, it will be nice and cool from there,” said the boy, passing his tongue over his dry lips. “I was afraid that you might get it from where the sun had been on it all day.”“Were you?” said Pen, smiling.“Here, I say, don’t grin at a fellow like that,” said the boy peevishly. “You do keep catching a chap up so. Oh, I am so thirsty! It’s as if I had been eating charcoal cinders all day; and my wound’s all as hot and dry as if it was being burnt.”“Yes, I had no business to have been asleep,” said Pen. “I’ll fetch the water, and when you have had a good drink I will bathe your wound.”“Ah, do; there’s a good chap. But don’t keep on in that aggravating way, saying you oughtn’t to have gone to sleep. I wanted you to go to sleep; and it wasn’t a dream about her coming and looking at me while I was asleep. I dessay my eyes were shut, but I felt somebody come, and it only aggravates me for you to say nobody did.”“Then I won’t say it any more, Punch,” cried Pen as he hurried out of the door. “But you dreamt it, all the same,” he continued to himself as he hurried along the track in the direction of the fall, keeping a sharp lookout the while, partly in search of danger, partly in the faint hope that he might catch sight of their late compassionate visitor, who might be on the way bearing a fresh addition to their scanty store.But he encountered no sign of either friend or enemy. One minute he was making his way amongst the gnarled cork-trees, the next he passed out to where the soft, deep, lulling, musical sound of the fall burst upon his ears; and soon after he was upon his knees drinking deeply of the fresh, cool water, before rinsing out and carefully filling the woodenseau, which he was in the act of raising from the pool when he started, for there was a movement amongst the bushes upon the steep slope on the other side of the falls.Pen’s heart beat heavily, for, fugitive as he was, the rustling leaves suggested an enemy bent upon taking aim at him or trapping him as a prisoner.He turned to make his way back to the hut, and then as the water splashed from the little wooden pail, he paused.“What a coward I am!” he muttered, and, sheltering himself among the trees, he began to thread his way between them towards where he could pass among the rocks that filled the bed of the stream below the falls so as to reach the other side and make sure of the cause of the movement amidst the low growth.“I dare say it was only goats,” he said. “Time enough to run when I see a Frenchman; but I wish I had brought my piece.”Keeping a sharp lookout for danger, he reached the other side of the little river, and then climbed up the rocky bank, gained the top in safety, and once more started violently, for he came suddenly upon a goat which was browsing amongst the bushes and sprang out in alarm.“Yes, I am a coward!” muttered the lad with a forced laugh; and, stepping back directly, he lowered himself down the bank, recrossed the stream, filled the little pail, and made his way to where his wounded companion was waiting for him impatiently.“Oh, I say, you have been a time!” grumbled the boy, “and I am so thirsty.”“Yes, Punch, I have been a while. I had rilled the pail, when there was a rustle among the trees, and I thought one of the Frenchies was about to pounce upon me.”“And was it?”“No, only a goat amongst the bushes; and that made me longer. There, let me hold you up—no, no, don’t try yourself. That’s the way. Did it hurt you much?”The boy drank with avidity, and then drew a long breath.“Oh, ’tis good!” he said. “Nice and cool too. What, did it hurt? Yes, tidy; but I ain’t going to howl about that. Good job it wasn’t a Frenchy. Don’t want them to find us now we are amongst friends. If that gal will only bring us a bit to eat for about another day I shall be all right then. Sha’n’t I, comrade?”“Better, I hope, Punch,” said Pen, smiling; “but you won’t be all right for some time yet.”“Gammon!” cried the boy. “I shall. It only wants plenty of pluck, and a wound soon gets well. I mean to be fit to go on again precious soon, and I will. I say, give us a bit more of that cake, and—I say—what’s the Spanish for butter?”Pen shook his head.“Well, cheese, then? That will do. I want to ask her to bring us some. It’s a good sign, ain’t it, when a chap begins to get hungry?”“Of course it is. All you have got to do is to lie still, and not worry your wound by trying to move.”“Yes, it is all very fine, but you ain’t got a wound, and don’t know how hard it is to lie still. I try and try, and I know how it hurts me if I do move, but I feel as if I must move all the same. I say, I wish we had got a book! I could keep quiet if you read to me.”“I wish I had one, Punch, but I must talk to you instead.”“Well, tell us a story.”“I can’t, Punch.”“Yes, you can; you did tell me your story about how you came to take the shilling.”“Well, yes, I did tell you that.”“Of course you did, comrade. Well, that’s right. Tell us again.”“Nonsense! You don’t want to hear that again.”“Oh, don’t I? But I do. I could listen to that a hundred times over. It sets me thinking about how I should like to punch somebody’s head—your somebody, I mean. Tell us all about it again.”