Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Thirteen.“Look out, Comrade!”“Hooray!” cried Punch, wrenching his head round and stretching one hand towards their visitor, who stepped in, put the basket she carried upon the bed, and placed her hand upon her side, breathing hard as if she were in pain.“Why, you have been running,” cried Punch, looking at her reproachfully. “It was all right on you, and you are a good little lass to come, but you shouldn’t have run so fast. ’Tain’t good.”As the girl began to recover her breath she showed her white teeth and nodded merrily at the wounded boy; and then, as if she had grasped his meaning, she turned to Pen, caught up the basket, and began rapidly to take out its contents, which consisted first of bunches of grapes, a few oranges, and from beneath them a piece of thin cheese and another cake, which lay at the bottom in company with a rough-looking drinking-mug.These were all arranged upon the bed close beside Punch, while the girl, as she emptied her basket, kept on talking to Pen in a hurried way, which he took to mean as an apology for her present being so common and simple.Upon this base Pen made what he considered a suitable reply, thanking the girl warmly for her compassion and kindness to two unfortunate strangers.“I wish I could make you understand,” he said; “but we are both most grateful and we shall never forget it, and— What’s the matter?”For all at once, as the girl was listening eagerly to his words and trying to understand them, nodding smilingly at him the while, a sudden change came over her countenance as she gazed fixedly past the young soldier at the little square opening in the hut-wall behind him which served as a window, and then turned to snatch her basket from the bed.“What is it?” cried Pen.“Look out, comrade—the window behind,” said Punch.Pen turned on the instant, but the dim window gave no enlightenment, and he looked back now at the girl, who was about to pass through the door, but darted back again to run round the foot of the bed, so as to place it between her and the swarthy-looking Spanish peasant-lad who suddenly appeared to block the doorway, a fierce look of savage triumph in his eyes, as he planted his hands upon his hips and burst out into an angry tirade which made the girl shrink back against the wall.Not a word was intelligible to the lookers-on, but all the same the scene told its own tale. Punch’s lips parted, his face turned white, and he lay back helpless, with his fingers clenched, while Pen’s chest began to heave and he stood there irresolute, breathing hard as if he had been running, knowing well as he did what the young Spaniard’s words must mean.What followed passed very quickly, for the young Spaniard stepped quickly into the hut, thrust Pen aside, stepped round to the foot of the bed, and caught the shrinking girl savagely by the wrist.She shrank from him, but he uttered what sounded more like a snarl than words, and began to drag her back round the foot of the bed towards the door.Pen felt as if something were burning in his chest, and he breathed harder, for there was a twofold struggle taking place therein between the desire to interfere and the feeling of prudence that told him he had no right to meddle under the circumstances in which he was placed.Prudence meant well, and there was something very frank and brave in her suggestions; but she had the worst of it, for the girl began to resist and retort upon her assailant angrily, her eyes flashing as she struggled bravely to drag her wrist away; but she was almost helpless against the strong muscles of the man, and the next moment she turned upon Pen an appealing look, as she uttered one word which could only mean “Help!”Pen took that to be the meaning, and the hot feeling in his young English breast burst, metaphorically, into flame.Springing at the young Spaniard, he literally wrested the girl from his grasp; and as she sprang now to catch at Punch’s extended hand, Pen closed with her assailant, there was a brief struggle, and the Spaniard was driven here and there for a few moments before he caught his heel against the rough sill at the bottom of the doorway and went down heavily outside, but only to spring up again with his teeth bared like those of some wild beast as he sprang at Pen.A piercing shriek came from the girl’s lips, and she tried to free herself from Punch’s detaining hand; but the boy held fast, checking the girl in her brave effort to throw herself between the contending pair, while Punch uttered the warning cry, “Look out! Mind, comrade! Knife! Knife!”The next instant there was a dull thud, and the Spaniard fell heavily in the doorway, while Pen stood breathing hard, shaking his now open hand, which was rapidly growing discoloured.“Has he cut you, comrade?” cried Punch in a husky voice.“No. All right!” panted Pen with a half-laugh. “It’s only the skin off—his teeth. I hit first,” But he muttered to himself, “Cowardly brute! It was very near.—No, no, my girl,” he said now, aloud, as the girl stripped a little handkerchief from her neck and came up to him timidly, as if to bind up his bleeding knuckles. “I will go down to the stream. That will soon stop;” and he brushed past her, to again face the Spaniard, who was approaching him cautiously now, knife in hand, apparently about to spring.“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said Pen sternly, and still facing the Spaniard he took a couple of steps backward towards the wall of the hut.His assailant did not read his intention, and uttered a snarl of triumph as he continued his cautious tactics and went on advancing, swinging himself from side to side as if about to spring; and a dull gleam of light flashed from the knife he held in his hand.But the hand Pen had thrust out behind him had not been idle; and Punch, who lay helplessly upon the bed, uttered a sigh of satisfaction, for with one quick movement Pen threw forward his right again to where it came closely in contact with his left, which joined on in throwing forward horizontally the rifle Pen had caught from where it stood in the corner of the hut, the muzzle delivering a dull blow in the Spaniard’s chest. There was a sharpclick, click, and Pen thundered out, “Drop that knife and run, before it’s—fire!”The man could not understand a word of English, but he plainly comprehended the young soldier’s meaning, for his right hand relinquished its grasp, the knife fell with a dull sound upon the earthen floor, and its owner turned and dashed away, while the girl stood with her hands clasped as she uttered a low sigh full of relief, and then sank down in a heap upon the floor, sobbing as if her heart would break.“One for him, comrade,” cried Punch hoarsely. “How would it be to spend a cartridge over his head? Make him run the faster.”“No need, Punch. This is a bad bit of luck.”“Bad luck!” said Punch. “I call it fine. Only I couldn’t come and help. Yes, fine! Teach him what British soldier means. Oh, can’t you say something to tell that poor girl not to cry like that? Say, old man,” said the boy, dropping into a whisper, “didn’t see it before. Why, he must be her chap!”

“Hooray!” cried Punch, wrenching his head round and stretching one hand towards their visitor, who stepped in, put the basket she carried upon the bed, and placed her hand upon her side, breathing hard as if she were in pain.

“Why, you have been running,” cried Punch, looking at her reproachfully. “It was all right on you, and you are a good little lass to come, but you shouldn’t have run so fast. ’Tain’t good.”

As the girl began to recover her breath she showed her white teeth and nodded merrily at the wounded boy; and then, as if she had grasped his meaning, she turned to Pen, caught up the basket, and began rapidly to take out its contents, which consisted first of bunches of grapes, a few oranges, and from beneath them a piece of thin cheese and another cake, which lay at the bottom in company with a rough-looking drinking-mug.

These were all arranged upon the bed close beside Punch, while the girl, as she emptied her basket, kept on talking to Pen in a hurried way, which he took to mean as an apology for her present being so common and simple.

Upon this base Pen made what he considered a suitable reply, thanking the girl warmly for her compassion and kindness to two unfortunate strangers.

“I wish I could make you understand,” he said; “but we are both most grateful and we shall never forget it, and— What’s the matter?”

For all at once, as the girl was listening eagerly to his words and trying to understand them, nodding smilingly at him the while, a sudden change came over her countenance as she gazed fixedly past the young soldier at the little square opening in the hut-wall behind him which served as a window, and then turned to snatch her basket from the bed.

“What is it?” cried Pen.

“Look out, comrade—the window behind,” said Punch.

Pen turned on the instant, but the dim window gave no enlightenment, and he looked back now at the girl, who was about to pass through the door, but darted back again to run round the foot of the bed, so as to place it between her and the swarthy-looking Spanish peasant-lad who suddenly appeared to block the doorway, a fierce look of savage triumph in his eyes, as he planted his hands upon his hips and burst out into an angry tirade which made the girl shrink back against the wall.

Not a word was intelligible to the lookers-on, but all the same the scene told its own tale. Punch’s lips parted, his face turned white, and he lay back helpless, with his fingers clenched, while Pen’s chest began to heave and he stood there irresolute, breathing hard as if he had been running, knowing well as he did what the young Spaniard’s words must mean.

What followed passed very quickly, for the young Spaniard stepped quickly into the hut, thrust Pen aside, stepped round to the foot of the bed, and caught the shrinking girl savagely by the wrist.

She shrank from him, but he uttered what sounded more like a snarl than words, and began to drag her back round the foot of the bed towards the door.

Pen felt as if something were burning in his chest, and he breathed harder, for there was a twofold struggle taking place therein between the desire to interfere and the feeling of prudence that told him he had no right to meddle under the circumstances in which he was placed.

Prudence meant well, and there was something very frank and brave in her suggestions; but she had the worst of it, for the girl began to resist and retort upon her assailant angrily, her eyes flashing as she struggled bravely to drag her wrist away; but she was almost helpless against the strong muscles of the man, and the next moment she turned upon Pen an appealing look, as she uttered one word which could only mean “Help!”

Pen took that to be the meaning, and the hot feeling in his young English breast burst, metaphorically, into flame.

Springing at the young Spaniard, he literally wrested the girl from his grasp; and as she sprang now to catch at Punch’s extended hand, Pen closed with her assailant, there was a brief struggle, and the Spaniard was driven here and there for a few moments before he caught his heel against the rough sill at the bottom of the doorway and went down heavily outside, but only to spring up again with his teeth bared like those of some wild beast as he sprang at Pen.

A piercing shriek came from the girl’s lips, and she tried to free herself from Punch’s detaining hand; but the boy held fast, checking the girl in her brave effort to throw herself between the contending pair, while Punch uttered the warning cry, “Look out! Mind, comrade! Knife! Knife!”

The next instant there was a dull thud, and the Spaniard fell heavily in the doorway, while Pen stood breathing hard, shaking his now open hand, which was rapidly growing discoloured.

“Has he cut you, comrade?” cried Punch in a husky voice.

“No. All right!” panted Pen with a half-laugh. “It’s only the skin off—his teeth. I hit first,” But he muttered to himself, “Cowardly brute! It was very near.—No, no, my girl,” he said now, aloud, as the girl stripped a little handkerchief from her neck and came up to him timidly, as if to bind up his bleeding knuckles. “I will go down to the stream. That will soon stop;” and he brushed past her, to again face the Spaniard, who was approaching him cautiously now, knife in hand, apparently about to spring.

