Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Nineteen.Another Breakdown.Punch heard the voices too, and he reached out and felt for his comrade’s hand.“What is it?” he whispered. “Have they won? Not going to shoot me, are they?”“No, no,” said Pen, “but”—and he dropped his voice—“I think we are all going on.”He was quite right, and all through that night the slow business of setting a division on the march was under way, and the long, long train of baggage wagons drawn by the little wiry mules of the country began to move.The ambulance train followed, with its terrible burden heavily increased with the results of the late engagement, while as before—thanks to the service he had been able to render—Pen was able to accompany the heavily laden wagon in which Punch lay.“So we were beaten,” said the boy sadly—as the wheels of the lumbering vehicle creaked loudly, for the route was rough and stony—and Pen nodded.“Beaten. Yes,” And his voice was graver than before at the thought of what he had seen since they had been prisoners.On, on, on, through the dark hours, with Punch falling off every now and again into a fitful sleep—a sleep broken by sudden intervals of half-consciousness, when Pen’s heart was wrung by the broken words uttered by his companion: “Not going to shoot me, are they? Don’t let them do that, comrade.” While, as the weary procession continued its way on to the next village, where they were about to halt, Pen had another distraction, for as he trudged painfully on by the side of the creaking wagon a hand was suddenly placed on his arm.He turned sharply.“Eh, what?” he cried.“Well?” said a half-familiar voice, and in the dim light he recognised the features of the young French captain who had listened to his appeal to save the bugler’s life.“Rough work, sir,” said Pen.“Yes. Your fellows played a bold game in trying to dislodge us. Nearly succeeded,ma foi! But we drove them back.”“Yes,” said Pen.“How’s your friend?” asked the captain.“Better.”“That’s well. And now tell me, where did you learn to speak French so well?”“From my tutor,” answered Pen.“Your tutor! And you a simple soldier! Well, well! You English are full of surprises.”Pen laughed.“I suppose so,” he said; “but we are not alone in that.”The French captain chatted a little longer, and then once more Pen was alone—alone but for the strange accompaniment of sounds incident to the night march: the neighing of horses, the scraps of quick talking which fell on his ear, along with that never-ceasing creak, rumble, and jolt of the wagons, a creaking and jolting which seemed to the tired brain as though they would go on for ever and ever.He was aroused out of a strange waking dream, in which the past and the present were weirdly blended, by a voice which called him by name, and he tried to shake himself free from the tangle of confused thought which hemmed him in.“Aren’t you there?” came the voice again.“Yes, Punch, yes. What is it?”“Ah, that’s all right! I wanted to tell you that I feel such a lot better.”“Glad to hear it, Punch.”“Yes, I feel as if I could get out of this now.”“You had better not try,” said Pen with a forced laugh. “I think—I think—” And then the confusion came again.“What do you think?” said Punch.“Think?” cried the other. “I—what do you mean?”In the darkness of the heavy vehicle, Punch’s face betrayed a feeling of alarm, and he tried to figure it out. Something in Pen’s voice frightened him.“He is not the same,” he muttered; and his impression was substantiated when a halt was called just about the time of dawn, for Pen dropped like a log by the wagon-side; and when Punch, with great pain to himself, struggled into a sitting position, and then clambered down to his comrade, he found to his horror that his worst fears were realised.Pen’s forehead was burning, and the poor lad was muttering incoherently, and not in a condition to pay heed to the words of his companion.“Gray, Gray! Can’t you hear? What’s wrong?”The village which was the new headquarters was higher up in the mountains; and whether it was the fresher air operating beneficially, or whether the period of natural recovery had arrived, certain it was that Punch found himself able to move about again; and during the days and weeks that followed he it was who took the post of nurse and attended to the wants of Pen—wants, alas! too few, for the sufferer was a victim to something worse than a mere shot-wound susceptible to efficient dressing, for the most dangerous, perhaps, of all fevers had laid him low.The period passed as in a long dream, and the thought of rejoining the British column had for a time ceased to animate Punch’s brain.But youth and a strong constitution rose superior in Pen’s case to all the evils of circumstance and environment, and one afternoon the old clear look came back to his eyes.“Ah, Punch,” he said, “better?”“Better?” said the boy. “I—I am well; but you—how are you now?”“I—have I been ill?”“Ill!” cried Punch, and he turned and looked at an orderly who was hurrying past. “He asks if he has been ill!—Why, Pen, you have had a fever which has lasted for weeks.”Pen tried to sit up, and he would have dismally failed in the attempt had not Punch encircled him with his arm.“Why—why,” he said faintly, “I am as weak as weak!”“Yes, that you are.”“But, Punch, what has been happening?”“I don’t know. I can’t understand what all these people say; but they let me fetch water for them and attend to you; and to-day there has been a lot going on—troops marching past.”“Yes,” said Pen; “that means there has been another fight.”“No, I don’t think so.”“Why not?”“Because I have heard no firing. But hadn’t you better go to sleep again?”Pen smiled, but he took the advice and lay back.“Perhaps I had,” he said faintly; and as Punch watched him he fell into a restful doze.So it was during the days that followed, each one bringing back more strength to the invalid, and likewise each day a further contingent of the wounded in the battle of a month before being passed as fit for service again and drafted to the front; while each day, too, Pen found that the strength that used to be his was returning little by little, and he listened eagerly one night when Punch bent over him and whispered something in his ear.“You know I have been talking about it to you,” said the boy, “for several nights past; and when I wasn’t talking about it I was thinking of it. But now—now I think the time has come.”“To escape?” cried Pen eagerly. “You mean it?”“Yes; I have been watching what has gone on. We are almost alone here, with only wounded and surgeons. The rest have gone; and—and behind this village there is a forest of those scrubby-barked oak-trees.”“Cork-trees,” said Pen.“Oh, that’s it!” And the boy drew himself up. “But do you think you are strong enough yet?”“Strong enough? Of course.” And Pen rose, to stand at his companion’s side. “Do you know the way?”“Yes,” And Punch felt for and took his companion’s hand, trying to see his face in the pitchy darkness. “It is to the right of the camp.”“Then let’s go.”“Wait,” said Punch, and he glided off into the blackness, leaving Pen standing there alone.But it was not for long. In a minute or two the boy was back once more, and this time he held something in his arms.“Ready?” he asked in a whisper.“Yes. What for?”“Stoop.—That’s it. I watched, and took them—not English ones, but they will shoot, I expect,” And softly he slipped the sling of a musket over Pen’s shoulders, following that by handing him a cartouche-box and belt. “I have got a gun for myself too. Better than a bugle. There!” And in the darkness there was the sound of a belt being tightly drawn through a buckle. “Are you ready?”“Yes,” said Pen.“Where’s your hand?”“Here.”“Right!” And the younger lad gripped his friend’s extended palm. “Now, it’s this way. I planned it all when you were so ill, and said to myself that it would be the way when you got better. Come along.”Softly and silently the two slipped off in the darkness, making for the belt of forest where the gloomy leafage made only a slight blur against the black velvet sky.

Punch heard the voices too, and he reached out and felt for his comrade’s hand.

“What is it?” he whispered. “Have they won? Not going to shoot me, are they?”

“No, no,” said Pen, “but”—and he dropped his voice—“I think we are all going on.”

He was quite right, and all through that night the slow business of setting a division on the march was under way, and the long, long train of baggage wagons drawn by the little wiry mules of the country began to move.

The ambulance train followed, with its terrible burden heavily increased with the results of the late engagement, while as before—thanks to the service he had been able to render—Pen was able to accompany the heavily laden wagon in which Punch lay.

“So we were beaten,” said the boy sadly—as the wheels of the lumbering vehicle creaked loudly, for the route was rough and stony—and Pen nodded.

“Beaten. Yes,” And his voice was graver than before at the thought of what he had seen since they had been prisoners.

On, on, on, through the dark hours, with Punch falling off every now and again into a fitful sleep—a sleep broken by sudden intervals of half-consciousness, when Pen’s heart was wrung by the broken words uttered by his companion: “Not going to shoot me, are they? Don’t let them do that, comrade.” While, as the weary procession continued its way on to the next village, where they were about to halt, Pen had another distraction, for as he trudged painfully on by the side of the creaking wagon a hand was suddenly placed on his arm.

He turned sharply.

“Eh, what?” he cried.

“Well?” said a half-familiar voice, and in the dim light he recognised the features of the young French captain who had listened to his appeal to save the bugler’s life.

“Rough work, sir,” said Pen.

“Yes. Your fellows played a bold game in trying to dislodge us. Nearly succeeded,ma foi! But we drove them back.”

“Yes,” said Pen.

“How’s your friend?” asked the captain.

“Better.”

“That’s well. And now tell me, where did you learn to speak French so well?”

“From my tutor,” answered Pen.

“Your tutor! And you a simple soldier! Well, well! You English are full of surprises.”

Pen laughed.

“I suppose so,” he said; “but we are not alone in that.”

The French captain chatted a little longer, and then once more Pen was alone—alone but for the strange accompaniment of sounds incident to the night march: the neighing of horses, the scraps of quick talking which fell on his ear, along with that never-ceasing creak, rumble, and jolt of the wagons, a creaking and jolting which seemed to the tired brain as though they would go on for ever and ever.

He was aroused out of a strange waking dream, in which the past and the present were weirdly blended, by a voice which called him by name, and he tried to shake himself free from the tangle of confused thought which hemmed him in.

“Aren’t you there?” came the voice again.

“Yes, Punch, yes. What is it?”

“Ah, that’s all right! I wanted to tell you that I feel such a lot better.”

“Glad to hear it, Punch.”

“Yes, I feel as if I could get out of this now.”

“You had better not try,” said Pen with a forced laugh. “I think—I think—” And then the confusion came again.

“What do you think?” said Punch.

“Think?” cried the other. “I—what do you mean?”

In the darkness of the heavy vehicle, Punch’s face betrayed a feeling of alarm, and he tried to figure it out. Something in Pen’s voice frightened him.

“He is not the same,” he muttered; and his impression was substantiated when a halt was called just about the time of dawn, for Pen dropped like a log by the wagon-side; and when Punch, with great pain to himself, struggled into a sitting position, and then clambered down to his comrade, he found to his horror that his worst fears were realised.

Pen’s forehead was burning, and the poor lad was muttering incoherently, and not in a condition to pay heed to the words of his companion.

“Gray, Gray! Can’t you hear? What’s wrong?”

The village which was the new headquarters was higher up in the mountains; and whether it was the fresher air operating beneficially, or whether the period of natural recovery had arrived, certain it was that Punch found himself able to move about again; and during the days and weeks that followed he it was who took the post of nurse and attended to the wants of Pen—wants, alas! too few, for the sufferer was a victim to something worse than a mere shot-wound susceptible to efficient dressing, for the most dangerous, perhaps, of all fevers had laid him low.

The period passed as in a long dream, and the thought of rejoining the British column had for a time ceased to animate Punch’s brain.

But youth and a strong constitution rose superior in Pen’s case to all the evils of circumstance and environment, and one afternoon the old clear look came back to his eyes.

“Ah, Punch,” he said, “better?”

“Better?” said the boy. “I—I am well; but you—how are you now?”

“I—have I been ill?”

“Ill!” cried Punch, and he turned and looked at an orderly who was hurrying past. “He asks if he has been ill!—Why, Pen, you have had a fever which has lasted for weeks.”

Pen tried to sit up, and he would have dismally failed in the attempt had not Punch encircled him with his arm.

“Why—why,” he said faintly, “I am as weak as weak!”

“Yes, that you are.”

“But, Punch, what has been happening?”

“I don’t know. I can’t understand what all these people say; but they let me fetch water for them and attend to you; and to-day there has been a lot going on—troops marching past.”

“Yes,” said Pen; “that means there has been another fight.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have heard no firing. But hadn’t you better go to sleep again?”

Pen smiled, but he took the advice and lay back.

“Perhaps I had,” he said faintly; and as Punch watched him he fell into a restful doze.

So it was during the days that followed, each one bringing back more strength to the invalid, and likewise each day a further contingent of the wounded in the battle of a month before being passed as fit for service again and drafted to the front; while each day, too, Pen found that the strength that used to be his was returning little by little, and he listened eagerly one night when Punch bent over him and whispered something in his ear.

“You know I have been talking about it to you,” said the boy, “for several nights past; and when I wasn’t talking about it I was thinking of it. But now—now I think the time has come.”

“To escape?” cried Pen eagerly. “You mean it?”

“Yes; I have been watching what has gone on. We are almost alone here, with only wounded and surgeons. The rest have gone; and—and behind this village there is a forest of those scrubby-barked oak-trees.”

“Cork-trees,” said Pen.

“Oh, that’s it!” And the boy drew himself up. “But do you think you are strong enough yet?”

“Strong enough? Of course.” And Pen rose, to stand at his companion’s side. “Do you know the way?”

“Yes,” And Punch felt for and took his companion’s hand, trying to see his face in the pitchy darkness. “It is to the right of the camp.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Wait,” said Punch, and he glided off into the blackness, leaving Pen standing there alone.

But it was not for long. In a minute or two the boy was back once more, and this time he held something in his arms.

“Ready?” he asked in a whisper.

“Yes. What for?”