“No, no; don’t ask me to do that, Punch,” said Pen, wrinkling up his forehead.“Why? It don’t hurt your feelings, does it?”“Well, yes, it does set me thinking about the past.”“All right, then; I won’t ask you. Here, I know—give us my bugle and the bit of flannel and stuff out of the haversack. I want to give it a polish up again.”“Why, you made it quite bright last time, Punch. It doesn’t want cleaning. You can’t be always polishing it.”“Yes, I can. I want to keep on polishing till I have rubbed out that bruise in the side. It’s coming better already. Give us hold on it.”Pen hesitated, but seeing how likely it was to quiet his patient’s restlessness, he placed the bright instrument beside him, and with it the piece of cloth with which he scoured it, and the leather for a polisher, and then sat thoughtfully down to watch the satisfied look of intentness in the boy’s countenance as he held the copper horn so close to his face that he could breathe upon it without moving his head, and then go on polish, polish, slowly, till by degrees the movement of his hand became more slow, his eyes gradually closed, his head fell sideways, and he sank to sleep.“Poor fellow!” said Pen thoughtfully. “But he can’t be worse, or he wouldn’t sleep like that.”Pen rose carefully so as not to disturb the sleeper, and cautiously peered outside the hut-door, keeping well out of sight till he had assured himself that there was no enemy visible upon the slopes of the valley, and then, taking a few steps under the shelter of the trees, he scanned the valley again from another point of view, while he listened intently, trying to catch the sound of the tramping of feet or the voice of command such as would indicate the nearness of the enemy.But all was still, all looked peaceful and beautiful; and after stepping back to peer through the hut-door again to see that Punch had not stirred, he passed round to the back, where he could gaze in the direction of the fall and of the track by which the peasant-girl had hurried away.“I wonder whether she will come back again,” thought Pen; and then feeling sure that they would have another visit from their new friend, he went slowly back to the hut and seated himself where he could watch the still-sleeping boy and think; for there was much to dwell upon in the solitude of that mountain valley—about home, and whether he should ever get back there and see England again, or be one of the unfortunates who were shot down and hastily laid beneath a foreign soil; about how long it would be before Punch was strong enough to tramp slowly by his side in search of their own corps or of some other regiment where they would be welcome enough until they could join their own.These were not inspiriting thoughts, and he knew it must be weeks before the poor fellow’s wound would be sufficiently healed. Then other mental suggestions came to worry him as to whether he was pursuing the right course; as a companion he felt that he was, but as a soldier he was in doubt about the way in which his conduct would be looked upon by his superiors.“Can’t help it,” he muttered. “I didn’t want to skulk. I couldn’t leave the poor fellow alone—perhaps to the wolves.”The day went by very slowly. It was hot, and the air felt full of drowsiness, and the more Pen forced himself to be wakeful the more the silence seemed to press him down like a weight of sleep to which he was forced to yield from time to time, only to start awake again with a guilty look at his companion, followed by a feeling of relief on finding that Punch’s eyes were still closed and not gazing at him mockingly.Slow as it was, the evening began to approach at last, and with it the intense longing for the change that would be afforded by the sight of their visitor.But the time glided on, and with it came doubts which were growing into feelings of surety which were clinched by a sudden movement on the part of the wounded boy, whose long afternoon-sleep was brought to an end with an impatient ejaculation.“There! I knew how it would be,” he said. “She won’t come now.”“Never mind, Punch,” said Pen, trying to speak cheerily. “There’s a little more bread, and I will go now and see if I can find the goat, and try and get some milk.”“Not you,” said the boy peevishly. “She will know you are a stranger, and won’t let you try again. I know what them she-billy goats are. I have watched them over and over again. Leave the bread alone, and let’s go to sleep. We shall want it for breakfast, and water will do. I mean to have one good long snooze ready for to-morrow, and then I am going to get up and march.”“Nonsense, Punch,” cried Pen. “You can’t.”“Can’t I?” said the boy mockingly. “I must, and, besides, British soldiers don’t know such a thing as can’t.”“Ah!” cried Pen excitedly, as he started up and made for the door, for there was the rustling sound of feet amongst the bushes; and directly after, hot and panting with exertion, the peasant-girl appeared at the opening that was growing dim in the failing light.