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said Pen sternly, and still facing the Spaniard he took a couple of steps backward towards the wall of the hut.

His assailant did not read his intention, and uttered a snarl of triumph as he continued his cautious tactics and went on advancing, swinging himself from side to side as if about to spring; and a dull gleam of light flashed from the knife he held in his hand.

But the hand Pen had thrust out behind him had not been idle; and Punch, who lay helplessly upon the bed, uttered a sigh of satisfaction, for with one quick movement Pen threw forward his right again to where it came closely in contact with his left, which joined on in throwing forward horizontally the rifle Pen had caught from where it stood in the corner of the hut, the muzzle delivering a dull blow in the Spaniard’s chest. There was a sharpclick, click, and Pen thundered out, “Drop that knife and run, before it’s—fire!”

The man could not understand a word of English, but he plainly comprehended the young soldier’s meaning, for his right hand relinquished its grasp, the knife fell with a dull sound upon the earthen floor, and its owner turned and dashed away, while the girl stood with her hands clasped as she uttered a low sigh full of relief, and then sank down in a heap upon the floor, sobbing as if her heart would break.

“One for him, comrade,” cried Punch hoarsely. “How would it be to spend a cartridge over his head? Make him run the faster.”

“No need, Punch. This is a bad bit of luck.”

“Bad luck!” said Punch. “I call it fine. Only I couldn’t come and help. Yes, fine! Teach him what British soldier means. Oh, can’t you say something to tell that poor girl not to cry like that? Say, old man,” said the boy, dropping into a whisper, “didn’t see it before. Why, he must be her chap!”

Chapter Fourteen.Punch will talk.“Yes, I suppose you are right, Punch,” said Pen, frowning. “Thick-headed idiot. I have quite taken the skin off my knuckles. Poor girl,” he continued, “she has been cruelly punished for doing a womanly action.”“Yes; but he’s got it too, and serve him right. Oh, didn’t I want to help! But, my word, he will never forget what a British fist is. Yours will soon be all right. Oh, I wish she wouldn’t go on crying like that! Do say something to her and tell her we are very sorry she got into a scrape.”“No, you say something,” said Pen quietly. But there was no need, for the girl suddenly sprang up, hurriedly dashing away her tears, her eyes flashing as if she were ashamed of being seen crying; and, looking sharply from one to the other, she frowned, stamped her little foot upon the earthen floor, and pointed through the open door.“Juan malo!” she cried, and, springing to where the knife lay, she caught it up, ran outside, and sent it flying in amongst the trees. Then coming back, she approached Pen.“Juan malo!” she cried. “Malo—malo!”“Mal—bad,” said Pen, smiling. “That’s Latin as well as Spanish.Si,” he continued, to the girl, “Juan mal—malo.”The girl nodded quickly and pointed to his hand. “Navajo?” she said.“What does that mean?” said Pen. “Knife?” And he shook his head. “No, no, no, no,” he said, and to give effect to his words he energetically struck the injured hand into its fellow-palm, and then held up the knuckles, which had begun to bleed again.The girl smiled and nodded, and she made again to take the handkerchief from her neck to bind it up.“No, no, no!” cried Pen, laughing and shaking his head.The girl looked a little annoyed, and smiled again, and pointed to the provisions she had brought.“Queso, pano,” she said. “Las uvas;” and she caught up one of the bunches of grapes, picked off a few, and placed them in Punch’s hand. Then turning quickly to the door, she stopped to look round. “Juan malo!” she cried; and the next minute she was out of sight.“Ah!” said Punch with a sigh, “wish I was a Spaniel and could tell her what a good little lass she is, or that I was a scholar like you are; I’d know how you do it. Why, you quite began to talk her lingo at once. Think that chap’s waiting to begin bullying her again?”“I hope not, Punch.”“So do I. Perhaps he won’t for fear that she should tell you, and him have to run up against your fist again.”“It’s a bad job, Punch, and I want to go down to the stream to bathe my hand. I dare say I should see him if he were hanging about, for the girl came from that way.”“But you needn’t say it’s a bad job,” said Punch. “There’s nothing to mind.”“I hope not,” said Pen thoughtfully. “Perhaps there’s nothing to mind. It would have been a deal worse if the French had found out that we were here.”“Yes, ever so much,” said Punch. “Here, have some of these grapes; they are fine. Do you know, that bit of a spurt did me good. I feel better now as long as I lie quite still. Just as if I had been shamming, and ought to get up, and—and—oh, no I don’t,” said the poor fellow softly, as he made an effort to change his position, the slight movement bringing forth an ejaculation of pain. “Just like a red-hot bayonet.”“Poor old chap!” said Pen, gently altering the injured lad’s position. “You must be careful, and wait.”“But I don’t want to wait,” cried the boy peevishly. “It has made me feel as weak as a great gal. I don’t believe that one would have made so much fuss as I do.”“There, there, don’t worry about it. Go on eating the grapes.”“No,” said the boy piteously. “Don’t feel to want them now. The shoot that went through me turned me quite sick. I say, comrade, I sha’n’t want to get up and go on to-morrow. I suppose I must wait another day.”“Yes, Punch,” said Pen, laying his uninjured hand upon the boy’s forehead, which felt cold and dank with the perspiration produced by the pain.“But, I say, do have some of these grapes.”“Yes, if you will,” said Pen, picking up the little bunch that the wounded boy had let fall upon the bed. “Try. They will take off the feeling of sickness. Can you eat some of the bread too?”“No,” said Punch, shaking his head; but he did, and by degrees the pain died out, and he began to chat about the encounter, and how eager he felt to get out into the open country again.“I say, comrade,” he said at last, “I never liked to tell you before, but when it’s been dark I have been an awful coward and lain coming out wet with scare, thinking I was going to die and that you would have to scrape a hole for me somewhere and cover me up with stones. I didn’t like to tell you before, because I knew you would laugh at me and tell me it was all nonsense for being such a coward. D’ye see, that bullet made a hole in my back and let all the pluck out of me. But your set-to with that chap seemed to tell me that it hadn’t all gone, for I felt ready for anything again, and that there was nothing the matter with me, only being as weak as a rat.”“To be sure!” cried Pen, laying his hand upon the boy’s shoulder. “That is all that’s the matter with you. You have got to wait till your strength comes back again, and then, Punch, you and I are going to see if we can’t join the regiment again.”“That’s right,” cried the boy, with his dull eyes brightening; “and if we don’t find them we will go on our travels till we do. Why, it will be fine, won’t it, as soon as I get over being such a cripple. We shall have ’ventures, sha’n’t we?”“To be sure,” replied Pen; “and you want to get strong, don’t you?”“Oh, don’t I just! I should just like to be strong enough to meet that brown Spaniel chap and chuck my cap at him.”“What for?”“What for? Set his monkey up and make him come at me. I should just like it. I have licked chaps as big as he is before now—our chaps, and one of the Noughty-fourths who was always bragging about and crowing over me. I don’t mind telling you now, I was a bit afraid of him till one day when he gave me one on the nose and made it bleed. That made me so savage I forgot all about his being big and stronger, and I went in at him hot and strong, and the next thing I knew was Corporal Grady was patting me on the back, and there was quite a crowd of our chaps standing laughing, and the corporal says, ‘Bedad, Punchard, boy, ye licked him foine! Yes,foine,’ he said, just like that. ‘Now, go and wash your face, and be proud of it,’ just like that. And then I remember—”“Yes, but remember that another time,” said Pen quietly. “You are talking too much,” And he laid his hand on the boy’s forehead again.“Oh, but I just want to tell you this.”“Tell me to-morrow, Punch. You are growing excited and feverish.”“How do you know? You ain’t a doctor.”“No; but I know that your forehead was cold and wet a few minutes ago, and that it is hot and burning now.”“Well, that only means that it’s getting dry.”“No; it means doing yourself harm when you want to get well.”“Well, I must talk,” pleaded the boy.“Yes, a little.”“What am I to do? I can’t be always going to sleep.”“No; but go as much as you can, and you will get well the quicker.”“All right,” said Punch sadly. “’Bey orders; so here goes. But I do wish that the chap as gave me this bullet had got it hisself. I say, comrade,” added the boy, after lying silent for a few minutes.“What is it? What do you want?”“Just unhook that there cord and hang my bugle on that other peg. Ah, that’s better; I can see it now. Stop a minute—give us hold.”The boy’s eyes brightened as Pen handed him the instrument, and he looked at it with pride, while directly after, obeying the impulse that seized him, he placed the mouthpiece to his lips, drew a deep breath, and with expanding cheeks was about to give forth a blast when Pen snatched it from his hands.“Whatcher doing of?” cried the boy angrily. “Stopping you from bringing the French down upon us,” cried Pen sharply. “What were you thinking about?”“I wasn’t thinking at all,” said the boy slowly, as his brow wrinkled up in a puzzled way. “Well, I was a fool! Got a sort of idea in my head that some of our fellows might hear it and come down and find us.”“I wish they would,” said Pen sadly; “but I don’t think there’s a doubt of it, Punch, we are surrounded by the French. There, I’m sorry I was so rough with you, only you were going to make a mistake.”“Sarve me jolly well right,” said the boy. “I must have been quite off my chump. There, hang it up. I won’t do it again.”It was quite dark now, and in the silence Pen soon after heard a low, deep breathing which told him that his wounded companion had once more sunk asleep, while on his part a busy brain and a smarting hand tended to reproduce the evening scene, and with it a series of mental questions as to what would be the result; and so startling were some of the suggestions that came to trouble the watcher that he placed himself by the side of the bed farthest from the door and laid his rifle across the foot ready to hand, as he half-expected to see the dim, oblong square of the open doorway darkened by an approaching enemy stealing upon them, knife-armed and silent, ready to take revenge for the blow, urged thereto by a feeling of jealous hatred against one who had never meant him the slightest harm.That night Pen never closed his eyes, and it was with a sigh of relief that he saw the first pale light of day stealing down into the rocky vale.

“Yes, I suppose you are right, Punch,” said Pen, frowning. “Thick-headed idiot. I have quite taken the skin off my knuckles. Poor girl,” he continued, “she has been cruelly punished for doing a womanly action.”