“Stoop.—That’s it. I watched, and took them—not English ones, but they will shoot, I expect,” And softly he slipped the sling of a musket over Pen’s shoulders, following that by handing him a cartouche-box and belt. “I have got a gun for myself too. Better than a bugle. There!” And in the darkness there was the sound of a belt being tightly drawn through a buckle. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” said Pen.

“Where’s your hand?”

“Here.”

“Right!” And the younger lad gripped his friend’s extended palm. “Now, it’s this way. I planned it all when you were so ill, and said to myself that it would be the way when you got better. Come along.”

Softly and silently the two slipped off in the darkness, making for the belt of forest where the gloomy leafage made only a slight blur against the black velvet sky.

Chapter Twenty.Hunted.“What’s the matter, Punch? Wound beginning to hurt you again?”“No,” said the boy surlily.“What is it, then? What are you thinking about?”“Thinking about you being so grumpy.”“Grumpy! Well, isn’t it enough to make a fellow feel low-spirited when he has been ill for weeks, wandering about here on these mountain-sides, hunted as if we were wild beasts, almost starving, and afraid to go near any of the people?”“No,” replied Punch with quite a snarl. “If you had had a bullet in your back like I did there’s something to grumble about. I don’t believe you ever knew how it hurt.”“Oh yes, I did, Punch,” said Pen quietly, “for many a time I have felt for you when I have seen you wincing and your face twitching with pain.”“Of course you did. I know. You couldn’t have been nicer than you were. But what have you got to grumble about now you’re better?”“Our bad luck in not getting back to some of our people.”“Well, I should like that too, only I don’t much mind. You see, I can’t help feeling as jolly as a sand-boy.”“I don’t know that sand-boys have anything much to be jolly about, Punch,” said Pen, brightening up.“More do I—but it’s what people say,” said Punch; “only, I do feel jolly. To be out here in the sunshine—and the moonshine, too, of a night—and having a sort of feeling that I can sit down now without my back aching and smarting, and feeling that I want to run and jump and shout. You know what it is to feel better, now, as well as I do. This ain’t home, of course; but everything looks wonderful nice, and every morning I wake up it all seems to me as if I was having a regular long holiday. I say, do say you are enjoying yourself too.”“I can’t, Punch. There are too many drawbacks.”“Oh, never mind them.”“But I can’t help it. You know I have been dreadfully weak.”“But you shouldn’t worry about that. I don’t mind a bit now you are getting well.”“What, not when we are faint with hunger?”“No, not a bit. It makes me laugh. It seems such a jolly game to think we have got to hunt for our victuals. Oh, I think we are having a regular fine time. It’s a splendid place! Come on.”“No, no; we had better rest a little more.”“Not me! Let’s get some chestnuts. Ain’t it a shame to grumble when you get plenty of them as you can eat raw or make a fire and roast them? Starve, indeed! Then look at the grapes we have had; and you never know what we shall find next. Why, it was only yesterday that woman gave us some bread, and pointed to the onions, and told us to take more; leastways she jabbered and kept on pointing again. Of course, we haven’t done as well as we did in the hut, when the girl brought us bread and cheese and milk; but I couldn’t enjoy it then with all that stinging in my back. And everything’s good now except when you look so grumpy.”“Well, Punch, most of my grumpiness has been on your account, and I will cheer up now. If I could only meet some one to talk to and understand us, so that we could find out where our people are, I wouldn’t care.”“Well, never mind all that, and don’t care. I don’t. Here we are having a big holiday in the country. We have got away from the French, and we are not prisoners. I am all alive and kicking again, and I feel more than ever that I don’t care for anything now you are getting more and more well. There’s only one thing as would make me as grumpy as you are.”“What’s that, Punch?”“To feel that my wound was getting bad again. I say, you don’t think it will, do you?”“No; why should I? It’s all healing up beautifully.”“Then I don’t care for anything,” cried the boy joyously. “Yes, I do. I feel horrid wild sometimes to think they took away my bugle; leastways, I suppose they did. I never saw it no more; and it don’t seem natural not to have that to polish up. I have got a musket, though; and, I say, why don’t we have a day’s shooting, and knock over a kid or a pig?”“Because it would be somebody’s kid or pig, and we should be hunted down worse than ever, for, instead of the French being after us for escaped prisoners, we should rouse the people against us for killing their property.”“Yes, that would be bad,” said Punch; “but it would only be because we are hungry.”“Yes, but the people wouldn’t study that.”“Think they would knife us for it?” said the boy thoughtfully.“I hope not; but they would treat us as enemies, and it would go bad with us, I feel sure.”“Well, we are rested now,” said Punch. “Let’s get on again a bit.”“Which way shall we go?” said Pen.“I dunno; anywhere so’s not to run against the French. I have had enough of them. Let’s chance it.”Pen laughed merrily, his comrade’s easy-going, reckless way having its humorous side, and cheering him up at a time when their helpless condition made him ready to despair.“Well,” he said, “if we are to chance it, Punch, let’s get out of this wood and try to go downhill.”“What for?”“Easier travelling,” said Pen. “We may reach another pleasant valley, and find a village where the people will let us beg some bread and fruit.”“Yes, of course,” said Punch, frowning; “but it don’t seem nice—begging.”“Well, we have no money to buy. What are we to do?”“Grab,” said Punch laconically.“What—steal?” cried Pen.“Steal! Gammon! Aren’t we soldiers? Soldiers forage. ’Tain’t stealing. We must live in an enemy’s country.”“But the Spaniards are not our enemies.”“There, now you are harguing, and I hate to hargue when you are hungry. What I say is, we are soldiers and in a strange country, and that we must take what we want. It’s only foraging; so come on.”“Come along then, Punch,” said Pen good-humouredly. “But you are spoiling my morals, and—”“Pst!” whispered Punch. “Lie down.”He set the example, throwing himself prone amongst the rough growth that sprang up along the mountain-slope; and Pen followed his example.“What can you see?” he whispered, as he crept closer to his comrade’s side, noting the while that as he lay upon his chest the boy had made ready his musket and prepared to take aim. “You had better not shoot.”“Then tell them that too,” whispered Punch.“Them! Who?”“Didn’t you see?”“I saw nothing.”“I did—bayonets, just below yonder. Soldiers marching.”“Soldiers?” whispered Pen joyfully. “They may be some of our men.”“That they are not. They are French.”French they undoubtedly were; for as the lads peered cautiously from their hiding-place, and listened to the rustling and tramp of many feet, an order rang out which betrayed the nationality of what seemed to be a large body of men coming in their direction.“Keep snug,” whispered Punch, “and they won’t see us. It’s too close here.”Pen gripped his companion’s arm, and lay trying to catch sight of the marching men for some minutes with a satisfied feeling that the troops were bearing away from them. But his heart sank directly after; a bugle-call rang out, the men again changed their direction, the line extended, and it became plain that they would pass right over the ground where the two lads lay.“I am afraid they will see us, Punch,” whispered Pen. “What’s to be done?”“Run for it. Look here, make straight for that wood up the slope,” whispered Punch. “You go first, and I will follow.”“But that’s uphill,” whispered Pen.“Bad for them as for us,” replied the boy. “Up with you; right for the wood. Once there, we are safe.”Punch had said he hated to argue, and it was no time for argument then as to the best course.Pen gazed in the direction of the approaching party, but they were invisible; and, turning to his comrade, “Now then,” he said, “off!”Springing up, he started at a quick run in and out amongst the bushes and rocks in the direction of the forest indicated by his companion, conscious the next minute, as he glanced back in turning a block of stone, that Punch was imitating his tactics, carrying his musket at the trail and bending low as he ran.“Keep your head down, Punch,” he said softly, as the boy raced up alongside. “We can’t see them, so they can’t see us.”“Don’t talk—run,” whispered Punch. “That’s right—round to your left. Don’t mind me if I hang back a bit. I am short-winded yet. I shall follow you.”For answer, Pen slackened pace, and let Punch pass him.“Whatcher doing?” whispered the boy.“You go first,” replied Pen, “just as fast as you can. I will keep close behind you.”Punch uttered a low growl, but he did not stop to argue, and they ran on and on, getting out of breath but lighter hearted, as they both felt that every minute carried them nearer to safety, for the risky part where the slope was all stone and low bush was nearly passed, the dense patch of forest nearer at hand offering to them shelter so thick that, once there, their enemies would have hard work to judge which direction had been taken; and then all at once, when all danger seemed to be past, there came a shout from behind, and then a shot.“Stoop! Stoop, Punch! More to the left!”“All right. Come on,” was whispered back; and, as Punch bore in the direction indicated by his comrade, there came shout after shout, shot after shot, and the next minute, as the fugitives tore on heedless of everything but their effort to reach the shelter in advance, it was perfectly evident to them that the bullets fired were whizzing in their direction.Twigs were cut and fell; there was the loudspat, spatof the bullets striking the rocks; and then, when they were almost within touch of the dark shadows spread by the trees, there came a scattered volley, and both lads went down heavily, disappearing from the sight of their pursuers, who sent up a yell of triumph.“Punch,” panted Pen, “not hurt?”The answer was a hoarse utterance, as the boy struggled to his feet and then dropped again on all-fours.“No, no,” he gasped. “Come on! come on! We are close there.”Pen was breathing hard as he too followed his comrade’s movements just as if forced thereto by the natural instinct that prompted imitation; but the moment he reached his feet he dropped down again heavily, and then began to crawl awkwardly forward so that he might from time to time catch a glimpse of Punch’s retiring form.“Come on, come on!” kept reaching his ears; and then he felt dizzy and sick at heart.It seemed to be growing dark all at once, but he set it down to the closing-in of the overshadowing trees. And then minutes passed of confusion, exertion, and a feeling as of suffocation consequent upon the difficulty of catching his breath.Then at last—he could not tell how long after—Punch was whispering in his ear as they lay side by side so close together that the boy’s breath came hot upon his cheek.“Oh, how slow you have been! But this ’ere will do—must do, for we can get no farther. Why, you were worse than me. Hurt yourself when you went down?”Pen was about to reply, when a French voice shouted, “Forward! Right through the forest!”There was the trampling of feet, the crackling of dead twigs, and Punch’s hand gripped his companion’s arm with painful force, as the two lads lay breathless, with their faces buried in the thick covering of past years’ dead leaves, till the trampling died away and the fugitives dared to raise their faces a little in the fight for breath.

“What’s the matter, Punch? Wound beginning to hurt you again?”

“No,” said the boy surlily.

“What is it, then? What are you thinking about?”

“Thinking about you being so grumpy.”

“Grumpy! Well, isn’t it enough to make a fellow feel low-spirited when he has been ill for weeks, wandering about here on these mountain-sides, hunted as if we were wild beasts, almost starving, and afraid to go near any of the people?”

“No,” replied Punch with quite a snarl. “If you had had a bullet in your back like I did there’s something to grumble about. I don’t believe you ever knew how it hurt.”

“Oh yes, I did, Punch,” said Pen quietly, “for many a time I have felt for you when I have seen you wincing and your face twitching with pain.”

“Of course you did. I know. You couldn’t have been nicer than you were. But what have you got to grumble about now you’re better?”

“Our bad luck in not getting back to some of our people.”

“Well, I should like that too, only I don’t much mind. You see, I can’t help feeling as jolly as a sand-boy.”

“I don’t know that sand-boys have anything much to be jolly about, Punch,” said Pen, brightening up.

“More do I—but it’s what people say,” said Punch; “only, I do feel jolly. To be out here in the sunshine—and the moonshine, too, of a night—and having a sort of feeling that I can sit down now without my back aching and smarting, and feeling that I want to run and jump and shout. You know what it is to feel better, now, as well as I do. This ain’t home, of course; but everything looks wonderful nice, and every morning I wake up it all seems to me as if I was having a regular long holiday. I say, do say you are enjoying yourself too.”

“I can’t, Punch. There are too many drawbacks.”

“Oh, never mind them.”

“But I can’t help it. You know I have been dreadfully weak.”

“But you shouldn’t worry about that. I don’t mind a bit now you are getting well.”

“What, not when we are faint with hunger?”

“No, not a bit. It makes me laugh. It seems such a jolly game to think we have got to hunt for our victuals. Oh, I think we are having a regular fine time. It’s a splendid place! Come on.”

“No, no; we had better rest a little more.”

“Not me! Let’s get some chestnuts. Ain’t it a shame to grumble when you get plenty of them as you can eat raw or make a fire and roast them? Starve, indeed! Then look at the grapes we have had; and you never know what we shall find next. Why, it was only yesterday that woman gave us some bread, and pointed to the onions, and told us to take more; leastways she jabbered and kept on pointing again. Of course, we haven’t done as well as we did in the hut, when the girl brought us bread and cheese and milk; but I couldn’t enjoy it then with all that stinging in my back. And everything’s good now except when you look so grumpy.”

“Well, Punch, most of my grumpiness has been on your account, and I will cheer up now. If I could only meet some one to talk to and understand us, so that we could find out where our people are, I wouldn’t care.”

“Well, never mind all that, and don’t care. I don’t. Here we are having a big holiday in the country. We have got away from the French, and we are not prisoners. I am all alive and kicking again, and I feel more than ever that I don’t care for anything now you are getting more and more well. There’s only one thing as would make me as grumpy as you are.”