“Asleep!” cried Pen, starting up and hurrying to the door.
“Yes; I have been watching ever so long. I woke up hours ago, all in a fright, thinking that gal had come back; and I seemed to see her come in at the door and look round, and then go again.”
“Ah, you saw her!” said Pen, looking sharply to right and left as if in expectation of some trace of her coming.
“No,” said Punch, “it’s no use to look. I have done that lots of times. Hurt my shoulder, too, screwing myself round. She ain’t been and left nothing.”
“But you saw her?” cried Pen.
“Well,” said Punch, in a hesitating way, “I did and I didn’t, like as you may say. She seemed to come; not as I saw her at first—I only felt her, like. It was the same as I seemed to see things when I have been off my head a bit.”
“Yes,” said Pen, “I understand.”
“Do you?” said Punch dreamily. “Well, I don’t. I didn’t see her, only it was like a shadow going out of the door; but I feel as sure as sure that she came and stood close to me for ever so long, and I think I saw her back as she went out; and then I quite woke up and lay and listened, hoping that she would come again.”
“I hope it was only a dream, Punch,” said Pen; “but I had no business to go to sleep like that.”
“Why not? You waren’t on sentry-go; and there was nothing to do.”
“I ought to have kept awake.”
“No, you oughtn’t. I was jolly glad to see you sleep; and I lay here and thought of what a lot of times you must have kept awake and watched over me when I was so bad, and— Here, whatcher going to do?”
“Going away till you have done talking nonsense.”
“Oh, all right. I won’t say no more. You are such a touchy chap. Don’t go away. Give us a drink.”
“Ah, now you are talking sense,” said Pen, as he made for the shelf upon which the little wooden vessel stood. “Here, Punch,” he said, “you mustn’t drink this. It has turned sour.”
“Jolly glad of it. Chuck it away and fetch me a good drink of water. Only, I say, I’d give it a good rinse out first.”
“Yes,” said Pen dryly, “I think it would be as well. Now, you don’t think that I should have given you water out of a dirty pail?”
“Well, how should I know?” said the boy querulously. “But, where are you going to get it from?”
“Out of the pool just below the waterfall.”
“Ah, it will be nice and cool from there,” said the boy, passing his tongue over his dry lips. “I was afraid that you might get it from where the sun had been on it all day.”
“Were you?” said Pen, smiling.
“Here, I say, don’t grin at a fellow like that,” said the boy peevishly. “You do keep catching a chap up so. Oh, I am so thirsty! It’s as if I had been eating charcoal cinders all day; and my wound’s all as hot and dry as if it was being burnt.”
“Yes, I had no business to have been asleep,” said Pen. “I’ll fetch the water, and when you have had a good drink I will bathe your wound.”
“Ah, do; there’s a good chap. But don’t keep on in that aggravating way, saying you oughtn’t to have gone to sleep. I wanted you to go to sleep; and it wasn’t a dream about her coming and looking at me while I was asleep. I dessay my eyes were shut, but I felt somebody come, and it only aggravates me for you to say nobody did.”