“Yes; but he’s got it too, and serve him right. Oh, didn’t I want to help! But, my word, he will never forget what a British fist is. Yours will soon be all right. Oh, I wish she wouldn’t go on crying like that! Do say something to her and tell her we are very sorry she got into a scrape.”

“No, you say something,” said Pen quietly. But there was no need, for the girl suddenly sprang up, hurriedly dashing away her tears, her eyes flashing as if she were ashamed of being seen crying; and, looking sharply from one to the other, she frowned, stamped her little foot upon the earthen floor, and pointed through the open door.

“Juan malo!” she cried, and, springing to where the knife lay, she caught it up, ran outside, and sent it flying in amongst the trees. Then coming back, she approached Pen.

“Juan malo!” she cried. “Malo—malo!”

“Mal—bad,” said Pen, smiling. “That’s Latin as well as Spanish.Si,” he continued, to the girl, “Juan mal—malo.”

The girl nodded quickly and pointed to his hand. “Navajo?” she said.

“What does that mean?” said Pen. “Knife?” And he shook his head. “No, no, no, no,” he said, and to give effect to his words he energetically struck the injured hand into its fellow-palm, and then held up the knuckles, which had begun to bleed again.

The girl smiled and nodded, and she made again to take the handkerchief from her neck to bind it up.

“No, no, no!” cried Pen, laughing and shaking his head.

The girl looked a little annoyed, and smiled again, and pointed to the provisions she had brought.

“Queso, pano,” she said. “Las uvas;” and she caught up one of the bunches of grapes, picked off a few, and placed them in Punch’s hand. Then turning quickly to the door, she stopped to look round. “Juan malo!” she cried; and the next minute she was out of sight.

“Ah!” said Punch with a sigh, “wish I was a Spaniel and could tell her what a good little lass she is, or that I was a scholar like you are; I’d know how you do it. Why, you quite began to talk her lingo at once. Think that chap’s waiting to begin bullying her again?”

“I hope not, Punch.”

“So do I. Perhaps he won’t for fear that she should tell you, and him have to run up against your fist again.”

“It’s a bad job, Punch, and I want to go down to the stream to bathe my hand. I dare say I should see him if he were hanging about, for the girl came from that way.”

“But you needn’t say it’s a bad job,” said Punch. “There’s nothing to mind.”

“I hope not,” said Pen thoughtfully. “Perhaps there’s nothing to mind. It would have been a deal worse if the French had found out that we were here.”

“Yes, ever so much,” said Punch. “Here, have some of these grapes; they are fine. Do you know, that bit of a spurt did me good. I feel better now as long as I lie quite still. Just as if I had been shamming, and ought to get up, and—and—oh, no I don’t,” said the poor fellow softly, as he made an effort to change his position, the slight movement bringing forth an ejaculation of pain. “Just like a red-hot bayonet.”

“Poor old chap!” said Pen, gently altering the injured lad’s position. “You must be careful, and wait.”

“But I don’t want to wait,” cried the boy peevishly. “It has made me feel as weak as a great gal. I don’t believe that one would have made so much fuss as I do.”

“There, there, don’t worry about it. Go on eating the grapes.”

“No,” said the boy piteously. “Don’t feel to want them now. The shoot that went through me turned me quite sick. I say, comrade, I sha’n’t want to get up and go on to-morrow. I suppose I must wait another day.”

“Yes, Punch,” said Pen, laying his uninjured hand upon the boy’s forehead, which felt cold and dank with the perspiration produced by the pain.

“But, I say, do have some of these grapes.”

“Yes, if you will,” said Pen, picking up the little bunch that the wounded boy had let fall upon the bed. “Try. They will take off the feeling of sickness. Can you eat some of the bread too?”

“No,” said Punch, shaking his head; but he did, and by degrees the pain died out, and he began to chat about the encounter, and how eager he felt to get out into the open country again.

“I say, comrade,” he said at last, “I never liked to tell you before, but when it’s been dark I have been an awful coward and lain coming out wet with scare, thinking I was going to die and that you would have to scrape a hole for me somewhere and cover me up with stones. I didn’t like to tell you before, because I knew you would laugh at me and tell me it was all nonsense for being such a coward. D’ye see, that bullet made a hole in my back and let all the pluck out of me. But your set-to with that chap seemed to tell me that it hadn’t all gone, for I felt ready for anything again, and that there was nothing the matter with me, only being as weak as a rat.”

“To be sure!” cried Pen, laying his hand upon the boy’s shoulder. “That is all that’s the matter with you. You have got to wait till your strength comes back again, and then, Punch, you and I are going to see if we can’t join the regiment again.”

“That’s right,” cried the boy, with his dull eyes brightening; “and if we don’t find them we will go on our travels till we do. Why, it will be fine, won’t it, as soon as I get over being such a cripple. We shall have ’ventures, sha’n’t we?”

“To be sure,” replied Pen; “and you want to get strong, don’t you?”

“Oh, don’t I just! I should just like to be strong enough to meet that brown Spaniel chap and chuck my cap at him.”

“What for?”

“What for? Set his monkey up and make him come at me. I should just like it. I have licked chaps as big as he is before now—our chaps, and one of the Noughty-fourths who was always bragging about and crowing over me. I don’t mind telling you now, I was a bit afraid of him till one day when he gave me one on the nose and made it bleed. That made me so savage I forgot all about his being big and stronger, and I went in at him hot and strong, and the next thing I knew was Corporal Grady was patting me on the back, and there was quite a crowd of our chaps standing laughing, and the corporal says, ‘Bedad, Punchard, boy, ye licked him foine! Yes,foine,’ he said, just like that. ‘Now, go and wash your face, and be proud of it,’ just like that. And then I remember—”

“Yes, but remember that another time,” said Pen quietly. “You are talking too much,” And he laid his hand on the boy’s forehead again.

“Oh, but I just want to tell you this.”

“Tell me to-morrow, Punch. You are growing excited and feverish.”

“How do you know? You ain’t a doctor.”

“No; but I know that your forehead was cold and wet a few minutes ago, and that it is hot and burning now.”

“Well, that only means that it’s getting dry.”

“No; it means doing yourself harm when you want to get well.”

“Well, I must talk,” pleaded the boy.

“Yes, a little.”

“What am I to do? I can’t be always going to sleep.”

“No; but go as much as you can, and you will get well the quicker.”

“All right,” said Punch sadly. “’Bey orders; so here goes. But I do wish that the chap as gave me this bullet had got it hisself. I say, comrade,” added the boy, after lying silent for a few minutes.

“What is it? What do you want?”

“Just unhook that there cord and hang my bugle on that other peg. Ah, that’s better; I can see it now. Stop a minute—give us hold.”

The boy’s eyes brightened as Pen handed him the instrument, and he looked at it with pride, while directly after, obeying the impulse that seized him, he placed the mouthpiece to his lips, drew a deep breath, and with expanding cheeks was about to give forth a blast when Pen snatched it from his hands.

“Whatcher doing of?” cried the boy angrily. “Stopping you from bringing the French down upon us,” cried Pen sharply. “What were you thinking about?”

“I wasn’t thinking at all,” said the boy slowly, as his brow wrinkled up in a puzzled way. “Well, I was a fool! Got a sort of idea in my head that some of our fellows might hear it and come down and find us.”

“I wish they would,” said Pen sadly; “but I don’t think there’s a doubt of it, Punch, we are surrounded by the French. There, I’m sorry I was so rough with you, only you were going to make a mistake.”

“Sarve me jolly well right,” said the boy. “I must have been quite off my chump. There, hang it up. I won’t do it again.”

It was quite dark now, and in the silence Pen soon after heard a low, deep breathing which told him that his wounded companion had once more sunk asleep, while on his part a busy brain and a smarting hand tended to reproduce the evening scene, and with it a series of mental questions as to what would be the result; and so startling were some of the suggestions that came to trouble the watcher that he placed himself by the side of the bed farthest from the door and laid his rifle across the foot ready to hand, as he half-expected to see the dim, oblong square of the open doorway darkened by an approaching enemy stealing upon them, knife-armed and silent, ready to take revenge for the blow, urged thereto by a feeling of jealous hatred against one who had never meant him the slightest harm.

That night Pen never closed his eyes, and it was with a sigh of relief that he saw the first pale light of day stealing down into the rocky vale.