“What’s that, Punch?”

“To feel that my wound was getting bad again. I say, you don’t think it will, do you?”

“No; why should I? It’s all healing up beautifully.”

“Then I don’t care for anything,” cried the boy joyously. “Yes, I do. I feel horrid wild sometimes to think they took away my bugle; leastways, I suppose they did. I never saw it no more; and it don’t seem natural not to have that to polish up. I have got a musket, though; and, I say, why don’t we have a day’s shooting, and knock over a kid or a pig?”

“Because it would be somebody’s kid or pig, and we should be hunted down worse than ever, for, instead of the French being after us for escaped prisoners, we should rouse the people against us for killing their property.”

“Yes, that would be bad,” said Punch; “but it would only be because we are hungry.”

“Yes, but the people wouldn’t study that.”

“Think they would knife us for it?” said the boy thoughtfully.

“I hope not; but they would treat us as enemies, and it would go bad with us, I feel sure.”

“Well, we are rested now,” said Punch. “Let’s get on again a bit.”

“Which way shall we go?” said Pen.

“I dunno; anywhere so’s not to run against the French. I have had enough of them. Let’s chance it.”

Pen laughed merrily, his comrade’s easy-going, reckless way having its humorous side, and cheering him up at a time when their helpless condition made him ready to despair.

“Well,” he said, “if we are to chance it, Punch, let’s get out of this wood and try to go downhill.”

“What for?”

“Easier travelling,” said Pen. “We may reach another pleasant valley, and find a village where the people will let us beg some bread and fruit.”

“Yes, of course,” said Punch, frowning; “but it don’t seem nice—begging.”

“Well, we have no money to buy. What are we to do?”

“Grab,” said Punch laconically.

“What—steal?” cried Pen.

“Steal! Gammon! Aren’t we soldiers? Soldiers forage. ’Tain’t stealing. We must live in an enemy’s country.”

“But the Spaniards are not our enemies.”

“There, now you are harguing, and I hate to hargue when you are hungry. What I say is, we are soldiers and in a strange country, and that we must take what we want. It’s only foraging; so come on.”

“Come along then, Punch,” said Pen good-humouredly. “But you are spoiling my morals, and—”

“Pst!” whispered Punch. “Lie down.”

He set the example, throwing himself prone amongst the rough growth that sprang up along the mountain-slope; and Pen followed his example.

“What can you see?” he whispered, as he crept closer to his comrade’s side, noting the while that as he lay upon his chest the boy had made ready his musket and prepared to take aim. “You had better not shoot.”

“Then tell them that too,” whispered Punch.

“Them! Who?”

“Didn’t you see?”

“I saw nothing.”

“I did—bayonets, just below yonder. Soldiers marching.”

“Soldiers?” whispered Pen joyfully. “They may be some of our men.”

“That they are not. They are French.”

French they undoubtedly were; for as the lads peered cautiously from their hiding-place, and listened to the rustling and tramp of many feet, an order rang out which betrayed the nationality of what seemed to be a large body of men coming in their direction.

“Keep snug,” whispered Punch, “and they won’t see us. It’s too close here.”

Pen gripped his companion’s arm, and lay trying to catch sight of the marching men for some minutes with a satisfied feeling that the troops were bearing away from them. But his heart sank directly after; a bugle-call rang out, the men again changed their direction, the line extended, and it became plain that they would pass right over the ground where the two lads lay.

“I am afraid they will see us, Punch,” whispered Pen. “What’s to be done?”

“Run for it. Look here, make straight for that wood up the slope,” whispered Punch. “You go first, and I will follow.”

“But that’s uphill,” whispered Pen.

“Bad for them as for us,” replied the boy. “Up with you; right for the wood. Once there, we are safe.”

Punch had said he hated to argue, and it was no time for argument then as to the best course.

Pen gazed in the direction of the approaching party, but they were invisible; and, turning to his comrade, “Now then,” he said, “off!”

Springing up, he started at a quick run in and out amongst the bushes and rocks in the direction of the forest indicated by his companion, conscious the next minute, as he glanced back in turning a block of stone, that Punch was imitating his tactics, carrying his musket at the trail and bending low as he ran.

“Keep your head down, Punch,” he said softly, as the boy raced up alongside. “We can’t see them, so they can’t see us.”

“Don’t talk—run,” whispered Punch. “That’s right—round to your left. Don’t mind me if I hang back a bit. I am short-winded yet. I shall follow you.”

For answer, Pen slackened pace, and let Punch pass him.

“Whatcher doing?” whispered the boy.

“You go first,” replied Pen, “just as fast as you can. I will keep close behind you.”

Punch uttered a low growl, but he did not stop to argue, and they ran on and on, getting out of breath but lighter hearted, as they both felt that every minute carried them nearer to safety, for the risky part where the slope was all stone and low bush was nearly passed, the dense patch of forest nearer at hand offering to them shelter so thick that, once there, their enemies would have hard work to judge which direction had been taken; and then all at once, when all danger seemed to be past, there came a shout from behind, and then a shot.

“Stoop! Stoop, Punch! More to the left!”

“All right. Come on,” was whispered back; and, as Punch bore in the direction indicated by his comrade, there came shout after shout, shot after shot, and the next minute, as the fugitives tore on heedless of everything but their effort to reach the shelter in advance, it was perfectly evident to them that the bullets fired were whizzing in their direction.

Twigs were cut and fell; there was the loudspat, spatof the bullets striking the rocks; and then, when they were almost within touch of the dark shadows spread by the trees, there came a scattered volley, and both lads went down heavily, disappearing from the sight of their pursuers, who sent up a yell of triumph.

“Punch,” panted Pen, “not hurt?”

The answer was a hoarse utterance, as the boy struggled to his feet and then dropped again on all-fours.

“No, no,” he gasped. “Come on! come on! We are close there.”

Pen was breathing hard as he too followed his comrade’s movements just as if forced thereto by the natural instinct that prompted imitation; but the moment he reached his feet he dropped down again heavily, and then began to crawl awkwardly forward so that he might from time to time catch a glimpse of Punch’s retiring form.

“Come on, come on!” kept reaching his ears; and then he felt dizzy and sick at heart.

It seemed to be growing dark all at once, but he set it down to the closing-in of the overshadowing trees. And then minutes passed of confusion, exertion, and a feeling as of suffocation consequent upon the difficulty of catching his breath.

Then at last—he could not tell how long after—Punch was whispering in his ear as they lay side by side so close together that the boy’s breath came hot upon his cheek.

“Oh, how slow you have been! But this ’ere will do—must do, for we can get no farther. Why, you were worse than me. Hurt yourself when you went down?”

Pen was about to reply, when a French voice shouted, “Forward! Right through the forest!”

There was the trampling of feet, the crackling of dead twigs, and Punch’s hand gripped his companion’s arm with painful force, as the two lads lay breathless, with their faces buried in the thick covering of past years’ dead leaves, till the trampling died away and the fugitives dared to raise their faces a little in the fight for breath.

Chapter Twenty One.Hide-and-Seek.“Oh, I say,” whispered Punch, in a half-suffocated tone, “my word! Talk about near as a toucher! It’s all right, comrade; but if I had held my breath half a jiffy longer I should have gone off pop. Don’t you call this a game? Hide-and-seek and whoop is nothing to it! Garn with you, you thick-headed old frog-soup eaters! Wait till I get my breath. I want to laugh.—Can’t hear ’em now; can you?”“No,” said Pen faintly. “Will they come back?”“Not they,” replied Punch chuckling. “Couldn’t find the way again if they tried. But we shall have to stay here now till it’s dark. It don’t matter. I want to cool down and get my wind. I say, though, catch your foot on a stone?”“No,” replied Pen, breathing hard.“Thought you did. You did go down—quelch! What you breathing like that for? You did get out of breath! Turn over on your back. There’s nobody to see us now. I say, isn’t it nice and shady! Talk about a hiding-place! Look at the beautiful great, long green leaves. Hooray! Chestnuts. We have dropped just into the right place for foraging. Wait a bit and we will creep right into the forest and make a little fire, and have a roast. What? Oh, it’s all right. They have gone straight on and can’t hear me. Here! I say: why, comrade, you did hurt yourself when you went down. Here, what is it? Oh, I am sorry! Ain’t broke anything, have you?”“My leg, Punch—my leg,” said Pen faintly.“Broke your leg, comrade?” cried the boy.“No, no,” said Pen faintly; “not so bad as that. One of the bullets, I think, scraped my leg when they fired.”“Shot!” cried Punch in an excited voice full of agony. “Oh, comrade, not you! Don’t say that!”The lad talked fast, but he was acting all the time. Leaving his musket amongst the leaves, he had crept to Pen’s side, and was eagerly examining his comrade’s now helpless leg.“Can’t help it,” he whispered, as he searched for and drew out his knife. “I will rip it down the seam, and we will sew it up again some time.” And then muttering to himself, “Scraped! It’s a bad wound! We must get the bullet out. No—no bullet here.” And then, making use of the little knowledge he had picked up, Punch tore off strips of cotton from his own and his companion’s garments, and tightly bandaged the bleeding wound.“It’s a bad job, comrade,” he said cheerily; “but it might have been worse if the Frenchies could shoot. There’s no bones broke, and you are not going to grumble; but I’d have given anything if it hadn’t been your turn now. Hurt much.”“Quite enough, Punch,” said Pen with a rather piteous smile. “It’s quite right; my turn now; but don’t stop. You’ve stopped the bleeding, so get on.”“What say?”“Go on now,” said Pen, “while there’s a chance to escape. Those fellows will be sure to come back this way, and you will lose your opportunity if you wait.”“Poor chap!” said Punch, as if speaking to himself, and he laid a hand on Pen’s wet forehead. “Look at that now! I have made a nasty mark; but I couldn’t help it, for there was no water here for a wash. But, poor chap, he won’t know. He’s worse than I thought, though; talking like that—quite off his head.”“I am not, Punch, but you will send me off it if you go on like that. Do as I tell you, boy. Escape while there’s a chance.”“He’s quite queer,” said Punch, “and getting worse; but I suppose I can’t do anything more.”“No; you can do no more, so don’t waste your chance of escape. It will be horrible for you to be made prisoner again, so off with you while the coast’s clear. Do you hear me?”“Hear you! Yes, you needn’t shout and tell the Johnnies that we are hiding here.”“No, no, of course not; it was very foolish, but the pain of the wound and your obstinacy made me excited. Now then, shake hands, and, there’s a good fellow, go.”“Likely!” said Punch, wiping the pain-drops from Pen’s face.“What do you mean by that?” said Pen angrily.“What do I mean by what? You are a bit cracked like, or else you wouldn’t talk like this.”“Not tell you to run while there’s a chance?”“Not tell me to run like this when there’s a chance!” replied Punch. “Jigger the chance! So you just hold your tongue and lie quiet. Sha’n’t go! There.”“But, Punch, don’t be foolish, there’s a good fellow.”“No, I won’t; and don’t you be foolish. Pst! Hear that? They are coming back.”“There’s time still,” said Pen, lowering his voice.“Oh, is there? You just look here. Here they are, coming nearer and nearer. Do you want them to come and take us both?”“No, no, no,” whispered Pen.“Then just you hold your tongue,” said Punch, nestling down close to his comrade’s side, for the rustle and tramp of many feet began to grow nearer again; and as Punch lay upon his back with his eyes turned in the direction of the approaching sound he soon after caught a glimpse or two of sunlight flashed from the barrels of muskets far down the forest aisles, as their bearers seemed to be coming right for where they lay.“Look here,” said Punch softly, “they look as if they are coming straight here; but there’s a chance for us yet, so let’s take it, and if they don’t find us— Mind, I didn’t want you to be hit; but as you are, and I suppose was to be, I am jolly glad of it, for it gives a fellow a chance. And what’s the good of me talking?” said the boy to himself now. “He’s gone right off, swoonded, as they call it. Poor old chap! It does seem queer. But it might have been worse, as I said before. Wanted me to run away, did you? Likely, wasn’t it? Why, if I had run it would have served me jolly well right if somebody had shot me down again. Not likely, comrade! I mayn’t be a man, but my father was a British soldier, and that’s what’s the matter with me.”Punch lay talking to himself, but not loudly enough to startle a bird which came flitting from tree to tree in advance of the approaching soldiers, and checked its flight in one of the low branches of a great overhanging chestnut, and then kept on changing its position as it peered down at the two recumbent figures, its movements startling the bugler, who now began in a whisper to address the bird.“Here,” he said, “what game do you call that? You don’t mean to say you have come here like this to show the Johnny Crapauds where we are, so that they may take us prisoners? No, I thought not. It wouldn’t be fair, and I don’t suppose they have even seen you; but it did look like it. Here they come, though, and in another minute they will see us, and— Oh, poor Gray! It will be bad for him, poor chap; and— No, they don’t. They are wheeling off to the left; but if they look this way they must see us, and if they had been English lads that’s just what they would have done. Why, they couldn’t help seeing us—a set of bat-eyed bull-frogs; that’s what I call them. Yah! Go on home! I don’t think much of you. Now then, they are not coming here, and I don’t care where they go as long as they don’t find us. Now, what’s next to be done? What I want is another goat-herd’s hut, so as I can carry my poor old comrade into shelter. Now, where is it to be found? I don’t know, but it’s got to be done; and ain’t it rum that my poor old mate here should have his dose, and me have to play the nurse twice over!”