“Then I won’t say it any more, Punch,” cried Pen as he hurried out of the door. “But you dreamt it, all the same,” he continued to himself as he hurried along the track in the direction of the fall, keeping a sharp lookout the while, partly in search of danger, partly in the faint hope that he might catch sight of their late compassionate visitor, who might be on the way bearing a fresh addition to their scanty store.
But he encountered no sign of either friend or enemy. One minute he was making his way amongst the gnarled cork-trees, the next he passed out to where the soft, deep, lulling, musical sound of the fall burst upon his ears; and soon after he was upon his knees drinking deeply of the fresh, cool water, before rinsing out and carefully filling the woodenseau, which he was in the act of raising from the pool when he started, for there was a movement amongst the bushes upon the steep slope on the other side of the falls.
Pen’s heart beat heavily, for, fugitive as he was, the rustling leaves suggested an enemy bent upon taking aim at him or trapping him as a prisoner.
He turned to make his way back to the hut, and then as the water splashed from the little wooden pail, he paused.
“What a coward I am!” he muttered, and, sheltering himself among the trees, he began to thread his way between them towards where he could pass among the rocks that filled the bed of the stream below the falls so as to reach the other side and make sure of the cause of the movement amidst the low growth.
“I dare say it was only goats,” he said. “Time enough to run when I see a Frenchman; but I wish I had brought my piece.”
Keeping a sharp lookout for danger, he reached the other side of the little river, and then climbed up the rocky bank, gained the top in safety, and once more started violently, for he came suddenly upon a goat which was browsing amongst the bushes and sprang out in alarm.
“Yes, I am a coward!” muttered the lad with a forced laugh; and, stepping back directly, he lowered himself down the bank, recrossed the stream, filled the little pail, and made his way to where his wounded companion was waiting for him impatiently.
“Oh, I say, you have been a time!” grumbled the boy, “and I am so thirsty.”
“Yes, Punch, I have been a while. I had rilled the pail, when there was a rustle among the trees, and I thought one of the Frenchies was about to pounce upon me.”
“And was it?”
“No, only a goat amongst the bushes; and that made me longer. There, let me hold you up—no, no, don’t try yourself. That’s the way. Did it hurt you much?”
The boy drank with avidity, and then drew a long breath.
“Oh, ’tis good!” he said. “Nice and cool too. What, did it hurt? Yes, tidy; but I ain’t going to howl about that. Good job it wasn’t a Frenchy. Don’t want them to find us now we are amongst friends. If that gal will only bring us a bit to eat for about another day I shall be all right then. Sha’n’t I, comrade?”
“Better, I hope, Punch,” said Pen, smiling; “but you won’t be all right for some time yet.”
“Gammon!” cried the boy. “I shall. It only wants plenty of pluck, and a wound soon gets well. I mean to be fit to go on again precious soon, and I will. I say, give us a bit more of that cake, and—I say—what’s the Spanish for butter?”
Pen shook his head.
“Well, cheese, then? That will do. I want to ask her to bring us some. It’s a good sign, ain’t it, when a chap begins to get hungry?”
“Of course it is. All you have got to do is to lie still, and not worry your wound by trying to move.”
“Yes, it is all very fine, but you ain’t got a wound, and don’t know how hard it is to lie still. I try and try, and I know how it hurts me if I do move, but I feel as if I must move all the same. I say, I wish we had got a book! I could keep quiet if you read to me.”
“I wish I had one, Punch, but I must talk to you instead.”
“Well, tell us a story.”
“I can’t, Punch.”
“Yes, you can; you did tell me your story about how you came to take the shilling.”
“Well, yes, I did tell you that.”
“Of course you did, comrade. Well, that’s right. Tell us again.”
“Nonsense! You don’t want to hear that again.”
“Oh, don’t I? But I do. I could listen to that a hundred times over. It sets me thinking about how I should like to punch somebody’s head—your somebody, I mean. Tell us all about it again.”
“No, no; don’t ask me to do that, Punch,” said Pen, wrinkling up his forehead.
“Why? It don’t hurt your feelings, does it?”
“Well, yes, it does set me thinking about the past.”