Chapter Fifteen.Juan’s Revenge.“Oh, you have come back again, then,” grumbled Punch, as Pen met his weary eyes and the dismal face that was turned sideways to watch the door of the hut. “Thought you had gone for good and forgotten all about a poor fellow.”“No, you didn’t, Punch,” said Pen, slowly standing his rifle up in a corner close at hand, as he sank utterly exhausted upon the foot of the bed.“Yes, I did. I expected that you had come across some place where there was plenty to eat, and some one was giving you bottles of Spanish wine, and that you had forgotten all about your poor comrade lying here.”“There, I am too tired to argue with you, Punch,” said Pen with a sigh. “You have drunk all the water, then?”“Course I have, hours ago, and eat the last of the bread, and I should have eat that bit of hard, dry cheese, only I let it slip out of my fingers and it bounced like a bit of wood under the bed. Well, whatcher brought for us to eat?”“Nothing, I am sorry to say.”“Well, but what are we going to do? We can’t starve.”“I am afraid we can, Punch, if things are going on like this.”“But they ain’t to go on like this. I won’t lie here and starve. Nice thing for a poor fellow tied up here so bad that he couldn’t pick up a bit of wittles again as had tumbled down, and you gone off roaming about where you liked, leaving your poor wounded comrade to die! Oh, I do call it a shame!” cried the lad piteously.“Yes, it does seem a shame, Punch,” said Pen gently; “but I can fetch some water. Are you very thirsty?”“Thirsty? Course I am! Burnt up! It has been like an oven here all day.”Pen caught up the woodenseauand hurried out through the wood, to return in a few minutes with the vessel brimful of cold, clear water, which he set down ready, and then after carefully raising the poor boy into a sitting position he lifted the well-filled drinking-cup to his lips and replenished it again twice before the poor fellow would give up.“Ah!” he sighed, “that’s better! Which way did you go this time?”“Out there to the west, where the sun goes down, Punch.”“Well, didn’t you find no farmhouses nor cottages where they’d give you a bit of something to eat?”“Not one; only rough mountain-land, with a goat here and there.”“Well, why didn’t you catch one, or drive your bayonet into it? If we couldn’t cook it we could have eaten it raw.”“I tried to, Punch, but the two or three I saw had been hunted by the enemy till they were perfectly wild, and I never got near one.”“But you didn’t see no enemy this time, did you?”“Yes; they are dotted about everywhere, and I have been crawling about all day through the woods so as not to be seen. It’s worse there than in any direction I have been this week. The French are holding the country wherever I have been.”“Oh, I do call this a nice game,” groaned the wounded boy. “Here, give us another cup of water. It does fill one up, and I have been feeling as hollow as a drum.”Pen handed him the cup once more, and Punch drank with as much avidity as if it were his first.“Yes,” he sighed, “I do call it a nice game! I say, though, comrade, don’t you think if you’d waited till it was dark, and then tried, you could have got through their lines to some place and have begged a bit of bread?”“Perhaps, Punch, if I had not been taken.”“Well, then, why didn’t you try?”“Well, we have had that over times enough,” said Pen quietly, “and I think you know.”“Course I do,” said the boy, changing his tone; “only this wound, and being so hungry, do make me such a beast. If it had been you going on like this, lying wounded here, and it was me waiting on you, and feeding you, and tying you up, I should have been sick of it a week ago, and left you to take your chance.”“No, you wouldn’t, Punch, old chap; it isn’t in you,” said Pen, “so we won’t argue about that. I only want you to feel that I have done everything I could.”“’Cept cutting off and leaving me to take my chance. You haven’t done that.”“No, I haven’t done that, Punch.”“And I suppose you ain’t going to,” said the boy, “and I ought to tell you you are a fool for your pains.”“But you are not going to do that, Punch.”“No, I suppose not; and I wish I wasn’t such a beast—such an ungrateful brute. It is all that sore place; and it don’t get no better. But, I say, why don’t you go out straight and find the first lot of Frenchies you can, and say to them like a man, ‘Here, I give myself up as a prisoner’?”“I told you, Punch, what I believe,” replied Pen.“Yes; you said you were afraid that they wouldn’t have me carried away on account of my wound.”“Well, that’s what I do believe, Punch. I don’t want to be hard on the French, but they are a very rough lot here in this wild mountain-land, and I don’t believe they would burden themselves with wounded.”“Well, it wouldn’t matter,” said the boy dismally.“Of course they wouldn’t carry me about; but they would put me out of my misery, and a good job too.”Pen said nothing, but his face wrinkled up with lines which made him look ten years older, as he laid his hand upon his comrade’s fevered brow.“Ha!” sighed Punch, “that does a fellow good. I don’t believe any poor chap ever had such a comrade as you are; and I lie here sometimes wondering how you can do so much for such an—”“Will you be quiet, Punch?” cried Pen, snatching away his hand.“Yes, yes—please don’t take it away.”“Then be quiet. You know how I hate you to talk like this.”“Yes, all right; I have done. But, I say, do you think it’s likely that gal will come again? She must know that what she brought wouldn’t last.”“I think, poor lass, she must have got into such trouble with her people that she daren’t come again.”“Her people!” cried the boy. “It’s that ugly black-looking nigger of a sweetheart of hers. You had a good sight of him that night when you took aim with your rifle. Why didn’t you pull the trigger? A chap like that’s no good in the world.”“Just the same as you would if you had had hold of the rifle yourself, Punch—eh?”“There you go again,” said the boy sulkily. “What a chap you are! You are always pitching it at me like that. Why, of course I should have shot him like a man.”“Would you?” said Pen, smiling.“Oh, well, I don’t know. Perhaps I shouldn’t. Such a chap as that makes you feel as you couldn’t be too hard on him. But it wouldn’t be quite the right thing, I suppose. There, don’t bother. It makes my sore place ache. But, oh, shouldn’t I like to tell him what I think of him! I say, don’t you think she may come to-night?”“No, Punch; I have almost ceased to hope. Besides, I don’t want to depend on people’s charity, though I like to see it I want to be able to do something for ourselves. No, I don’t think she will come any more.”“I do,” said the boy confidently. “I am beginning to think that she will come after all. She is sure to. She must know how jolly hungry I should be. She looked so kind. A gal like that wouldn’t leave us to starve. She is a nice, soft-hearted one, she is, though she is Spanish. I wouldn’t take no notice, but I see the tears come in her eyes, and one of them dropped on my hand when she leaned over me and looked so sorry because I was in pain. It’s a pity she ain’t English and lived somewhere at home where one might expect to see her again. It is very sad and shocking to have to live in a country like this.”“Do you feel so hungry now, Punch?”“Yes, horrid. Give us a bit of that cheese to nibble. Then I must have another drink, and try and go to sleep. Feel as though I could now you have come back. I was afraid I was never going to see you again.”“I don’t believe you thought I had forsaken you, Punch.”“Not me! You couldn’t have done it. ’Tain’t in you, comrade, I know. But I tell you what I did think: that the Frenchies had got hold of you and made you prisoner. Then I lay here feeling that I could not move myself, and trying to work it out as to what you’d do—whether you would try and make them come and fetch me to be a prisoner too, or whether you would think it wouldn’t be safe, and you would be afraid to speak for fear they should come and bayonet me. And so I went on. Oh, I say, comrade, it does make a chap feel queer to lie here without being able to help hisself. I got to think at last that I wished I was dead and out of my misery.”“Yes, Punch, lad, I know. It was very hard to bear, but I couldn’t help being so long. I was working for you—for both of us—all the time.”“Course you was, comrade! I know. And now you’ve come back, and it’s all right again. Give us another drink of water. It’s better than nothing—ever so much better, because there’s plenty of it—and I shall go to sleep and do as I did last night when I was so hungry—get dreaming away about there being plenty of good things to eat. I seemed to see a regular feast—roast-meat and fruit and beautiful white bread; only it was as rum as rum. I kept on eating all the time, only nothing seemed to have any taste in it. And, hooray! What did I say! There she is! But,” the boy added, his eager tones of delight seeming to die away in despair, “she ain’t brought no basket!”For, eager and panting with her exertions, her eyes bright with excitement, the peasant-girl suddenly dashed in through the open door, caught Pen by the breast with one hand, and pointed with the other in the direction from which she had come, as she whispered excitedly, “Los Francéses!”Then, loosening her grasp, she turned quickly to the boy and passed one hand beneath his neck, signing to Pen to help her raise the wounded lad from the bed, while Pen hurried to the door to look out.“Yes,” he whispered quickly, as he turned back, “she means the enemy are coming, and wants me to carry you to a place of safety.—All right, my lass; I understand.—Here, Punch, I won’t hurt you more than I can help. Clasp your hands round my neck, and I will carry you.—Here, girl, take my rifle!”He held out the piece, and the girl caught it in her hand, while Pen drew his companion into a sitting position, stooped down, and turned his back to the bed.“All right; I won’t squeak, comrade. Up with me. For’ard!”But the boy could not control his muscles, the contractions in his face showing plainly enough the agony he felt as with one quick movement Pen raised himself, pressing the clinging hands to his breast, and swung the poor fellow upon his back.The girl nodded sharply, as, rifle in hand, she made for the door, beckoning to Pen to follow quickly; and then, with a look of despair, she stopped short, her actions showing plainly enough what she must be saying, for there was a quick rush among the trees outside, and the young Spaniard dashed to the front of the hut, made a snatch at the rifle the girl was bearing, and tore it from her grasp as he drove her back into the hut and barred the way, uttering a loud hail the while.“Too late! We are too late, Punch,” said Pen bitterly. “Here they are! Prisoners, my lad. I can do no more.”For, as he spoke, about a dozen of the enemy doubled up to the front of the hut, and the young Spaniard who had betrayed the two lads stood before Pen, showing his white teeth in a malignant grin of triumph, as he held the girl by the wrist.

“Oh, you have come back again, then,” grumbled Punch, as Pen met his weary eyes and the dismal face that was turned sideways to watch the door of the hut. “Thought you had gone for good and forgotten all about a poor fellow.”

“No, you didn’t, Punch,” said Pen, slowly standing his rifle up in a corner close at hand, as he sank utterly exhausted upon the foot of the bed.

“Yes, I did. I expected that you had come across some place where there was plenty to eat, and some one was giving you bottles of Spanish wine, and that you had forgotten all about your poor comrade lying here.”

“There, I am too tired to argue with you, Punch,” said Pen with a sigh. “You have drunk all the water, then?”

“Course I have, hours ago, and eat the last of the bread, and I should have eat that bit of hard, dry cheese, only I let it slip out of my fingers and it bounced like a bit of wood under the bed. Well, whatcher brought for us to eat?”

“Nothing, I am sorry to say.”

“Well, but what are we going to do? We can’t starve.”

“I am afraid we can, Punch, if things are going on like this.”

“But they ain’t to go on like this. I won’t lie here and starve. Nice thing for a poor fellow tied up here so bad that he couldn’t pick up a bit of wittles again as had tumbled down, and you gone off roaming about where you liked, leaving your poor wounded comrade to die! Oh, I do call it a shame!” cried the lad piteously.

“Yes, it does seem a shame, Punch,” said Pen gently; “but I can fetch some water. Are you very thirsty?”

“Thirsty? Course I am! Burnt up! It has been like an oven here all day.”

Pen caught up the woodenseauand hurried out through the wood, to return in a few minutes with the vessel brimful of cold, clear water, which he set down ready, and then after carefully raising the poor boy into a sitting position he lifted the well-filled drinking-cup to his lips and replenished it again twice before the poor fellow would give up.

“Ah!” he sighed, “that’s better! Which way did you go this time?”

“Out there to the west, where the sun goes down, Punch.”

“Well, didn’t you find no farmhouses nor cottages where they’d give you a bit of something to eat?”

“Not one; only rough mountain-land, with a goat here and there.”

“Well, why didn’t you catch one, or drive your bayonet into it? If we couldn’t cook it we could have eaten it raw.”