“Oh, I say,” whispered Punch, in a half-suffocated tone, “my word! Talk about near as a toucher! It’s all right, comrade; but if I had held my breath half a jiffy longer I should have gone off pop. Don’t you call this a game? Hide-and-seek and whoop is nothing to it! Garn with you, you thick-headed old frog-soup eaters! Wait till I get my breath. I want to laugh.—Can’t hear ’em now; can you?”

“No,” said Pen faintly. “Will they come back?”

“Not they,” replied Punch chuckling. “Couldn’t find the way again if they tried. But we shall have to stay here now till it’s dark. It don’t matter. I want to cool down and get my wind. I say, though, catch your foot on a stone?”

“No,” replied Pen, breathing hard.

“Thought you did. You did go down—quelch! What you breathing like that for? You did get out of breath! Turn over on your back. There’s nobody to see us now. I say, isn’t it nice and shady! Talk about a hiding-place! Look at the beautiful great, long green leaves. Hooray! Chestnuts. We have dropped just into the right place for foraging. Wait a bit and we will creep right into the forest and make a little fire, and have a roast. What? Oh, it’s all right. They have gone straight on and can’t hear me. Here! I say: why, comrade, you did hurt yourself when you went down. Here, what is it? Oh, I am sorry! Ain’t broke anything, have you?”

“My leg, Punch—my leg,” said Pen faintly.

“Broke your leg, comrade?” cried the boy.

“No, no,” said Pen faintly; “not so bad as that. One of the bullets, I think, scraped my leg when they fired.”

“Shot!” cried Punch in an excited voice full of agony. “Oh, comrade, not you! Don’t say that!”

The lad talked fast, but he was acting all the time. Leaving his musket amongst the leaves, he had crept to Pen’s side, and was eagerly examining his comrade’s now helpless leg.

“Can’t help it,” he whispered, as he searched for and drew out his knife. “I will rip it down the seam, and we will sew it up again some time.” And then muttering to himself, “Scraped! It’s a bad wound! We must get the bullet out. No—no bullet here.” And then, making use of the little knowledge he had picked up, Punch tore off strips of cotton from his own and his companion’s garments, and tightly bandaged the bleeding wound.

“It’s a bad job, comrade,” he said cheerily; “but it might have been worse if the Frenchies could shoot. There’s no bones broke, and you are not going to grumble; but I’d have given anything if it hadn’t been your turn now. Hurt much.”

“Quite enough, Punch,” said Pen with a rather piteous smile. “It’s quite right; my turn now; but don’t stop. You’ve stopped the bleeding, so get on.”

“What say?”

“Go on now,” said Pen, “while there’s a chance to escape. Those fellows will be sure to come back this way, and you will lose your opportunity if you wait.”

“Poor chap!” said Punch, as if speaking to himself, and he laid a hand on Pen’s wet forehead. “Look at that now! I have made a nasty mark; but I couldn’t help it, for there was no water here for a wash. But, poor chap, he won’t know. He’s worse than I thought, though; talking like that—quite off his head.”

“I am not, Punch, but you will send me off it if you go on like that. Do as I tell you, boy. Escape while there’s a chance.”

“He’s quite queer,” said Punch, “and getting worse; but I suppose I can’t do anything more.”

“No; you can do no more, so don’t waste your chance of escape. It will be horrible for you to be made prisoner again, so off with you while the coast’s clear. Do you hear me?”

“Hear you! Yes, you needn’t shout and tell the Johnnies that we are hiding here.”

“No, no, of course not; it was very foolish, but the pain of the wound and your obstinacy made me excited. Now then, shake hands, and, there’s a good fellow, go.”

“Likely!” said Punch, wiping the pain-drops from Pen’s face.

“What do you mean by that?” said Pen angrily.

“What do I mean by what? You are a bit cracked like, or else you wouldn’t talk like this.”

“Not tell you to run while there’s a chance?”

“Not tell me to run like this when there’s a chance!” replied Punch. “Jigger the chance! So you just hold your tongue and lie quiet. Sha’n’t go! There.”

“But, Punch, don’t be foolish, there’s a good fellow.”

“No, I won’t; and don’t you be foolish. Pst! Hear that? They are coming back.”

“There’s time still,” said Pen, lowering his voice.

“Oh, is there? You just look here. Here they are, coming nearer and nearer. Do you want them to come and take us both?”

“No, no, no,” whispered Pen.

“Then just you hold your tongue,” said Punch, nestling down close to his comrade’s side, for the rustle and tramp of many feet began to grow nearer again; and as Punch lay upon his back with his eyes turned in the direction of the approaching sound he soon after caught a glimpse or two of sunlight flashed from the barrels of muskets far down the forest aisles, as their bearers seemed to be coming right for where they lay.

“Look here,” said Punch softly, “they look as if they are coming straight here; but there’s a chance for us yet, so let’s take it, and if they don’t find us— Mind, I didn’t want you to be hit; but as you are, and I suppose was to be, I am jolly glad of it, for it gives a fellow a chance. And what’s the good of me talking?” said the boy to himself now. “He’s gone right off, swoonded, as they call it. Poor old chap! It does seem queer. But it might have been worse, as I said before. Wanted me to run away, did you? Likely, wasn’t it? Why, if I had run it would have served me jolly well right if somebody had shot me down again. Not likely, comrade! I mayn’t be a man, but my father was a British soldier, and that’s what’s the matter with me.”

Punch lay talking to himself, but not loudly enough to startle a bird which came flitting from tree to tree in advance of the approaching soldiers, and checked its flight in one of the low branches of a great overhanging chestnut, and then kept on changing its position as it peered down at the two recumbent figures, its movements startling the bugler, who now began in a whisper to address the bird.

“Here,” he said, “what game do you call that? You don’t mean to say you have come here like this to show the Johnny Crapauds where we are, so that they may take us prisoners? No, I thought not. It wouldn’t be fair, and I don’t suppose they have even seen you; but it did look like it. Here they come, though, and in another minute they will see us, and— Oh, poor Gray! It will be bad for him, poor chap; and— No, they don’t. They are wheeling off to the left; but if they look this way they must see us, and if they had been English lads that’s just what they would have done. Why, they couldn’t help seeing us—a set of bat-eyed bull-frogs; that’s what I call them. Yah! Go on home! I don’t think much of you. Now then, they are not coming here, and I don’t care where they go as long as they don’t find us. Now, what’s next to be done? What I want is another goat-herd’s hut, so as I can carry my poor old comrade into shelter. Now, where is it to be found? I don’t know, but it’s got to be done; and ain’t it rum that my poor old mate here should have his dose, and me have to play the nurse twice over!”

Chapter Twenty Two.“Unlucky Beggars.”“If one wasn’t in such trouble,” said Punch to himself, as he lay in the growing darkness beneath the great chestnut-tree, “one would have time to think what a beautiful country this is. But of all the unlucky beggars that ever lived, Private Pen Gray and Bugler Bob Punchard is about the two worst. Only think of it: we had just got out of all that trouble with my wound and Gray’s fever, then he gets hit and I got to nurse him all over again. Well, that’s all clear enough.—How are you now, comrade?” he said aloud, as after cautiously gazing round in search of danger, he raised his head and bent over his wounded companion.There was no reply, and Punch went on softly, “It’s my turn now to say what you said to me. Sleepy, are you? Well, go on, and have plenty of it. It’s the best thing for you. What did you say? Nature sets to work to mend you again? No, he didn’t. I forget now, but that’s what he meant. Now, I wonder whether it’s safe for me to go away and leave him. No, of course it isn’t, for I may tumble up against the French, who will make me a prisoner, and I sha’n’t be able to make them understand that my comrade is lying wounded under this tree, and if I could I don’t want to. That’s one thing. Another is that if I start off and leave him here I sha’n’t be able to find him again. Then, what am I going for? To try and find water, for my throat’s like sand, and something to eat better than these chestnuts, for I don’t believe they are anything like ripe. Oh dear! This is a rum start altogether. I don’t know what to do. This is coming to the wars, and no mistake! There never was really such unlucky chaps as we are. It will be dark before long. Then I shall seem to be quite alone. To be all alone here in a great wood like this is enough to make any fellow feel scared. It’s just the sort of place where the wolves will be. Well, if they do come, we have got two muskets, and if it isn’t too dark I will have two wolves, and that will keep the others off as long as they have got the ones I shot to eat.—Did you speak, comrade?” he whispered, as he once more bent over Pen. “No, he’s fast asleep. Wish I was, so as to forget all about it, for the sun’s quite down now, and I don’t know how I am to get through such a night as this. However, here goes to try. Ugh! How cold it is turning!”The boy shivered as the wind that came down from the mountains seemed bitterly cold to one who had been drenched in perspiration by the exertion and excitement that he had passed through.“Poor old Private Gray!” he muttered. “He will be feeling it worse than me if he don’t turn feverish.”The boy hesitated for a few moments, and then, stripping off his jacket, he crept as close to his wounded companion as he could, and then carefully spread the ragged uniform coat over their breasts.“Ought to have got his off too,” he muttered, “but I mustn’t. Must make the best of it and try and go to sleep, keeping him warm. But no fellow could go to sleep at a time like this.”It was a rash assertion, for many minutes had not passed before the boy was sleeping soundly the sleep of utter weariness and exhaustion; and the next time he unclosed his eyes as he lay there upon his back, not having moved since he lay down, it was to gaze wonderingly at the beautiful play of morning light upon the long, glossy, dark-green leaves over his head; for the sun had just risen and was bronzing the leaves with ruddy gold.The birds were singing somewhere at the edge of the forest, and all seemed so wonderful and strange that the boy muttered to himself as he asked the question, “Where am I?”So deep had been his sleep that it seemed to be one great puzzle.He knew it was cold, and he wondered at that, for now and then he felt a faint glow of warm sunshine. Then, like a flash, recollection came back, and he turned his head to gaze at his companion, but only to wrench himself away and roll over and over a yard or two, before sitting up quickly, trembling violently. For he was chilled with horror by the thought that his companion had passed away during the night.It was some minutes before he dared speak. “Pen!” he whispered, at last. “Gray!” He waited, with the horror deepening, for there his companion lay upon his back motionless, and though he strained his neck towards him he could detect no movement of his breath, while his own staring eyes began to grow dim, and the outstretched figure before him looked misty and strange.“He’s dead! He’s dead!” groaned the poor fellow. “And me lying sleeping there, never taking any notice of him when he called for help—for he must have called—and me pretending to be his comrade all the time! ’Tain’t how he treated me. Oh, Pen! Pen Gray, old chap! Speak to me, if it’s only just one word! Oh, if I had not laid down! I ought to have stood up and watched him; but I did think it was to keep him warm. No, you didn’t!” he cried angrily, addressing himself. “You did it to warm yourself.”At last, recovering his nerve somewhat, the boy began to crawl on hands and knees towards the motionless figure, till he was near enough to lay his hand upon his companion’s breast. Then twice over he stretched it out slowly and cautiously, but only to snatch it back, till a feeling of rage at his cowardice ran through him, and he softly lowered it down, let it rest there for a few moments, and then with a thrill of joy he exclaimed, “Why, it’s all fancy! He is alive.”“Yes, what? Who spoke?”“I did,” cried Punch, springing to his feet. “Hooray, comrade! It’s all right. I woke up, and began to think— Pst! pst!” he whispered, as he dropped down upon hands and knees again. For there was a rush of feet, and a patch of undergrowth a short distance beyond the spread of the great chestnut boughs was violently agitated.“Why, it’s only goats,” muttered Punch angrily. “I scared them by jumping up. Wish I had got one of their young uns here.”“What is it? Who’s that? You, Punch?”“Yes, comrade; it’s all right. But how are you? All right?”“Yes—no. I have been asleep and dreaming. What does it all mean, Punch? What’s the matter with my leg?”“Can’t you recollect, comrade?”Pen was silent for a few moments, and then: “Yes,” he said softly, “I understand now. I was hurt. Why, it’s morning! I haven’t been to sleep all the night, have I?”“Yes, comrade, and,”—Punch hesitated for a moment, and then with an effort—“so have I.”“I am glad of it,” sighed Pen.Then he winced, for he had made an effort to rise, but sank back again, feeling faint.“Help me, Punch,” he said.“Whatcher want?”“To sit up with my back against the tree.”Punch hesitated, and then obeyed.“Ah, that’s better,” sighed Pen. “I am not much hurt.”“Oh yes, you are,” said Punch, shaking his head.“Nonsense! I recollect all about it now. Can you get me some water?”“I’ll try,” was the reply; “but can you really sit up like that?”“Yes, of course. We shall be able to go on again soon.”“Wha-at!” cried Punch. “Oh yes, I dare say! You can’t go on. But I know what I am going to do. If the French are gone I am going to hunt round till I find one of them cottages. There must be one somewhere about, because I just started some goats. And look there! Why, of course there must be some people living near here.” And the boy pointed to a dozen or so of pigs busily rooting about amongst the dead leaves of the forest, evidently searching for chestnuts and last year’s acorns shed by the evergreen oaks.“Now, look here,” continued the boy. “Soon as I am sure that you can sit up and wait, I am just off to look out for some place where I can carry you.”“I can sit up,” replied Pen. “I have got a nasty wound that will take some time to heal; but it’s nothing to mind, Punch, for it’s the sort of thing that will get well without a doctor. But you must find shelter or beg shelter for us till I can tramp again.”“But I can carry yer, comrade.”“A little way perhaps. There, don’t stop to talk. Go and do the best you can.”“But is it safe to leave you?” protested Punch.“Yes; there is nothing to mind, unless some of the French fellows find me.”“That does it, then,” said Punch sturdily. “I sha’n’t go.”“You must, I tell you.”“I don’t care; I ain’t going to leave you.”“Do you want me to starve, or perish with cold in the night.”“Course I don’t!”“Then do as I tell you.”“But suppose the French come?”“Well, if they do we must chance it; but if you are careful in going and coming I don’t think they will find me; and I don’t suppose you will be long.”“That I won’t,” cried the boy confidently. “Here goes, then—I am to do it?”“Yes.”“Then here’s off.”“No, don’t do that,” cried Pen.“Why not? Hadn’t I better take the muskets?”“No. You are more likely to get help for me if you go without arms; and, besides, Punch,” added Pen, with a faint smile, “I might want the muskets to defend myself against the wolves.”“All right,” replied the boy, replacing the two clumsy French pieces by his comrade’s side. “Keep up your spirits, old chap; I won’t be long.”The next minute the boy had plunged into the thicket-like outskirts of the forest, where he stopped short to look back and mentally mark the great chestnut-tree.“I shall know that,” he said, “from ever so far off. It is easy to ’member by the trunk, which goes up twisted like a screw. Now then, which way had I better go?”Punch had a look round as far as the density of the foliage would allow him, and then gave his head a scratch.“Oh dear!” he muttered, “who’s to know which way to go? It’s regular blind-man’s buff. How many horses has your father got? Shut your eyes, comrade. Now then. Three! What colour? Black, white, and grey. Turn round three times and catch who you may.”The boy, with his eyes tightly closed and his arms spread out on either side, turned round the three times of the game, and then opened his eyes and strode right away.“There can’t be no better way than chancing it,” he said. “But hold hard! Where’s my tree?”He was standing close to a beautifully shaped ilex, and for a few moments he could not make out the great spiral-barked chestnut, till, just as he began to fancy that he had lost his way at once, he caught sight of its glossy bronzed leaves behind the greyish green ilex.“That’s all right,” he said. “Now then, here’s luck.”It was a bitter fight with grim giant despair as the boy tramped on, and time after time, faint with hunger, suffering from misery, he was about to throw himself down upon the earth, utterly broken in spirit, but he fought on bravely.“I never saw such a country!” he muttered. “There ought to be plenty of towns and villages and people, but it’s all desert and stones and scrubby trees. Any one would think that you couldn’t walk anywhere without finding something to eat, and there’s nothing but the goats and pigs, and as soon as they catch sight of you away they go.”Over and over again he climbed hillsides to reach spots where he could look down, in the full expectation of seeing some village or cluster of huts. But it was all the same, there was nothing to be seen; till, growing alarmed lest he should find that he had lost touch with his landmarks, he began to retrace his steps in utter despair, but only to drop down on his knees at last and bury his face in his hands, to give way to the emotion that for a few moments he could not master.“There,” he muttered, recovering himself, “I could not help it, but there was no one to see. Just like a silly great gal. It is being hungry, I suppose, and weak with my wound; and, my word, it does sting! But there’s some one at last!”The boy looked sharply round.“Why, you idgit!” he gasped, “you’ve lost him again. No, it’s all right,” he cried, and he started off at a trot in the direction of a short, plump-looking figure in rusty black, who, bent of head and book in hand, was slowly descending a slope away to his right.