“All right, then; I won’t ask you. Here, I know—give us my bugle and the bit of flannel and stuff out of the haversack. I want to give it a polish up again.”
“Why, you made it quite bright last time, Punch. It doesn’t want cleaning. You can’t be always polishing it.”
“Yes, I can. I want to keep on polishing till I have rubbed out that bruise in the side. It’s coming better already. Give us hold on it.”
Pen hesitated, but seeing how likely it was to quiet his patient’s restlessness, he placed the bright instrument beside him, and with it the piece of cloth with which he scoured it, and the leather for a polisher, and then sat thoughtfully down to watch the satisfied look of intentness in the boy’s countenance as he held the copper horn so close to his face that he could breathe upon it without moving his head, and then go on polish, polish, slowly, till by degrees the movement of his hand became more slow, his eyes gradually closed, his head fell sideways, and he sank to sleep.
“Poor fellow!” said Pen thoughtfully. “But he can’t be worse, or he wouldn’t sleep like that.”
Pen rose carefully so as not to disturb the sleeper, and cautiously peered outside the hut-door, keeping well out of sight till he had assured himself that there was no enemy visible upon the slopes of the valley, and then, taking a few steps under the shelter of the trees, he scanned the valley again from another point of view, while he listened intently, trying to catch the sound of the tramping of feet or the voice of command such as would indicate the nearness of the enemy.
But all was still, all looked peaceful and beautiful; and after stepping back to peer through the hut-door again to see that Punch had not stirred, he passed round to the back, where he could gaze in the direction of the fall and of the track by which the peasant-girl had hurried away.
“I wonder whether she will come back again,” thought Pen; and then feeling sure that they would have another visit from their new friend, he went slowly back to the hut and seated himself where he could watch the still-sleeping boy and think; for there was much to dwell upon in the solitude of that mountain valley—about home, and whether he should ever get back there and see England again, or be one of the unfortunates who were shot down and hastily laid beneath a foreign soil; about how long it would be before Punch was strong enough to tramp slowly by his side in search of their own corps or of some other regiment where they would be welcome enough until they could join their own.
These were not inspiriting thoughts, and he knew it must be weeks before the poor fellow’s wound would be sufficiently healed. Then other mental suggestions came to worry him as to whether he was pursuing the right course; as a companion he felt that he was, but as a soldier he was in doubt about the way in which his conduct would be looked upon by his superiors.
“Can’t help it,” he muttered. “I didn’t want to skulk. I couldn’t leave the poor fellow alone—perhaps to the wolves.”
The day went by very slowly. It was hot, and the air felt full of drowsiness, and the more Pen forced himself to be wakeful the more the silence seemed to press him down like a weight of sleep to which he was forced to yield from time to time, only to start awake again with a guilty look at his companion, followed by a feeling of relief on finding that Punch’s eyes were still closed and not gazing at him mockingly.
Slow as it was, the evening began to approach at last, and with it the intense longing for the change that would be afforded by the sight of their visitor.
But the time glided on, and with it came doubts which were growing into feelings of surety which were clinched by a sudden movement on the part of the wounded boy, whose long afternoon-sleep was brought to an end with an impatient ejaculation.
“There! I knew how it would be,” he said. “She won’t come now.”
“Never mind, Punch,” said Pen, trying to speak cheerily. “There’s a little more bread, and I will go now and see if I can find the goat, and try and get some milk.”
“Not you,” said the boy peevishly. “She will know you are a stranger, and won’t let you try again. I know what them she-billy goats are. I have watched them over and over again. Leave the bread alone, and let’s go to sleep. We shall want it for breakfast, and water will do. I mean to have one good long snooze ready for to-morrow, and then I am going to get up and march.”
“Nonsense, Punch,” cried Pen. “You can’t.”
“Can’t I?” said the boy mockingly. “I must, and, besides, British soldiers don’t know such a thing as can’t.”
“Ah!” cried Pen excitedly, as he started up and made for the door, for there was the rustling sound of feet amongst the bushes; and directly after, hot and panting with exertion, the peasant-girl appeared at the opening that was growing dim in the failing light.