“I tried to, Punch, but the two or three I saw had been hunted by the enemy till they were perfectly wild, and I never got near one.”

“But you didn’t see no enemy this time, did you?”

“Yes; they are dotted about everywhere, and I have been crawling about all day through the woods so as not to be seen. It’s worse there than in any direction I have been this week. The French are holding the country wherever I have been.”

“Oh, I do call this a nice game,” groaned the wounded boy. “Here, give us another cup of water. It does fill one up, and I have been feeling as hollow as a drum.”

Pen handed him the cup once more, and Punch drank with as much avidity as if it were his first.

“Yes,” he sighed, “I do call it a nice game! I say, though, comrade, don’t you think if you’d waited till it was dark, and then tried, you could have got through their lines to some place and have begged a bit of bread?”

“Perhaps, Punch, if I had not been taken.”

“Well, then, why didn’t you try?”

“Well, we have had that over times enough,” said Pen quietly, “and I think you know.”

“Course I do,” said the boy, changing his tone; “only this wound, and being so hungry, do make me such a beast. If it had been you going on like this, lying wounded here, and it was me waiting on you, and feeding you, and tying you up, I should have been sick of it a week ago, and left you to take your chance.”

“No, you wouldn’t, Punch, old chap; it isn’t in you,” said Pen, “so we won’t argue about that. I only want you to feel that I have done everything I could.”

“’Cept cutting off and leaving me to take my chance. You haven’t done that.”

“No, I haven’t done that, Punch.”

“And I suppose you ain’t going to,” said the boy, “and I ought to tell you you are a fool for your pains.”

“But you are not going to do that, Punch.”

“No, I suppose not; and I wish I wasn’t such a beast—such an ungrateful brute. It is all that sore place; and it don’t get no better. But, I say, why don’t you go out straight and find the first lot of Frenchies you can, and say to them like a man, ‘Here, I give myself up as a prisoner’?”

“I told you, Punch, what I believe,” replied Pen.

“Yes; you said you were afraid that they wouldn’t have me carried away on account of my wound.”

“Well, that’s what I do believe, Punch. I don’t want to be hard on the French, but they are a very rough lot here in this wild mountain-land, and I don’t believe they would burden themselves with wounded.”

“Well, it wouldn’t matter,” said the boy dismally.

“Of course they wouldn’t carry me about; but they would put me out of my misery, and a good job too.”

Pen said nothing, but his face wrinkled up with lines which made him look ten years older, as he laid his hand upon his comrade’s fevered brow.

“Ha!” sighed Punch, “that does a fellow good. I don’t believe any poor chap ever had such a comrade as you are; and I lie here sometimes wondering how you can do so much for such an—”

“Will you be quiet, Punch?” cried Pen, snatching away his hand.

“Yes, yes—please don’t take it away.”

“Then be quiet. You know how I hate you to talk like this.”

“Yes, all right; I have done. But, I say, do you think it’s likely that gal will come again? She must know that what she brought wouldn’t last.”

“I think, poor lass, she must have got into such trouble with her people that she daren’t come again.”

“Her people!” cried the boy. “It’s that ugly black-looking nigger of a sweetheart of hers. You had a good sight of him that night when you took aim with your rifle. Why didn’t you pull the trigger? A chap like that’s no good in the world.”

“Just the same as you would if you had had hold of the rifle yourself, Punch—eh?”

“There you go again,” said the boy sulkily. “What a chap you are! You are always pitching it at me like that. Why, of course I should have shot him like a man.”

“Would you?” said Pen, smiling.

“Oh, well, I don’t know. Perhaps I shouldn’t. Such a chap as that makes you feel as you couldn’t be too hard on him. But it wouldn’t be quite the right thing, I suppose. There, don’t bother. It makes my sore place ache. But, oh, shouldn’t I like to tell him what I think of him! I say, don’t you think she may come to-night?”

“No, Punch; I have almost ceased to hope. Besides, I don’t want to depend on people’s charity, though I like to see it I want to be able to do something for ourselves. No, I don’t think she will come any more.”

“I do,” said the boy confidently. “I am beginning to think that she will come after all. She is sure to. She must know how jolly hungry I should be. She looked so kind. A gal like that wouldn’t leave us to starve. She is a nice, soft-hearted one, she is, though she is Spanish. I wouldn’t take no notice, but I see the tears come in her eyes, and one of them dropped on my hand when she leaned over me and looked so sorry because I was in pain. It’s a pity she ain’t English and lived somewhere at home where one might expect to see her again. It is very sad and shocking to have to live in a country like this.”

“Do you feel so hungry now, Punch?”

“Yes, horrid. Give us a bit of that cheese to nibble. Then I must have another drink, and try and go to sleep. Feel as though I could now you have come back. I was afraid I was never going to see you again.”

“I don’t believe you thought I had forsaken you, Punch.”

“Not me! You couldn’t have done it. ’Tain’t in you, comrade, I know. But I tell you what I did think: that the Frenchies had got hold of you and made you prisoner. Then I lay here feeling that I could not move myself, and trying to work it out as to what you’d do—whether you would try and make them come and fetch me to be a prisoner too, or whether you would think it wouldn’t be safe, and you would be afraid to speak for fear they should come and bayonet me. And so I went on. Oh, I say, comrade, it does make a chap feel queer to lie here without being able to help hisself. I got to think at last that I wished I was dead and out of my misery.”

“Yes, Punch, lad, I know. It was very hard to bear, but I couldn’t help being so long. I was working for you—for both of us—all the time.”

“Course you was, comrade! I know. And now you’ve come back, and it’s all right again. Give us another drink of water. It’s better than nothing—ever so much better, because there’s plenty of it—and I shall go to sleep and do as I did last night when I was so hungry—get dreaming away about there being plenty of good things to eat. I seemed to see a regular feast—roast-meat and fruit and beautiful white bread; only it was as rum as rum. I kept on eating all the time, only nothing seemed to have any taste in it. And, hooray! What did I say! There she is! But,” the boy added, his eager tones of delight seeming to die away in despair, “she ain’t brought no basket!”

For, eager and panting with her exertions, her eyes bright with excitement, the peasant-girl suddenly dashed in through the open door, caught Pen by the breast with one hand, and pointed with the other in the direction from which she had come, as she whispered excitedly, “Los Francéses!”

Then, loosening her grasp, she turned quickly to the boy and passed one hand beneath his neck, signing to Pen to help her raise the wounded lad from the bed, while Pen hurried to the door to look out.

“Yes,” he whispered quickly, as he turned back, “she means the enemy are coming, and wants me to carry you to a place of safety.—All right, my lass; I understand.—Here, Punch, I won’t hurt you more than I can help. Clasp your hands round my neck, and I will carry you.—Here, girl, take my rifle!”

He held out the piece, and the girl caught it in her hand, while Pen drew his companion into a sitting position, stooped down, and turned his back to the bed.

“All right; I won’t squeak, comrade. Up with me. For’ard!”

But the boy could not control his muscles, the contractions in his face showing plainly enough the agony he felt as with one quick movement Pen raised himself, pressing the clinging hands to his breast, and swung the poor fellow upon his back.

The girl nodded sharply, as, rifle in hand, she made for the door, beckoning to Pen to follow quickly; and then, with a look of despair, she stopped short, her actions showing plainly enough what she must be saying, for there was a quick rush among the trees outside, and the young Spaniard dashed to the front of the hut, made a snatch at the rifle the girl was bearing, and tore it from her grasp as he drove her back into the hut and barred the way, uttering a loud hail the while.

“Too late! We are too late, Punch,” said Pen bitterly. “Here they are! Prisoners, my lad. I can do no more.”

For, as he spoke, about a dozen of the enemy doubled up to the front of the hut, and the young Spaniard who had betrayed the two lads stood before Pen, showing his white teeth in a malignant grin of triumph, as he held the girl by the wrist.