“If one wasn’t in such trouble,” said Punch to himself, as he lay in the growing darkness beneath the great chestnut-tree, “one would have time to think what a beautiful country this is. But of all the unlucky beggars that ever lived, Private Pen Gray and Bugler Bob Punchard is about the two worst. Only think of it: we had just got out of all that trouble with my wound and Gray’s fever, then he gets hit and I got to nurse him all over again. Well, that’s all clear enough.—How are you now, comrade?” he said aloud, as after cautiously gazing round in search of danger, he raised his head and bent over his wounded companion.

There was no reply, and Punch went on softly, “It’s my turn now to say what you said to me. Sleepy, are you? Well, go on, and have plenty of it. It’s the best thing for you. What did you say? Nature sets to work to mend you again? No, he didn’t. I forget now, but that’s what he meant. Now, I wonder whether it’s safe for me to go away and leave him. No, of course it isn’t, for I may tumble up against the French, who will make me a prisoner, and I sha’n’t be able to make them understand that my comrade is lying wounded under this tree, and if I could I don’t want to. That’s one thing. Another is that if I start off and leave him here I sha’n’t be able to find him again. Then, what am I going for? To try and find water, for my throat’s like sand, and something to eat better than these chestnuts, for I don’t believe they are anything like ripe. Oh dear! This is a rum start altogether. I don’t know what to do. This is coming to the wars, and no mistake! There never was really such unlucky chaps as we are. It will be dark before long. Then I shall seem to be quite alone. To be all alone here in a great wood like this is enough to make any fellow feel scared. It’s just the sort of place where the wolves will be. Well, if they do come, we have got two muskets, and if it isn’t too dark I will have two wolves, and that will keep the others off as long as they have got the ones I shot to eat.—Did you speak, comrade?” he whispered, as he once more bent over Pen. “No, he’s fast asleep. Wish I was, so as to forget all about it, for the sun’s quite down now, and I don’t know how I am to get through such a night as this. However, here goes to try. Ugh! How cold it is turning!”

The boy shivered as the wind that came down from the mountains seemed bitterly cold to one who had been drenched in perspiration by the exertion and excitement that he had passed through.

“Poor old Private Gray!” he muttered. “He will be feeling it worse than me if he don’t turn feverish.”

The boy hesitated for a few moments, and then, stripping off his jacket, he crept as close to his wounded companion as he could, and then carefully spread the ragged uniform coat over their breasts.

“Ought to have got his off too,” he muttered, “but I mustn’t. Must make the best of it and try and go to sleep, keeping him warm. But no fellow could go to sleep at a time like this.”

It was a rash assertion, for many minutes had not passed before the boy was sleeping soundly the sleep of utter weariness and exhaustion; and the next time he unclosed his eyes as he lay there upon his back, not having moved since he lay down, it was to gaze wonderingly at the beautiful play of morning light upon the long, glossy, dark-green leaves over his head; for the sun had just risen and was bronzing the leaves with ruddy gold.

The birds were singing somewhere at the edge of the forest, and all seemed so wonderful and strange that the boy muttered to himself as he asked the question, “Where am I?”

So deep had been his sleep that it seemed to be one great puzzle.

He knew it was cold, and he wondered at that, for now and then he felt a faint glow of warm sunshine. Then, like a flash, recollection came back, and he turned his head to gaze at his companion, but only to wrench himself away and roll over and over a yard or two, before sitting up quickly, trembling violently. For he was chilled with horror by the thought that his companion had passed away during the night.

It was some minutes before he dared speak. “Pen!” he whispered, at last. “Gray!” He waited, with the horror deepening, for there his companion lay upon his back motionless, and though he strained his neck towards him he could detect no movement of his breath, while his own staring eyes began to grow dim, and the outstretched figure before him looked misty and strange.

“He’s dead! He’s dead!” groaned the poor fellow. “And me lying sleeping there, never taking any notice of him when he called for help—for he must have called—and me pretending to be his comrade all the time! ’Tain’t how he treated me. Oh, Pen! Pen Gray, old chap! Speak to me, if it’s only just one word! Oh, if I had not laid down! I ought to have stood up and watched him; but I did think it was to keep him warm. No, you didn’t!” he cried angrily, addressing himself. “You did it to warm yourself.”

At last, recovering his nerve somewhat, the boy began to crawl on hands and knees towards the motionless figure, till he was near enough to lay his hand upon his companion’s breast. Then twice over he stretched it out slowly and cautiously, but only to snatch it back, till a feeling of rage at his cowardice ran through him, and he softly lowered it down, let it rest there for a few moments, and then with a thrill of joy he exclaimed, “Why, it’s all fancy! He is alive.”

“Yes, what? Who spoke?”

“I did,” cried Punch, springing to his feet. “Hooray, comrade! It’s all right. I woke up, and began to think— Pst! pst!” he whispered, as he dropped down upon hands and knees again. For there was a rush of feet, and a patch of undergrowth a short distance beyond the spread of the great chestnut boughs was violently agitated.

“Why, it’s only goats,” muttered Punch angrily. “I scared them by jumping up. Wish I had got one of their young uns here.”

“What is it? Who’s that? You, Punch?”

“Yes, comrade; it’s all right. But how are you? All right?”

“Yes—no. I have been asleep and dreaming. What does it all mean, Punch? What’s the matter with my leg?”

“Can’t you recollect, comrade?”

Pen was silent for a few moments, and then: “Yes,” he said softly, “I understand now. I was hurt. Why, it’s morning! I haven’t been to sleep all the night, have I?”

“Yes, comrade, and,”—Punch hesitated for a moment, and then with an effort—“so have I.”

“I am glad of it,” sighed Pen.

Then he winced, for he had made an effort to rise, but sank back again, feeling faint.

“Help me, Punch,” he said.

“Whatcher want?”

“To sit up with my back against the tree.”

Punch hesitated, and then obeyed.

“Ah, that’s better,” sighed Pen. “I am not much hurt.”

“Oh yes, you are,” said Punch, shaking his head.

“Nonsense! I recollect all about it now. Can you get me some water?”

“I’ll try,” was the reply; “but can you really sit up like that?”

“Yes, of course. We shall be able to go on again soon.”

“Wha-at!” cried Punch. “Oh yes, I dare say! You can’t go on. But I know what I am going to do. If the French are gone I am going to hunt round till I find one of them cottages. There must be one somewhere about, because I just started some goats. And look there! Why, of course there must be some people living near here.” And the boy pointed to a dozen or so of pigs busily rooting about amongst the dead leaves of the forest, evidently searching for chestnuts and last year’s acorns shed by the evergreen oaks.

“Now, look here,” continued the boy. “Soon as I am sure that you can sit up and wait, I am just off to look out for some place where I can carry you.”

“I can sit up,” replied Pen. “I have got a nasty wound that will take some time to heal; but it’s nothing to mind, Punch, for it’s the sort of thing that will get well without a doctor. But you must find shelter or beg shelter for us till I can tramp again.”

“But I can carry yer, comrade.”

“A little way perhaps. There, don’t stop to talk. Go and do the best you can.”

“But is it safe to leave you?” protested Punch.

“Yes; there is nothing to mind, unless some of the French fellows find me.”

“That does it, then,” said Punch sturdily. “I sha’n’t go.”

“You must, I tell you.”

“I don’t care; I ain’t going to leave you.”

“Do you want me to starve, or perish with cold in the night.”

“Course I don’t!”

“Then do as I tell you.”

“But suppose the French come?”

“Well, if they do we must chance it; but if you are careful in going and coming I don’t think they will find me; and I don’t suppose you will be long.”

“That I won’t,” cried the boy confidently. “Here goes, then—I am to do it?”

“Yes.”

“Then here’s off.”

“No, don’t do that,” cried Pen.

“Why not? Hadn’t I better take the muskets?”

“No. You are more likely to get help for me if you go without arms; and, besides, Punch,” added Pen, with a faint smile, “I might want the muskets to defend myself against the wolves.”

“All right,” replied the boy, replacing the two clumsy French pieces by his comrade’s side. “Keep up your spirits, old chap; I won’t be long.”

The next minute the boy had plunged into the thicket-like outskirts of the forest, where he stopped short to look back and mentally mark the great chestnut-tree.

“I shall know that,” he said, “from ever so far off. It is easy to ’member by the trunk, which goes up twisted like a screw. Now then, which way had I better go?”

Punch had a look round as far as the density of the foliage would allow him, and then gave his head a scratch.

“Oh dear!” he muttered, “who’s to know which way to go? It’s regular blind-man’s buff. How many horses has your father got? Shut your eyes, comrade. Now then. Three! What colour? Black, white, and grey. Turn round three times and catch who you may.”

The boy, with his eyes tightly closed and his arms spread out on either side, turned round the three times of the game, and then opened his eyes and strode right away.

“There can’t be no better way than chancing it,” he said. “But hold hard! Where’s my tree?”

He was standing close to a beautifully shaped ilex, and for a few moments he could not make out the great spiral-barked chestnut, till, just as he began to fancy that he had lost his way at once, he caught sight of its glossy bronzed leaves behind the greyish green ilex.

“That’s all right,” he said. “Now then, here’s luck.”

It was a bitter fight with grim giant despair as the boy tramped on, and time after time, faint with hunger, suffering from misery, he was about to throw himself down upon the earth, utterly broken in spirit, but he fought on bravely.

“I never saw such a country!” he muttered. “There ought to be plenty of towns and villages and people, but it’s all desert and stones and scrubby trees. Any one would think that you couldn’t walk anywhere without finding something to eat, and there’s nothing but the goats and pigs, and as soon as they catch sight of you away they go.”

Over and over again he climbed hillsides to reach spots where he could look down, in the full expectation of seeing some village or cluster of huts. But it was all the same, there was nothing to be seen; till, growing alarmed lest he should find that he had lost touch with his landmarks, he began to retrace his steps in utter despair, but only to drop down on his knees at last and bury his face in his hands, to give way to the emotion that for a few moments he could not master.

“There,” he muttered, recovering himself, “I could not help it, but there was no one to see. Just like a silly great gal. It is being hungry, I suppose, and weak with my wound; and, my word, it does sting! But there’s some one at last!”

The boy looked sharply round.

“Why, you idgit!” he gasped, “you’ve lost him again. No, it’s all right,” he cried, and he started off at a trot in the direction of a short, plump-looking figure in rusty black, who, bent of head and book in hand, was slowly descending a slope away to his right.

Chapter Twenty Three.The Use of Latin.“There! Ahoy!” shouted Punch, and the black figure slowly raised his head and began to look round till he was gazing in quite the opposite direction to where the boy was hurrying towards him, and Punch had a full view of the stranger’s back and a ruddy-brown roll of fat flesh which seemed to be supporting a curious old hat, looking like a rusty old stove-pipe, perched horizontally upon the wearer’s head.“Hi! Not that way! Look this!” cried Punch as he closed up. “Here, I say, where’s the nearest village?”The stove-pipe turned slowly round, and Punch found himself face to face with a plump-looking little man who slowly closed the book he carried and tucked it inside his shabby gown.“Morning!” said Punch.The little man bowed slowly and with some show of dignity, and then gazed sternly in the boy’s face and waited.“I said good-morning, sir,” said the boy; and then to himself, “what a rum-looking little chap!—Can you tell me—”Punch got no further, for the little stranger shook his head, frowned more sternly, and shrugged his shoulders as he made as if to take out his book again.“I ain’t a beggar, sir,” cried the boy. “I only want you to— Oh, he can’t understand me!” he groaned. “Look here, can you understand this?” And he commenced in dumb motions to give the stranger a difficult problem to solve.But it proved to be not too difficult, for the little man smiled, nodded his head, and imitated Punch’s suggestive pantomime of eating and drinking. Then, laying one hand upon the boy’s shoulder, he pointed with the other down the slope and tried to guide him in that direction.“All right,” said Punch, nodding, “I understand. That’s where you live; but not yet. Come this way.” And, catching the little stranger by the arm, Punch pointed towards the forest and tried to draw his companion in that direction.The plump little man shook his head and suggested that they should go in the other direction.“Oh, a mercy me!” cried Punch excitedly. “Why, don’t you understand? Look here, sir, I can see what you are. You are a priest. I have seen folks like you more than once. Now, just look here.”The little man shrugged his shoulders again, shook his head, and then looked compassionately at the boy.“That’s better,” said Punch. “Now, sir, do try and understand, there’s a good fellow. Just look here!”The boy tapped him on the shoulder now, and pointed towards the wood.“Now, look here, sir; it’s like this.”Punch made-believe to present a musket, after giving a sharpclick, clickwith his tongue in imitation of the cocking of the piece, criedBang! and then gave a jump, clapped his hand to his right leg, staggered, threw himself down, and then struggled up into a sitting position, to sit up nursing his leg, which he made-believe to bind up with a bandage. Then, holding out his hand to the little priest, he caught hold of him, dragged himself up, but let himself fall back, rolled over, and lay looking at him helplessly.“Understand that?” he cried, as he sprang to his feet again. “You must be jolly stupid if you can’t. Now then, look here, sir,” he continued, pointing and gesticulating with great energy, “my poor comrade is lying over yonder under a tree, wounded and starving. Come and help me to fetch him, there’s a good old chap.”The priest looked at him fixedly, and then, taking his cue from the boy, he pointed in the direction Punch had indicated, nodded, clapped the boy on the shoulder, and began to walk by his side.“There, I thought I could make you understand,” cried Punch eagerly. “But you might say something. Ain’t deaf and dumb, are you?”The little priest shook his head, muttered to himself, and then, bending down, he tapped his own leg, and looking questioningly in his would-be guide’s face, he began to limp.“Yes, yes, yes!” cried Punch excitedly. And, imitating his companion, he bent down, tapped his own leg, then limped as if walking with the greatest of difficulty and made-believe to sink down helplessly.“Good! I understand,” said the little priest in Spanish. “Wounded. Lead on.”Punch held out his hand, which the little stranger took, and suffered himself to be led in the direction of the great chestnut, shaking his head and looking questioningly more than once at the boy, as Punch hesitated and seemed to be in doubt, and ran here and there trying to make out his bearings, successfully as it happened, for he caught sight at last of the object of his search, hurried back to the little priest’s side, to stand panting and faint, passing his hand over his dripping face, utterly exhausted.“Can’t help it, sir,” he said piteously. “I have been wounded. Just let me get my breath, and then we will go on again. I am sure now. Oh, I do wish I could make you understand better!” added the boy piteously. “There’s my poor comrade yonder, perhaps dying by this time, and me turning like this!”For just then he reeled and would have fallen if the little priest had not caught him by the arms and lowered him slowly down.“Thank you, sir,” said Punch, with a sob half-choking his utterance. “It’s all on account of my wound, sir. There, I’m better now. Come on.”He tried to struggle up, but the little priest shook his head and pressed him back.“Thank you, sir. It’s very good of you; but I want to get on. He’s getting tired of waiting, you know.” And Punch pointed excitedly in the direction of the tree.The journey was continued soon after, with Punch’s arm locked in that of his new-found friend; and in due time Punch staggered through the trees to where Pen lay, now meeting his gaze with a wild look of misery and despair.“It’s all right, comrade,” cried Punch. “I have found somebody at last. He must live somewhere near here, but I can’t make him understand anything, only that you were lying wounded. Did you think I had forgotten you?”“No,” said Pen faintly, “I never thought that.”“Look here,” said Punch, “say something to him in French. Tell him I want to get you to a cottage, and say we are starving.”Pen obeyed, and faintly muttered a few words in French; but the priest shook his head.“Francés?” he said.“No, no,” replied Pen. “Inglés.”“Ah,Inglés!” said the priest, smiling; and he went down on one knee to softly touch the rough bandage that was about the wounded leg.Then, to the surprise of both boys, he carefully raised Pen into a sitting position, signed to Punch to hold him up, and then taking off his curiously fashioned hat and hanging it upon a broken branch of the tree, the boys saw that Nature had furnished him with the tonsure of the priest without the barber’s aid, and they had the opportunity now of seeing that it was a pleasantly wrinkled rosy face, with a pair of good-humoured-looking eyes that gazed up in theirs.“What’s he going to do?” said Punch in a whisper.He comprehended the next minute, and eagerly lent his aid, for the little priest, twisting up his gown and securing it round his waist, began to prove himself a worthy descendant of the Good Samaritan, though wanting in the ability to set the wounded traveller upon his own ass.Going down, though, upon one knee, he took hold of first one hand and then the other, and, with Punch’s assistance to his own natural strength, he got Pen upon his back, hitching him up a little, and then a little more, till he had drawn the wounded lad’s arms across his chest.This done, he knelt there on one knee, panting, before drawing a deep breath prior to rising with his burden. Then he tried to stand up, but without success.He waited, then tried again; but once more without success, for the weight was greater than he had anticipated.“Can’t you manage it, sir?” said Punch. “Here, let me try.”The little priest shook his head, but released one of Pen’s hands and caught hold of Punch by the shoulder.“Yes, I know, sir,” cried Punch, and after waiting till their new friend was ready, the boy brought his strength to bear as well, and the little priest stood up, gave his load a hitch or two to balance it well upon his shoulders, and then looked sharply at Punch and then at his hat.“Carry your hat, sir?” cried Punch excitedly, “of course I will. It will be all right.”The priest shook his head.“What? Oh, you mean stick it on, sir? All right, sir; I understand. What, is that wrong? Oh, t’other side first! There you are, then, sir. Will that do?”The priest shook his head, bent a little forward so as to well balance his load, and then, setting one hand at liberty, he put his hat on correctly, grasped both Pen’s hands once more, and then began to march out of the forest.“I’m blessed!” muttered Punch. “Didn’t know they carried pickaback in Spain. The little chap’s as strong as a horse—pony, I mean.—Does it hurt you much, comrade?”“Not much, Punch. Don’t talk to me, though; only, thank goodness that we have found a friend!” The little priest trudged sturdily on with his load, taking a direction along the edge of the forest, which Punch noted was different from any that he had traversed during his search, while at the same time it became plain to him that their new friend was finding his load rather hard work to carry, for first a little dew began to appear; this dew gradually grew into tiny beads, the tiny beads ran into drops, and the drops gathered together till they began to trickle and run.At this point the little priest stopped short by the side of a rugged, gnarled tree, and, bending a little lower, rested his hands upon a horizontal branch.“Look here, sir,” said Punch, “let me have a try now. I ain’t up to it much, but it would give you a rest.”The priest shook his head, drew a deep breath, and trudged on again, proving his strength to be greater than could have been imagined to exist in such a little, plump, almost dwarf-like form, for with an occasional rest he tramped on for the best part of an hour, till at last he paused just at the edge of a deep slope, and struck off a little way to his left to where a beaten track led to a good-sized cottage.“Why couldn’t I find all this?” thought Punch, as he gazed down into a valley dotted with huts, evidently a village fairly well inhabited. “Why, it was as easy as easy, only I didn’t know the way.”“Ah!” ejaculated the priest, as he thrust open the door, stepped into a very humbly furnished room, crossed at once to a rough pallet, and gently lowered his burden upon the simple bed. “The saints be praised!” he said in Latin; and the words and the new position had such a reviving effect upon the wounded rifleman that he caught at one of the priest’s hands and held to it firmly.“God bless you for this!” he said, for unconsciously the priest’s words had been the opening of the door of communication between him and those he had brought to his home; for though the words possessed a pronunciation that was unfamiliar, the old Latin tongue recalled to Pen years of study in the past, and he snatched at the opportunity of saying a few words that the old man could understand.A pleasant smile beamed on the utterly wearied out old fellow’s countenance as he bent over Pen and patted him gently on the shoulder.“Good, good!” he said in Latin; and he set himself about the task of supplying them with food.This was simple enough, consisting as it did of bread and herbs—just such a repast as might have been expected from some ascetic holy man dwelling in the mountains; but the herbs in this case were silvery-brown skinned Spanish onions with salt.Then taking up a small earthen jar, he passed out of the dark room into the sunshine; and as soon as the boys were alone Punch turned eagerly to his companion.“Not worse, are you, comrade?” he said anxiously.“No, Punch, not worse. But has he gone to fetch water?”“Yes, I think so. But just you tell me: does your leg hurt you much?”“Quite enough,” replied Pen, breaking off a portion of the bread and placing a few fragments between his lips. “But don’t talk to me now. I am starving.”“Yes, I know that,” cried Punch; “and call this ’ere bread! It’s all solid crust, when it ought to be crumb for a chap like you. Look here, you could eat one of these onions, couldn’t you?”“No, no; not now. Go on; never mind me.”“But I do mind you,” cried the boy. “And how can I go on eating without you? I say, though, what a chap you are! What was that you said to him?”“Bless you for this!”“Yes, I guessed that was it; but how did you say it so as to make him understand? I talked to him enough, but he couldn’t make out a word of what I said. Was that there Spanish?”“No, Punch; Latin.”“Ah, you seem to know everything.”At that moment a shadow fell athwart the door, and the speaker made a dash at one of the muskets he had stood up against the wall on entering the priest’s cottage.“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir!” he cried hastily. “I didn’t know it was you.”The old man smiled, and entered with the dripping jar which he had just filled from a neighbouring spring, and held it towards the boy.“Me drink, sir? Thank ye, sir,” cried Punch; and, taking the jar, he was raising it towards his parched mouth, but before it was half-way there he recollected himself, and carried it to the priest’s pallet, where he went down on his knees and held it to Pen’s lips, so that the poor fellow, who was burning with feverish pain, was able to drink long and deeply.Pen was still drinking when Punch started and spilt a few drops of the water as he turned hastily to look up at their host, who had laid a soft brown hand upon his head, and was looking down at him with a pleasant smile.“What did he do that for, comrade?”“I don’t know,” said Pen, drawing a deep breath, as he withdrew his lips from the water. “Yes, I do,” he added quickly. “He meant that he was pleased because you let me drink first.”“Course I did. I don’t see anything to be pleased about in that. But have a drop more, comrade. Quick, look sharp, before I go mad and snatches it away from you, for I never felt like this before.”“Go on then now, Punch.”“But—”“Go on then now; I can wait.”“Ah, then!” ejaculated the boy, with a deep sigh that was almost a groan; and with trembling hands he held the jar to his lips and drank, and recovered his breath and drank again as if it was impossible to satisfy his burning thirst.Then recovering himself, he held the jar against Pen’s lips.“Talk about wine,” he said; “why, it ain’t in it! I don’t wonder that he looks so fat and happy, though he is dressed up like an old scarecrow. Fancy living here with a pump of water like this close at hand!—Had enough now?—That’s right. Now you go on breaking off bits of that bread and dipping it in the water while I cuts up one of these.”He took his knife from his pocket and began to peel one of the onions, when their host placed the little vessel of salt close to his hand.“Thank you, sir,” cried Punch. “You are a real gentleman.”The priest smiled and nodded, and watched the two lads as Pen took an earthenware bowl that their host placed close to his hand after half-filling it with water so that he could steep the bread, while Punch deftly peeled one of the onions, not scrupling about littering the floor, and then proceeded to quarter it and then divide the segments again, dipping one in the salt and placing it between his wounded companion’s lips.“Good! good!” said the priest again, smiling with satisfaction, and laying his hand once more upon Punch’s head. “Bonum! bonum!”“Bone ’em!” said Punch. “Why, he give it to me!”“He means it was good, Punch,” said Pen, smiling.“Good! Yes,” cried the boy, crunching up one of the savoury pieces of vegetable. “That’s what he means, is it? Thought he meant I had stolen it.—Bonum, eh, sir? I should just think it is! Wants a bit more salt; but my word, it’s fine! Have a bit more, comrade. You eat while there’s a chance. Never mind me. I can keep both of us going. Talk about a dinner or a supper; I could keep on till dark! Only wish, though, I’d got one of their Spanish shillings to pay for it; but those French beggars took care of them for me. I can give him my knife, though; and I will too, as soon as I have done with it. How do you feel now, comrade?”“Better, Punch, better,” replied Pen. “Thank you,” he continued, as his companion broke off more bread for him and then began to peel another onion. “But you are paying more attention to me than you are to yourself.”“Course I am, comrade. Didn’t you pay more attention to me when I was wounded?”Then turning to the priest, he pointed to the bread with his knife, and then tapped the onion he had begun to quarter with the blade.“Splendid, sir,” he said, smiling. “Bonum! bonum!”The priest nodded, and then rose from where he had been seated watching the boys and walked through the open door, to stand just outside sweeping the scattered houses of the little village with his eyes, and remaining there, so as to leave his two guests to themselves.“You are beginning to get a bit better, comrade?” asked Punch anxiously.“Yes, Punch, yes,” was the reply.“So am I. Feel as if I am growing as strong as a horse again. Why, comrade, it was worth getting as hungry, thirsty, and tired as that, so as to enjoy such a meal. I don’t mean speaking for you, because I know you must be feeling that gnaw, gnaw, grinding pain in your wound. But do go on eating, and when you have had enough you shut-up shop and go off to sleep. Then I will ask that old chap to give me a bit of rag and let me wash and tie up your wound. I say, comrade, I hope he didn’t see me laugh at him. Did you?”“See you laugh at him? No. Did you?”“Yes; couldn’t help it, when he was carrying you, bent down like he was, with that queer shako of his. When I was behind he looked something like a bear, and I couldn’t help having a good grin. Mum, though; here he comes.”The old priest now came slowly in and stood watching the two lads, who hurriedly finished their meal.“Stand up, Punch,” said Pen.“What for? I was just going to clear away.”“Stand up, I tell you!”“All right;” and the boy rose immediately, staring hard at his companion, as Pen, with a quiver of emotion in his utterance, laid his hand over the remains of the black-bread, and said, gazing hard at the old priest the while, “Benedictus, benedicat. Amen.”“Ah!” said the priest, with a long-drawn breath of satisfaction; “Benedictus, benedicatAmen.”Then, taking a step towards them, he laid his hand upon the heads of his two guests in turn and said a few words in an undertone. Next, pointing to the rough pallet-bed, he signed to Punch that he should lie down beside his companion.“What, take a snooze there, sir?” said Punch. “Thank you, sir. But not yet.—You tell him in your Latin stuff, comrade, that I want to do a bit of doctoring first.”“I’ll try,” said Pen wearily, already half-asleep; when, to the surprise of both, the old man went outside and returned with a little wooden tub of water which he brought to the bedside, and then, in spite of a half-hearted protestation on the part of Punch, he proceeded to carefully attend to the wound.“Well, it’s very good of you, sir,” said the boy at last, after doing his best to help, “and I wish I could make you understand what I say. But you have done it a deal better than I could have done, and I am sure if my comrade could have kept himself awake he would be ready enough to say something in Latin that would mean you are a trump, and he’s very much obliged. But, you see, all I know, sir, about Latin—”“Latin!” said the old priest, beaming upon him with wondering eyes.“Yes, sir—Latin, sir, as I learnt of him;” and then, pointing to the carefully bandaged limb, “bonum, sir;bonum!”The priest nodded, as he pointed to the pallet, where there was room for Punch to lie down by his sleeping companion; but the boy shook his head.“No, sir,” he said, “that’s your roost; I do know that,” And, before his host could interfere, the boy placed one musket within reach of Pen’s hand, the other beside the door, across which he stretched himself.It was now nearly dark, and after placing his little home in something like order, the old man turned to where Punch had been resting upon one arm a few minutes before, watching his movements, but was now prone upon the beaten-earth floor fast asleep, with a look of restfulness upon his young, sunburnt countenance.The old man stepped carefully across him, to stand outside peering through the evening gloom down into the silent village before, satisfied and content, he turned back into the hut, closing the door carefully after him, placing across it a heavy oaken bar, before stepping back across Punch, to stand in the middle of the floor deep in thought.Then his hand began to move, from force of habit, searching for and bringing out from beneath his gown a little, worn snuff-box, which squeaked faintly as he turned the lid and refreshed himself with two pinches of its brown contents.This was done very slowly and deliberately in the semi-darkness, and finally the box was replaced and a few grains of the dust flicked away.“Ah!” ejaculated the old man with a long-drawn sigh, as he looked from one to the other of his guests. “English,” he muttered. “Soldiers, but friends and defenders against the French. English—heretics! But,” he added softly, as if recalling something that had passed, “Benedictus, benedicat. Amen!”Then, crossing softly to one corner of the room, he drew open what seemed to be the door of a cupboard; but it was too dark to show that in place of staircase there was a broad step-ladder.This the old man ascended, and directly after the ill-fitting boards which formed the ceiling of his humble living-room creaked as he stepped upon them, and then there was a faint rustling as if he were removing leaves and stems of the Indian corn that was laid in company with other stores in what was undoubtedly a little loft, whose air was heavy with various odours suggesting the presence of vegetables and fruit.The oaken boards creaked once more as if the old man was stretching himself upon them with a sigh of weariness and satisfaction.“Amen!” he said softly, and directly after a ray of light shot across the place, coming through the wooden bars in the gable of the sloping roof, for the moon had just risen over the shoulder of the mountain to light up the valley beneath, where the priest’s hut clung to its rocky wall; to light up, too, the little loft and its contents, and, above all, the features of the sleeping man, gentle-looking in their repose. And could the lads he had befriended have gazed upon him then they would have seen nothing that appeared grotesque.