Chapter Sixteen.Prisoners.“Are you in much pain, Punch?” said Pen, as, with his wrists tied tightly behind him he knelt beside his comrade, who lay now just outside the door of the hut, a couple of French chasseurs on guard.The officer in command of the little party had taken possession of the hut for temporary bivouac, and his men had lighted a fire, whose flames picturesquely lit up the surrounding trees, beneath which the new-comers had stretched themselves and were now partaking of bread, grapes, and the water a couple of their party had fetched from the stream.The young Spaniard was seated aloof from the girl, whose back was half-turned from him as she sat there seeming to have lost all interest in the scene and those whom she had tried to warn of the danger they were in.From time to time the Spanish lad spoke to her, but she only jerked her head away from him, looking more indifferent than ever.“Are you in much pain, Punch?” asked Pen again; for the boy had not replied, and Pen leaned more towards him, to gaze in his face searchingly.“Oh, pretty tidy,” replied the boy at last; “but it’s better now. You seemed to wake up my wound, but it’s going to sleep again. I say, though, I didn’t show nothing, did I?”“No, you bore it bravely.”“Did I? That’s right. I was afraid, though, that I should have to howl; but I am all right now. And I say, comrade, look here; some chaps miche—you know, sham bad—so as to get into hospital to be fed up and get off duty, and they do it too, you know.”“Yes, I know,” said Pen, watching the lad anxiously. “But don’t talk so much.”“Must; I want to tell you, I am going to miche—sham, you know—the other way on.”“What do you mean?” said Pen.“Why, make-believe I’m all right. Make these froggies think my wound’s only a scratch. Then perhaps they will march me off along with you as a prisoner. I don’t want them to—you know.”“March you off!” said Pen bitterly. “Why, you know you can’t stand.”“Can’t! I’ve got to. You’ll let me hold tight of your arm. I’ve got to, comrade, and I will. It means setting one’s teeth pretty hard. Only wish I had got a bullet to bite. It would come easy then. Look here, wait a bit, and then you back up a bit closer to me. Haven’t tied my hands like yours. Just you edge close so as I can slip my fingers into your box. I want to get out one cartridge for the sake of the bullet.”“You can’t, Punch. Didn’t you see they slipped off the belt, and that young Spaniard’s got it along with my rifle?”“So he has! I didn’t know. Now then, wasn’t I right when I said you ought to have fired at him and brought him down? Well, I must have a bullet somehow. I know. I will try and get the girl to get hold of the case; only I don’t know how it’s to be done without knowing what to say. Can’t you put me up to it, comrade?”“No, Punch.”“But you might give a fellow a bit of advice.”“My advice is to lie still and wait.”“Well, that’s pretty advice, that is, comrade. Wait till they comes and makes an end of a fellow if he breaks down, for I am beginning to think that I sha’n’t be able to go through with it.”“Let’s wait and see what happens, Punch. We have done our best, and we can do no more.”Just then Pen’s attention was taken up by the young officer, who came to the door of the hut, yawned, and stood looking about at his men before slowly sauntering round the bivouac as if to see that all was right, the sentries drawing themselves up stiffly as he passed on, till he caught sight of the Spanish girl and the lad seated together in the full light cast by the fire.Then turning sharply to one of his men, the young officer pointed at the Spaniard and gave an order in a low, imperious tone.Two of his men advanced to the lit-up group, and one of them gave the lad a sharp clap on the shoulder which made him spring up angrily, while the other chasseur snatched the English rifle from his hand, the first chasseur seizing the cartridge-belt and case.There was a brief struggle, but it was two to one, and the Spaniard, as Pen watched the encounter eagerly, was sent staggering back, catching his heel in a bush and falling heavily, but only to rebound on the instant, springing up knife now in hand and making at the nearest soldier.“Ha!” gasped Punch excitedly, as he saw the gleam of the knife; and then he drew in his breath with a hiss, for it was almost momentary: one of the two French soldiers who had approached him to obey his officer’s orders and disarm the informer just raised his musket and made a drive with the butt at the knife-armed Spaniard, who received the metal plate of the stock full in his temple and rolled over, half-stunned, amongst the bushes.Another order rang out from the officer, and before the young Spaniard could recover himself a couple more of the soldiers had pounced upon him, and a minute later he was firmly bound, as helpless a prisoner as the young rifleman who watched the scene.“Say, comrade,” whispered Punch, “that’s done me good. But do you see that?”“See it? Why, of course I saw it. That’s not what he bargained for when he led the Frenchmen here.”“No, I don’t mean that,” whispered Punch impatiently. “I meant the gal.”“The girl?” said Pen. “What about her?”“Where is she?” whispered Punch.“Why, she was—”“Yes,was,” whispered Punch again; “but where is she now? She went off like a shot into the woods.”“Ah!” exclaimed Pen, with a look of relief in his eyes.“Yes, she’s gone; and now I want to know what’s going to be next. Here comes the officer. What’ll be his first order? To shoot us, and that young Spaniel too?”“No,” said Pen. “But don’t talk; he’s close here.”The officer approached his prisoners now, closely followed by one of his men, whosegalonsshowed that he was a sergeant.“Badly wounded, eh?” said the officer in French.“Yes, sir; too bad to stand.”“The worse for him,” said the officer. “Well, we can’t take wounded men with us; we have enough of our own.”“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant; and Pen felt the blood seem to run cold through his veins.And then curiously enough there was a feeling of relief in the knowledge that his wounded comrade could not understand the words he had grasped at once.“We shall go back to camp in half an hour,” continued the officer; and then running his eye over Pen as he sat up by Punch’s side, “This fellow all right?”“Yes, sir.”“See to his fastenings. I leave him to you.”“But surely, sir,” cried Pen, in very good French, “you are not going to have my poor companion shot in cold blood because he has the misfortune to be wounded?”“Eh, do you understand French?”“Yes, sir; every word you have said.”“But you are not an officer?”“I have my feelings, sir, and I appeal to you as an officer and a gentleman to save that poor fellow. It would be murder, and not the act of a soldier.”“Humph!” grunted the officer. “You boys should have stayed at home.—Here, sergeant, carry the lad into camp. Find room for him in the ambulance.—There, sir, are you satisfied now?” he continued to Pen.“Yes, sir,” replied Pen quickly; “satisfied that I am in the presence of a brave French officer. God bless you for this!”The officer nodded and turned away, the sergeant stopping by the prisoners.“Here, I say,” whispered Punch, “what was all that talking about?”“Only arranging about how you were to be carried into camp, Punch,” replied Pen.“Gammon! Don’t you try and gull me. I know,” panted the boy excitedly. “I could not understand the lingo; but you were begging him not to have me shot, and he gave orders to this ’ere sergeant to carry out what he said. You are trying to hide it from me so as I shouldn’t know. But you needn’t. I should like to have gone out like our other chaps have—shot fair in the field; but if it’s to be shot as a prisoner, well, I mean to take it like a man.”The boy’s voice faltered for a few moments as he uttered the last words, and then he added almost in a whisper, “I mean, if I can, for I’m awful weak just now. But you’ll stand by me, comrade, and I think I will go through it as I ought. And you will tell the lads when you get back that I didn’t show the white feather, but went out just like a fellow ought?”“That won’t be now, Punch,” said Pen, leaning over him. “I am not deceiving you. I appealed to the officer, and he gave orders at once that you were to be carried by the men to their camp and placed in one of the ambulance wagons.”“Honour?” cried Punch excitedly. “Honour bright,” replied Pen. “But that means taking me away from you,” cried the boy, with his voice breaking.“Yes; but to go into hospital and be well treated.”“Oh, but I don’t want to go like that,” cried the boy wildly. “Can’t you ask the officer—can’t you tell him that—oh, here—you—we two mustn’t—mustn’t be—” For the sergeant now joined them with a couple of men carrying a rough litter; and as Punch, almost speechless now, caught at his wrist and clung to him tightly, he looked down in the prisoner’s wildly appealing eyes.“Why, what’s the matter with the boy?” growled the sergeant roughly. “Does he think he’s going to be shot?”“He’s badly hurt, sir,” said Pen quietly, “and can’t bear being separated from me.”“Oh, that’s it, is it, sir?” said the sergeant. “My faith, but you speak good French! Tell him that I’ll see that he’s all right. What’s his hurt—bayonet?”“No,” said Pen, smiling. “A French bullet—one of your men aimed too well.”“Ha, ha! Yes, we know how to shoot. Poor fellow! Why, I have just such a boy as he.—Lift him up gently, lads.—Humph! He has fainted.”For poor Punch had held out bravely to the last; but nature was too strong even for his British pluck.

“Are you in much pain, Punch?” said Pen, as, with his wrists tied tightly behind him he knelt beside his comrade, who lay now just outside the door of the hut, a couple of French chasseurs on guard.

The officer in command of the little party had taken possession of the hut for temporary bivouac, and his men had lighted a fire, whose flames picturesquely lit up the surrounding trees, beneath which the new-comers had stretched themselves and were now partaking of bread, grapes, and the water a couple of their party had fetched from the stream.

The young Spaniard was seated aloof from the girl, whose back was half-turned from him as she sat there seeming to have lost all interest in the scene and those whom she had tried to warn of the danger they were in.

From time to time the Spanish lad spoke to her, but she only jerked her head away from him, looking more indifferent than ever.

“Are you in much pain, Punch?” asked Pen again; for the boy had not replied, and Pen leaned more towards him, to gaze in his face searchingly.

“Oh, pretty tidy,” replied the boy at last; “but it’s better now. You seemed to wake up my wound, but it’s going to sleep again. I say, though, I didn’t show nothing, did I?”

“No, you bore it bravely.”

“Did I? That’s right. I was afraid, though, that I should have to howl; but I am all right now. And I say, comrade, look here; some chaps miche—you know, sham bad—so as to get into hospital to be fed up and get off duty, and they do it too, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” said Pen, watching the lad anxiously. “But don’t talk so much.”

“Must; I want to tell you, I am going to miche—sham, you know—the other way on.”

“What do you mean?” said Pen.

“Why, make-believe I’m all right. Make these froggies think my wound’s only a scratch. Then perhaps they will march me off along with you as a prisoner. I don’t want them to—you know.”

“March you off!” said Pen bitterly. “Why, you know you can’t stand.”

“Can’t! I’ve got to. You’ll let me hold tight of your arm. I’ve got to, comrade, and I will. It means setting one’s teeth pretty hard. Only wish I had got a bullet to bite. It would come easy then. Look here, wait a bit, and then you back up a bit closer to me. Haven’t tied my hands like yours. Just you edge close so as I can slip my fingers into your box. I want to get out one cartridge for the sake of the bullet.”

“You can’t, Punch. Didn’t you see they slipped off the belt, and that young Spaniard’s got it along with my rifle?”

“So he has! I didn’t know. Now then, wasn’t I right when I said you ought to have fired at him and brought him down? Well, I must have a bullet somehow. I know. I will try and get the girl to get hold of the case; only I don’t know how it’s to be done without knowing what to say. Can’t you put me up to it, comrade?”

“No, Punch.”

“But you might give a fellow a bit of advice.”

“My advice is to lie still and wait.”

“Well, that’s pretty advice, that is, comrade. Wait till they comes and makes an end of a fellow if he breaks down, for I am beginning to think that I sha’n’t be able to go through with it.”

“Let’s wait and see what happens, Punch. We have done our best, and we can do no more.”

Just then Pen’s attention was taken up by the young officer, who came to the door of the hut, yawned, and stood looking about at his men before slowly sauntering round the bivouac as if to see that all was right, the sentries drawing themselves up stiffly as he passed on, till he caught sight of the Spanish girl and the lad seated together in the full light cast by the fire.

Then turning sharply to one of his men, the young officer pointed at the Spaniard and gave an order in a low, imperious tone.

Two of his men advanced to the lit-up group, and one of them gave the lad a sharp clap on the shoulder which made him spring up angrily, while the other chasseur snatched the English rifle from his hand, the first chasseur seizing the cartridge-belt and case.

There was a brief struggle, but it was two to one, and the Spaniard, as Pen watched the encounter eagerly, was sent staggering back, catching his heel in a bush and falling heavily, but only to rebound on the instant, springing up knife now in hand and making at the nearest soldier.

“Ha!” gasped Punch excitedly, as he saw the gleam of the knife; and then he drew in his breath with a hiss, for it was almost momentary: one of the two French soldiers who had approached him to obey his officer’s orders and disarm the informer just raised his musket and made a drive with the butt at the knife-armed Spaniard, who received the metal plate of the stock full in his temple and rolled over, half-stunned, amongst the bushes.