“There! Ahoy!” shouted Punch, and the black figure slowly raised his head and began to look round till he was gazing in quite the opposite direction to where the boy was hurrying towards him, and Punch had a full view of the stranger’s back and a ruddy-brown roll of fat flesh which seemed to be supporting a curious old hat, looking like a rusty old stove-pipe, perched horizontally upon the wearer’s head.

“Hi! Not that way! Look this!” cried Punch as he closed up. “Here, I say, where’s the nearest village?”

The stove-pipe turned slowly round, and Punch found himself face to face with a plump-looking little man who slowly closed the book he carried and tucked it inside his shabby gown.

“Morning!” said Punch.

The little man bowed slowly and with some show of dignity, and then gazed sternly in the boy’s face and waited.

“I said good-morning, sir,” said the boy; and then to himself, “what a rum-looking little chap!—Can you tell me—”

Punch got no further, for the little stranger shook his head, frowned more sternly, and shrugged his shoulders as he made as if to take out his book again.

“I ain’t a beggar, sir,” cried the boy. “I only want you to— Oh, he can’t understand me!” he groaned. “Look here, can you understand this?” And he commenced in dumb motions to give the stranger a difficult problem to solve.

But it proved to be not too difficult, for the little man smiled, nodded his head, and imitated Punch’s suggestive pantomime of eating and drinking. Then, laying one hand upon the boy’s shoulder, he pointed with the other down the slope and tried to guide him in that direction.

“All right,” said Punch, nodding, “I understand. That’s where you live; but not yet. Come this way.” And, catching the little stranger by the arm, Punch pointed towards the forest and tried to draw his companion in that direction.

The plump little man shook his head and suggested that they should go in the other direction.

“Oh, a mercy me!” cried Punch excitedly. “Why, don’t you understand? Look here, sir, I can see what you are. You are a priest. I have seen folks like you more than once. Now, just look here.”

The little man shrugged his shoulders again, shook his head, and then looked compassionately at the boy.

“That’s better,” said Punch. “Now, sir, do try and understand, there’s a good fellow. Just look here!”

The boy tapped him on the shoulder now, and pointed towards the wood.

“Now, look here, sir; it’s like this.”

Punch made-believe to present a musket, after giving a sharpclick, clickwith his tongue in imitation of the cocking of the piece, criedBang! and then gave a jump, clapped his hand to his right leg, staggered, threw himself down, and then struggled up into a sitting position, to sit up nursing his leg, which he made-believe to bind up with a bandage. Then, holding out his hand to the little priest, he caught hold of him, dragged himself up, but let himself fall back, rolled over, and lay looking at him helplessly.

“Understand that?” he cried, as he sprang to his feet again. “You must be jolly stupid if you can’t. Now then, look here, sir,” he continued, pointing and gesticulating with great energy, “my poor comrade is lying over yonder under a tree, wounded and starving. Come and help me to fetch him, there’s a good old chap.”

The priest looked at him fixedly, and then, taking his cue from the boy, he pointed in the direction Punch had indicated, nodded, clapped the boy on the shoulder, and began to walk by his side.

“There, I thought I could make you understand,” cried Punch eagerly. “But you might say something. Ain’t deaf and dumb, are you?”

The little priest shook his head, muttered to himself, and then, bending down, he tapped his own leg, and looking questioningly in his would-be guide’s face, he began to limp.

“Yes, yes, yes!” cried Punch excitedly. And, imitating his companion, he bent down, tapped his own leg, then limped as if walking with the greatest of difficulty and made-believe to sink down helplessly.

“Good! I understand,” said the little priest in Spanish. “Wounded. Lead on.”

Punch held out his hand, which the little stranger took, and suffered himself to be led in the direction of the great chestnut, shaking his head and looking questioningly more than once at the boy, as Punch hesitated and seemed to be in doubt, and ran here and there trying to make out his bearings, successfully as it happened, for he caught sight at last of the object of his search, hurried back to the little priest’s side, to stand panting and faint, passing his hand over his dripping face, utterly exhausted.

“Can’t help it, sir,” he said piteously. “I have been wounded. Just let me get my breath, and then we will go on again. I am sure now. Oh, I do wish I could make you understand better!” added the boy piteously. “There’s my poor comrade yonder, perhaps dying by this time, and me turning like this!”

For just then he reeled and would have fallen if the little priest had not caught him by the arms and lowered him slowly down.

“Thank you, sir,” said Punch, with a sob half-choking his utterance. “It’s all on account of my wound, sir. There, I’m better now. Come on.”

He tried to struggle up, but the little priest shook his head and pressed him back.

“Thank you, sir. It’s very good of you; but I want to get on. He’s getting tired of waiting, you know.” And Punch pointed excitedly in the direction of the tree.

The journey was continued soon after, with Punch’s arm locked in that of his new-found friend; and in due time Punch staggered through the trees to where Pen lay, now meeting his gaze with a wild look of misery and despair.

“It’s all right, comrade,” cried Punch. “I have found somebody at last. He must live somewhere near here, but I can’t make him understand anything, only that you were lying wounded. Did you think I had forgotten you?”

“No,” said Pen faintly, “I never thought that.”

“Look here,” said Punch, “say something to him in French. Tell him I want to get you to a cottage, and say we are starving.”

Pen obeyed, and faintly muttered a few words in French; but the priest shook his head.

“Francés?” he said.

“No, no,” replied Pen. “Inglés.”

“Ah,Inglés!” said the priest, smiling; and he went down on one knee to softly touch the rough bandage that was about the wounded leg.

Then, to the surprise of both boys, he carefully raised Pen into a sitting position, signed to Punch to hold him up, and then taking off his curiously fashioned hat and hanging it upon a broken branch of the tree, the boys saw that Nature had furnished him with the tonsure of the priest without the barber’s aid, and they had the opportunity now of seeing that it was a pleasantly wrinkled rosy face, with a pair of good-humoured-looking eyes that gazed up in theirs.

“What’s he going to do?” said Punch in a whisper.

He comprehended the next minute, and eagerly lent his aid, for the little priest, twisting up his gown and securing it round his waist, began to prove himself a worthy descendant of the Good Samaritan, though wanting in the ability to set the wounded traveller upon his own ass.

Going down, though, upon one knee, he took hold of first one hand and then the other, and, with Punch’s assistance to his own natural strength, he got Pen upon his back, hitching him up a little, and then a little more, till he had drawn the wounded lad’s arms across his chest.

This done, he knelt there on one knee, panting, before drawing a deep breath prior to rising with his burden. Then he tried to stand up, but without success.

He waited, then tried again; but once more without success, for the weight was greater than he had anticipated.

“Can’t you manage it, sir?” said Punch. “Here, let me try.”

The little priest shook his head, but released one of Pen’s hands and caught hold of Punch by the shoulder.

“Yes, I know, sir,” cried Punch, and after waiting till their new friend was ready, the boy brought his strength to bear as well, and the little priest stood up, gave his load a hitch or two to balance it well upon his shoulders, and then looked sharply at Punch and then at his hat.

“Carry your hat, sir?” cried Punch excitedly, “of course I will. It will be all right.”

The priest shook his head.

“What? Oh, you mean stick it on, sir? All right, sir; I understand. What, is that wrong? Oh, t’other side first! There you are, then, sir. Will that do?”

The priest shook his head, bent a little forward so as to well balance his load, and then, setting one hand at liberty, he put his hat on correctly, grasped both Pen’s hands once more, and then began to march out of the forest.

“I’m blessed!” muttered Punch. “Didn’t know they carried pickaback in Spain. The little chap’s as strong as a horse—pony, I mean.—Does it hurt you much, comrade?”

“Not much, Punch. Don’t talk to me, though; only, thank goodness that we have found a friend!” The little priest trudged sturdily on with his load, taking a direction along the edge of the forest, which Punch noted was different from any that he had traversed during his search, while at the same time it became plain to him that their new friend was finding his load rather hard work to carry, for first a little dew began to appear; this dew gradually grew into tiny beads, the tiny beads ran into drops, and the drops gathered together till they began to trickle and run.

At this point the little priest stopped short by the side of a rugged, gnarled tree, and, bending a little lower, rested his hands upon a horizontal branch.

“Look here, sir,” said Punch, “let me have a try now. I ain’t up to it much, but it would give you a rest.”

The priest shook his head, drew a deep breath, and trudged on again, proving his strength to be greater than could have been imagined to exist in such a little, plump, almost dwarf-like form, for with an occasional rest he tramped on for the best part of an hour, till at last he paused just at the edge of a deep slope, and struck off a little way to his left to where a beaten track led to a good-sized cottage.

“Why couldn’t I find all this?” thought Punch, as he gazed down into a valley dotted with huts, evidently a village fairly well inhabited. “Why, it was as easy as easy, only I didn’t know the way.”

“Ah!” ejaculated the priest, as he thrust open the door, stepped into a very humbly furnished room, crossed at once to a rough pallet, and gently lowered his burden upon the simple bed. “The saints be praised!” he said in Latin; and the words and the new position had such a reviving effect upon the wounded rifleman that he caught at one of the priest’s hands and held to it firmly.

“God bless you for this!” he said, for unconsciously the priest’s words had been the opening of the door of communication between him and those he had brought to his home; for though the words possessed a pronunciation that was unfamiliar, the old Latin tongue recalled to Pen years of study in the past, and he snatched at the opportunity of saying a few words that the old man could understand.

A pleasant smile beamed on the utterly wearied out old fellow’s countenance as he bent over Pen and patted him gently on the shoulder.

“Good, good!” he said in Latin; and he set himself about the task of supplying them with food.

This was simple enough, consisting as it did of bread and herbs—just such a repast as might have been expected from some ascetic holy man dwelling in the mountains; but the herbs in this case were silvery-brown skinned Spanish onions with salt.

Then taking up a small earthen jar, he passed out of the dark room into the sunshine; and as soon as the boys were alone Punch turned eagerly to his companion.

“Not worse, are you, comrade?” he said anxiously.

“No, Punch, not worse. But has he gone to fetch water?”

“Yes, I think so. But just you tell me: does your leg hurt you much?”

“Quite enough,” replied Pen, breaking off a portion of the bread and placing a few fragments between his lips. “But don’t talk to me now. I am starving.”

“Yes, I know that,” cried Punch; “and call this ’ere bread! It’s all solid crust, when it ought to be crumb for a chap like you. Look here, you could eat one of these onions, couldn’t you?”

“No, no; not now. Go on; never mind me.”

“But I do mind you,” cried the boy. “And how can I go on eating without you? I say, though, what a chap you are! What was that you said to him?”

“Bless you for this!”

“Yes, I guessed that was it; but how did you say it so as to make him understand? I talked to him enough, but he couldn’t make out a word of what I said. Was that there Spanish?”

“No, Punch; Latin.”

“Ah, you seem to know everything.”

At that moment a shadow fell athwart the door, and the speaker made a dash at one of the muskets he had stood up against the wall on entering the priest’s cottage.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir!” he cried hastily. “I didn’t know it was you.”

The old man smiled, and entered with the dripping jar which he had just filled from a neighbouring spring, and held it towards the boy.

“Me drink, sir? Thank ye, sir,” cried Punch; and, taking the jar, he was raising it towards his parched mouth, but before it was half-way there he recollected himself, and carried it to the priest’s pallet, where he went down on his knees and held it to Pen’s lips, so that the poor fellow, who was burning with feverish pain, was able to drink long and deeply.

Pen was still drinking when Punch started and spilt a few drops of the water as he turned hastily to look up at their host, who had laid a soft brown hand upon his head, and was looking down at him with a pleasant smile.

“What did he do that for, comrade?”

“I don’t know,” said Pen, drawing a deep breath, as he withdrew his lips from the water. “Yes, I do,” he added quickly. “He meant that he was pleased because you let me drink first.”

“Course I did. I don’t see anything to be pleased about in that. But have a drop more, comrade. Quick, look sharp, before I go mad and snatches it away from you, for I never felt like this before.”

“Go on then now, Punch.”

“But—”

“Go on then now; I can wait.”

“Ah, then!” ejaculated the boy, with a deep sigh that was almost a groan; and with trembling hands he held the jar to his lips and drank, and recovered his breath and drank again as if it was impossible to satisfy his burning thirst.

Then recovering himself, he held the jar against Pen’s lips.

“Talk about wine,” he said; “why, it ain’t in it! I don’t wonder that he looks so fat and happy, though he is dressed up like an old scarecrow. Fancy living here with a pump of water like this close at hand!—Had enough now?—That’s right. Now you go on breaking off bits of that bread and dipping it in the water while I cuts up one of these.”

He took his knife from his pocket and began to peel one of the onions, when their host placed the little vessel of salt close to his hand.

“Thank you, sir,” cried Punch. “You are a real gentleman.”

The priest smiled and nodded, and watched the two lads as Pen took an earthenware bowl that their host placed close to his hand after half-filling it with water so that he could steep the bread, while Punch deftly peeled one of the onions, not scrupling about littering the floor, and then proceeded to quarter it and then divide the segments again, dipping one in the salt and placing it between his wounded companion’s lips.

“Good! good!” said the priest again, smiling with satisfaction, and laying his hand once more upon Punch’s head. “Bonum! bonum!”

“Bone ’em!” said Punch. “Why, he give it to me!”

“He means it was good, Punch,” said Pen, smiling.

“Good! Yes,” cried the boy, crunching up one of the savoury pieces of vegetable. “That’s what he means, is it? Thought he meant I had stolen it.—Bonum, eh, sir? I should just think it is! Wants a bit more salt; but my word, it’s fine! Have a bit more, comrade. You eat while there’s a chance. Never mind me. I can keep both of us going. Talk about a dinner or a supper; I could keep on till dark! Only wish, though, I’d got one of their Spanish shillings to pay for it; but those French beggars took care of them for me. I can give him my knife, though; and I will too, as soon as I have done with it. How do you feel now, comrade?”

“Better, Punch, better,” replied Pen. “Thank you,” he continued, as his companion broke off more bread for him and then began to peel another onion. “But you are paying more attention to me than you are to yourself.”

“Course I am, comrade. Didn’t you pay more attention to me when I was wounded?”

Then turning to the priest, he pointed to the bread with his knife, and then tapped the onion he had begun to quarter with the blade.

“Splendid, sir,” he said, smiling. “Bonum! bonum!”

The priest nodded, and then rose from where he had been seated watching the boys and walked through the open door, to stand just outside sweeping the scattered houses of the little village with his eyes, and remaining there, so as to leave his two guests to themselves.

“You are beginning to get a bit better, comrade?” asked Punch anxiously.

“Yes, Punch, yes,” was the reply.

“So am I. Feel as if I am growing as strong as a horse again. Why, comrade, it was worth getting as hungry, thirsty, and tired as that, so as to enjoy such a meal. I don’t mean speaking for you, because I know you must be feeling that gnaw, gnaw, grinding pain in your wound. But do go on eating, and when you have had enough you shut-up shop and go off to sleep. Then I will ask that old chap to give me a bit of rag and let me wash and tie up your wound. I say, comrade, I hope he didn’t see me laugh at him. Did you?”

“See you laugh at him? No. Did you?”

“Yes; couldn’t help it, when he was carrying you, bent down like he was, with that queer shako of his. When I was behind he looked something like a bear, and I couldn’t help having a good grin. Mum, though; here he comes.”

The old priest now came slowly in and stood watching the two lads, who hurriedly finished their meal.

“Stand up, Punch,” said Pen.

“What for? I was just going to clear away.”

“Stand up, I tell you!”

“All right;” and the boy rose immediately, staring hard at his companion, as Pen, with a quiver of emotion in his utterance, laid his hand over the remains of the black-bread, and said, gazing hard at the old priest the while, “Benedictus, benedicat. Amen.”

“Ah!” said the priest, with a long-drawn breath of satisfaction; “Benedictus, benedicatAmen.”

Then, taking a step towards them, he laid his hand upon the heads of his two guests in turn and said a few words in an undertone. Next, pointing to the rough pallet-bed, he signed to Punch that he should lie down beside his companion.

“What, take a snooze there, sir?” said Punch. “Thank you, sir. But not yet.—You tell him in your Latin stuff, comrade, that I want to do a bit of doctoring first.”

“I’ll try,” said Pen wearily, already half-asleep; when, to the surprise of both, the old man went outside and returned with a little wooden tub of water which he brought to the bedside, and then, in spite of a half-hearted protestation on the part of Punch, he proceeded to carefully attend to the wound.

“Well, it’s very good of you, sir,” said the boy at last, after doing his best to help, “and I wish I could make you understand what I say. But you have done it a deal better than I could have done, and I am sure if my comrade could have kept himself awake he would be ready enough to say something in Latin that would mean you are a trump, and he’s very much obliged. But, you see, all I know, sir, about Latin—”

“Latin!” said the old priest, beaming upon him with wondering eyes.

“Yes, sir—Latin, sir, as I learnt of him;” and then, pointing to the carefully bandaged limb, “bonum, sir;bonum!”

The priest nodded, as he pointed to the pallet, where there was room for Punch to lie down by his sleeping companion; but the boy shook his head.

“No, sir,” he said, “that’s your roost; I do know that,” And, before his host could interfere, the boy placed one musket within reach of Pen’s hand, the other beside the door, across which he stretched himself.

It was now nearly dark, and after placing his little home in something like order, the old man turned to where Punch had been resting upon one arm a few minutes before, watching his movements, but was now prone upon the beaten-earth floor fast asleep, with a look of restfulness upon his young, sunburnt countenance.

The old man stepped carefully across him, to stand outside peering through the evening gloom down into the silent village before, satisfied and content, he turned back into the hut, closing the door carefully after him, placing across it a heavy oaken bar, before stepping back across Punch, to stand in the middle of the floor deep in thought.

Then his hand began to move, from force of habit, searching for and bringing out from beneath his gown a little, worn snuff-box, which squeaked faintly as he turned the lid and refreshed himself with two pinches of its brown contents.

This was done very slowly and deliberately in the semi-darkness, and finally the box was replaced and a few grains of the dust flicked away.

“Ah!” ejaculated the old man with a long-drawn sigh, as he looked from one to the other of his guests. “English,” he muttered. “Soldiers, but friends and defenders against the French. English—heretics! But,” he added softly, as if recalling something that had passed, “Benedictus, benedicat. Amen!”

Then, crossing softly to one corner of the room, he drew open what seemed to be the door of a cupboard; but it was too dark to show that in place of staircase there was a broad step-ladder.

This the old man ascended, and directly after the ill-fitting boards which formed the ceiling of his humble living-room creaked as he stepped upon them, and then there was a faint rustling as if he were removing leaves and stems of the Indian corn that was laid in company with other stores in what was undoubtedly a little loft, whose air was heavy with various odours suggesting the presence of vegetables and fruit.

The oaken boards creaked once more as if the old man was stretching himself upon them with a sigh of weariness and satisfaction.

“Amen!” he said softly, and directly after a ray of light shot across the place, coming through the wooden bars in the gable of the sloping roof, for the moon had just risen over the shoulder of the mountain to light up the valley beneath, where the priest’s hut clung to its rocky wall; to light up, too, the little loft and its contents, and, above all, the features of the sleeping man, gentle-looking in their repose. And could the lads he had befriended have gazed upon him then they would have seen nothing that appeared grotesque.

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