Another order rang out from the officer, and before the young Spaniard could recover himself a couple more of the soldiers had pounced upon him, and a minute later he was firmly bound, as helpless a prisoner as the young rifleman who watched the scene.

“Say, comrade,” whispered Punch, “that’s done me good. But do you see that?”

“See it? Why, of course I saw it. That’s not what he bargained for when he led the Frenchmen here.”

“No, I don’t mean that,” whispered Punch impatiently. “I meant the gal.”

“The girl?” said Pen. “What about her?”

“Where is she?” whispered Punch.

“Why, she was—”

“Yes,was,” whispered Punch again; “but where is she now? She went off like a shot into the woods.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Pen, with a look of relief in his eyes.

“Yes, she’s gone; and now I want to know what’s going to be next. Here comes the officer. What’ll be his first order? To shoot us, and that young Spaniel too?”

“No,” said Pen. “But don’t talk; he’s close here.”

The officer approached his prisoners now, closely followed by one of his men, whosegalonsshowed that he was a sergeant.

“Badly wounded, eh?” said the officer in French.

“Yes, sir; too bad to stand.”

“The worse for him,” said the officer. “Well, we can’t take wounded men with us; we have enough of our own.”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant; and Pen felt the blood seem to run cold through his veins.

And then curiously enough there was a feeling of relief in the knowledge that his wounded comrade could not understand the words he had grasped at once.

“We shall go back to camp in half an hour,” continued the officer; and then running his eye over Pen as he sat up by Punch’s side, “This fellow all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“See to his fastenings. I leave him to you.”

“But surely, sir,” cried Pen, in very good French, “you are not going to have my poor companion shot in cold blood because he has the misfortune to be wounded?”

“Eh, do you understand French?”

“Yes, sir; every word you have said.”

“But you are not an officer?”

“I have my feelings, sir, and I appeal to you as an officer and a gentleman to save that poor fellow. It would be murder, and not the act of a soldier.”

“Humph!” grunted the officer. “You boys should have stayed at home.—Here, sergeant, carry the lad into camp. Find room for him in the ambulance.—There, sir, are you satisfied now?” he continued to Pen.

“Yes, sir,” replied Pen quickly; “satisfied that I am in the presence of a brave French officer. God bless you for this!”

The officer nodded and turned away, the sergeant stopping by the prisoners.

“Here, I say,” whispered Punch, “what was all that talking about?”

“Only arranging about how you were to be carried into camp, Punch,” replied Pen.

“Gammon! Don’t you try and gull me. I know,” panted the boy excitedly. “I could not understand the lingo; but you were begging him not to have me shot, and he gave orders to this ’ere sergeant to carry out what he said. You are trying to hide it from me so as I shouldn’t know. But you needn’t. I should like to have gone out like our other chaps have—shot fair in the field; but if it’s to be shot as a prisoner, well, I mean to take it like a man.”

The boy’s voice faltered for a few moments as he uttered the last words, and then he added almost in a whisper, “I mean, if I can, for I’m awful weak just now. But you’ll stand by me, comrade, and I think I will go through it as I ought. And you will tell the lads when you get back that I didn’t show the white feather, but went out just like a fellow ought?”

“That won’t be now, Punch,” said Pen, leaning over him. “I am not deceiving you. I appealed to the officer, and he gave orders at once that you were to be carried by the men to their camp and placed in one of the ambulance wagons.”

“Honour?” cried Punch excitedly. “Honour bright,” replied Pen. “But that means taking me away from you,” cried the boy, with his voice breaking.

“Yes; but to go into hospital and be well treated.”

“Oh, but I don’t want to go like that,” cried the boy wildly. “Can’t you ask the officer—can’t you tell him that—oh, here—you—we two mustn’t—mustn’t be—” For the sergeant now joined them with a couple of men carrying a rough litter; and as Punch, almost speechless now, caught at his wrist and clung to him tightly, he looked down in the prisoner’s wildly appealing eyes.

“Why, what’s the matter with the boy?” growled the sergeant roughly. “Does he think he’s going to be shot?”

“He’s badly hurt, sir,” said Pen quietly, “and can’t bear being separated from me.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it, sir?” said the sergeant. “My faith, but you speak good French! Tell him that I’ll see that he’s all right. What’s his hurt—bayonet?”

“No,” said Pen, smiling. “A French bullet—one of your men aimed too well.”

“Ha, ha! Yes, we know how to shoot. Poor fellow! Why, I have just such a boy as he.—Lift him up gently, lads.—Humph! He has fainted.”

For poor Punch had held out bravely to the last; but nature was too strong even for his British pluck.

Chapter Seventeen.In Misery.“I say, Pen, are you there?”“Yes, I’m here. What do you want?”“Want you to turn me round so as I can look out of the door. What made you put me like this?”“It wasn’t my doing. You were put so that you might be more comfortable.”“But I am not more comfortable, and it’s so jolly dark. I like to be able to look out of the door if I wake in the night.”“Hush! Don’t talk so loudly.”“Why not? There’s nobody to hear. But just turn me over first.”“Hush! There are three or four other people to hear,” whispered Pen. “You are half-asleep yet. Don’t you understand, Punch?”“Understand—understand what?” said the poor fellow, subduing his voice in obedience to his companion’s words.“I must tell you, I suppose.”“Tell me? Why, of course! Oh, I begin to understand now. Have I been off my head a bit?”“Yes; you were very much upset when the French officer was with us, and fainted away.”“Phee-ew!” whistled the boy softly. “Oh, it’s all coming back now. The French came, and knocked over that Spanish chap, and I thought that they were going to take me away and shoot me. Why, they didn’t, then! That’s all right. Yes, I remember now. My head was all in a muddledum. I got thinking I was never going to see you any more. When was it—just now?”“No, Punch, it was two nights ago, and the doctor thought—”“The doctor? Why, you have been my doctor. I say—”“Don’t get excited. Lie quite still, and I will tell you.”“Ah, do. I am all in a muddle still; only you might turn me round, so that I can look straight out of the door, and I could breathe the fresh air then. I am being quite stuffercated like this.”“Yes, the hut is dreadfully hot,” said Pen with a sigh. “There are six other poor wounded fellows lying here.”“Six other wounded fellows lying here! Whatcher talking about?”“Only this, Punch,” said Pen, with his lips close to the boy’s ear. “You were carried to the little camp where those French came from that made us prisoners, and there you were put in an ambulance wagon with six more poor fellows, and the mules dragged us right away to a village where a detachment of the French army was in occupation. Do you understand?”“I think so. But you said something about doctors.”“Yes. There are several surgeons in this village, and wounded men in every hut. There has been fighting going on, and a good many more wounded men were brought in yesterday.”“Halt!” said Punch in a quick, short whisper. “Steady! Did we win?”“I don’t know, but I think not. I’ve seen nothing but wounded men and the doctors and the French orderlies. The French officer was very nice, and let me stay with you in the ambulance; and when we came to a halt and I helped to carry you and the other wounded into this hut, one of the doctors ordered me to stop and help, so that I have been able to attend to you as well as the others.”“Good chap! That was lucky. Then this ain’t our hut at all?”“No.”“What’s become of that gal, then?”“She escaped somewhere in the darkness,” replied Pen.“And what about that Spanish beggar? Ah, I recollect that now. He brought the French to take us prisoners.”“I haven’t seen any more of him, Punch, since they led him away.”“Serve him right! And so I’ve been lying here in this hut ever since?”“Yes, quite insensible, and I don’t think you even knew when the French surgeon dressed your wound and took out a ragged bit of the cartridge.”“Took out what?”“A piece of the wad that was driven in, and kept the wound from healing.”“Well, you have been carrying on nice games without me knowing of it!” said the boy. “And it hasn’t done me a bit of good.”“The doctor says it has. He told me yesterday evening that you would soon get right now.”“And shall I?”“Yes, I hope so.”“So do I. But it does seem rum that all this should be done without my knowing of it.”“Well, you have been quite insensible.”“I suppose so. But where are we now, then?”“I don’t know, Punch, except that this is a little Spanish village which the French have been occupying as a sort of hospital.”“But where’s all the fighting?”“I don’t know, Punch, much more than you do. There was some firing last night. I heard a good deal of tramping close at hand, as if some more men were marching in, and then more and more came through the night, and I heard firing again about a couple of hours ago; but it seemed to be miles away.”“And you don’t know who’s beat?”“I know nothing, I tell you, only that everything has been very quiet for the last hour or so.”“Perhaps because you have been asleep,” said Punch.“No; I have been quite awake, fetching water from a mountain-stream here for the poor fellows who keep asking for more and more.”“Do they know we are English?”“I don’t think so. Poor fellows! their wounds keep them from thinking about such a thing as that; and, besides, I am just able to understand what they say, and to say a few words when they ask for drink or to be moved a little.”“Oh,” said Punch, “that comes of being able to talk French. Wish I could. Here, I say, you said the doctor had been doing up my wound again. Think I could walk now?”“I am sure you couldn’t.”“I ain’t,” said the boy. “Perhaps I could if I tried.”“But why do you ask?” said Pen. “Because it’s so jolly nice and dark; and, besides, it’s all so quiet. Couldn’t we slip off and find the way to our troops?”“That’s what I’ve been thinking, Punch, ever since you have been lying here.”“Of course you would,” said the boy in an eager whisper. “And why not? I think I could manage it, and I’m game.”“You must wait, Punch, and with me think ourselves lucky that we are still together. Wait and get strong enough, and then we will try.”“Oh, all right. I shall do what you tell me. But I say, what’s become of your rifle and belt?”“I don’t know. I saw them once. They were with some muskets and bayonets laid in the mule-wagon under the straw on one side. But I haven’t seen them since.”“That’s a pity,” sighed the boy faintly; and soon after Pen found, when he whispered to him, that he was breathing softly and regularly, while his head felt fairly cool in spite of the stifling air of the crowded hut.Punch did not stir till long after sunrise, and when he did it was to see that, utterly exhausted, his companion had sunk into a deep sleep, for the rest of that terrible night had been spent in trying to assuage the agony of first one and then another of the most badly wounded who were lying around. Every now and then there had been a piteous appeal for water to slake the burning thirst, and twice over the lad had to pass through the terrible experience of holding the hand of some poor fellow who in the darkness had whispered his last few words as he passed away.Later on a couple more wounded men had been borne in by the light of a lantern, by whose aid a place was found for them in the already too crowded hut, and it became Pen’s duty to hold the dim open lantern and cast the light so that a busy surgeon, who was already exhausted by his long and terrible duties, could do his best to bandage and stop some wound.It was just at daylight, in the midst of the terrible silence which had now fallen around, that Pen’s head had sunk slowly down till it rested upon Punch’s shoulder; and when the sun rose at last its horizontal rays lit up the dismal scene, with the elder lad’s pallid and besmirched face, consequent upon the help he had been called upon to render, giving him the appearance of being one of the wounded men.

“I say, Pen, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here. What do you want?”

“Want you to turn me round so as I can look out of the door. What made you put me like this?”

“It wasn’t my doing. You were put so that you might be more comfortable.”

“But I am not more comfortable, and it’s so jolly dark. I like to be able to look out of the door if I wake in the night.”

“Hush! Don’t talk so loudly.”

“Why not? There’s nobody to hear. But just turn me over first.”

“Hush! There are three or four other people to hear,” whispered Pen. “You are half-asleep yet. Don’t you understand, Punch?”

“Understand—understand what?” said the poor fellow, subduing his voice in obedience to his companion’s words.

“I must tell you, I suppose.”

“Tell me? Why, of course! Oh, I begin to understand now. Have I been off my head a bit?”

“Yes; you were very much upset when the French officer was with us, and fainted away.”

“Phee-ew!” whistled the boy softly. “Oh, it’s all coming back now. The French came, and knocked over that Spanish chap, and I thought that they were going to take me away and shoot me. Why, they didn’t, then! That’s all right. Yes, I remember now. My head was all in a muddledum. I got thinking I was never going to see you any more. When was it—just now?”

“No, Punch, it was two nights ago, and the doctor thought—”

“The doctor? Why, you have been my doctor. I say—”

“Don’t get excited. Lie quite still, and I will tell you.”

“Ah, do. I am all in a muddle still; only you might turn me round, so that I can look straight out of the door, and I could breathe the fresh air then. I am being quite stuffercated like this.”

“Yes, the hut is dreadfully hot,” said Pen with a sigh. “There are six other poor wounded fellows lying here.”

“Six other wounded fellows lying here! Whatcher talking about?”

“Only this, Punch,” said Pen, with his lips close to the boy’s ear. “You were carried to the little camp where those French came from that made us prisoners, and there you were put in an ambulance wagon with six more poor fellows, and the mules dragged us right away to a village where a detachment of the French army was in occupation. Do you understand?”

“I think so. But you said something about doctors.”

“Yes. There are several surgeons in this village, and wounded men in every hut. There has been fighting going on, and a good many more wounded men were brought in yesterday.”

“Halt!” said Punch in a quick, short whisper. “Steady! Did we win?”

“I don’t know, but I think not. I’ve seen nothing but wounded men and the doctors and the French orderlies. The French officer was very nice, and let me stay with you in the ambulance; and when we came to a halt and I helped to carry you and the other wounded into this hut, one of the doctors ordered me to stop and help, so that I have been able to attend to you as well as the others.”

“Good chap! That was lucky. Then this ain’t our hut at all?”

“No.”

“What’s become of that gal, then?”

“She escaped somewhere in the darkness,” replied Pen.

“And what about that Spanish beggar? Ah, I recollect that now. He brought the French to take us prisoners.”

“I haven’t seen any more of him, Punch, since they led him away.”

“Serve him right! And so I’ve been lying here in this hut ever since?”

“Yes, quite insensible, and I don’t think you even knew when the French surgeon dressed your wound and took out a ragged bit of the cartridge.”

“Took out what?”

“A piece of the wad that was driven in, and kept the wound from healing.”

“Well, you have been carrying on nice games without me knowing of it!” said the boy. “And it hasn’t done me a bit of good.”

“The doctor says it has. He told me yesterday evening that you would soon get right now.”

“And shall I?”

“Yes, I hope so.”

“So do I. But it does seem rum that all this should be done without my knowing of it.”

“Well, you have been quite insensible.”

“I suppose so. But where are we now, then?”

“I don’t know, Punch, except that this is a little Spanish village which the French have been occupying as a sort of hospital.”

“But where’s all the fighting?”

“I don’t know, Punch, much more than you do. There was some firing last night. I heard a good deal of tramping close at hand, as if some more men were marching in, and then more and more came through the night, and I heard firing again about a couple of hours ago; but it seemed to be miles away.”

“And you don’t know who’s beat?”

“I know nothing, I tell you, only that everything has been very quiet for the last hour or so.”

“Perhaps because you have been asleep,” said Punch.

“No; I have been quite awake, fetching water from a mountain-stream here for the poor fellows who keep asking for more and more.”

“Do they know we are English?”

“I don’t think so. Poor fellows! their wounds keep them from thinking about such a thing as that; and, besides, I am just able to understand what they say, and to say a few words when they ask for drink or to be moved a little.”

“Oh,” said Punch, “that comes of being able to talk French. Wish I could. Here, I say, you said the doctor had been doing up my wound again. Think I could walk now?”

“I am sure you couldn’t.”

“I ain’t,” said the boy. “Perhaps I could if I tried.”

“But why do you ask?” said Pen. “Because it’s so jolly nice and dark; and, besides, it’s all so quiet. Couldn’t we slip off and find the way to our troops?”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking, Punch, ever since you have been lying here.”

“Of course you would,” said the boy in an eager whisper. “And why not? I think I could manage it, and I’m game.”

“You must wait, Punch, and with me think ourselves lucky that we are still together. Wait and get strong enough, and then we will try.”

“Oh, all right. I shall do what you tell me. But I say, what’s become of your rifle and belt?”

“I don’t know. I saw them once. They were with some muskets and bayonets laid in the mule-wagon under the straw on one side. But I haven’t seen them since.”

“That’s a pity,” sighed the boy faintly; and soon after Pen found, when he whispered to him, that he was breathing softly and regularly, while his head felt fairly cool in spite of the stifling air of the crowded hut.

Punch did not stir till long after sunrise, and when he did it was to see that, utterly exhausted, his companion had sunk into a deep sleep, for the rest of that terrible night had been spent in trying to assuage the agony of first one and then another of the most badly wounded who were lying around. Every now and then there had been a piteous appeal for water to slake the burning thirst, and twice over the lad had to pass through the terrible experience of holding the hand of some poor fellow who in the darkness had whispered his last few words as he passed away.

Later on a couple more wounded men had been borne in by the light of a lantern, by whose aid a place was found for them in the already too crowded hut, and it became Pen’s duty to hold the dim open lantern and cast the light so that a busy surgeon, who was already exhausted by his long and terrible duties, could do his best to bandage and stop some wound.

It was just at daylight, in the midst of the terrible silence which had now fallen around, that Pen’s head had sunk slowly down till it rested upon Punch’s shoulder; and when the sun rose at last its horizontal rays lit up the dismal scene, with the elder lad’s pallid and besmirched face, consequent upon the help he had been called upon to render, giving him the appearance of being one of the wounded men.

Chapter Eighteen.War’s Horrors.But the morning brought not only the horizontal rays of the great sun which lit up the hut with its sad tale of death and suffering, but likewise a renewal of the fight of the previous day, and this time the tide of battle swept much nearer to the encampment of the wounded.Punch started out of a state of dreamy calm, and wondered why the noise he heard had not roused up his sleeping comrade, for from apparently quite near at hand came the boom of artillery, a sound which for the moment drowned all others, even the hoarse, harshly uttered words of command, as large bodies of men swung past the doorway of the hut, and the fitful bugle-calls which a minute before had fallen on his ear.“Ah,” he muttered, “it’s a big fight going on out there. I wonder if those are our guns;” and once more the air was rent by the dull, angry roar of artillery. “Pen! Pen! Oh, I can’t let him sleep! Why doesn’t he wake up? Here, I say, comrade!”“Eh, what is it?” And Pen opened his eyes, to gaze wonderingly at Punch’s excited face.“Don’t you hear?”“Hear? Yes, yes,” And the dreamy look vanished from the other’s eyes.The two lads waited, listening, and then Punch put his lips close to Pen’s ear.“I am sure we are winning,” he said. “Hear that?”“How can I help hearing it?”“Well, it’s English guns, I know.”“Think so?”“Yes, and they will be here soon.”Pen shook his head.“Afraid not,” he said; “and— Ah, all right.—Punch, lad, I’m wanted.” For just then a man came hurriedly into the hut and made him a sign.“What does he want?” grumbled Punch.“It’s the surgeon,” said Pen, and he hurried away.For some hours—long, hot, weary hours—Punch saw little of his fellow-prisoner, the morning wearing on and the atmosphere of the hovel becoming unbearably close, while all the time outside in the brilliant sunshine, evidently just on the other side of a stretch of purple hilly land, a battle was in progress, the rattle of musketry breaking into the heavy volume of sound made by the field-guns, while every now and again on the sun-baked, dusty stretch which lay beyond the doorway, where the shadows were dark, a mounted man galloped past.“Wish my comrade would come back,” he muttered; and it was long ere his wish was fulfilled. But the time came at last, and Pen was standing there before him, holding in his hands a tin drinking-cup and a piece of bread.“Take hold,” he said hoarsely, looking away.“Where you been?” said Punch.“Working in the ambulance. I—I—” And Pen staggered, and sat down suddenly on the ground.“What’s the matter? Not hit?”“No, no.”“Had anything yourself?”“Bother!” said Pen. “Make haste. Toss off that water. I want the cup.”“Had anything yourself?” repeated Punch firmly.“Well, no.”“Then I sha’n’t touch a drop until you have half and take some of that bread.”“But—”“It’s no good, Pen. I sha’n’t and I won’t—so there!”Pen hesitated.“Very well,” he said; “half.” And he drank some of the water. “It’s very good—makes one feel better,” and he ate a morsel or two of bread. “I had a job to get it.”“What did that fellow want?” asked Punch as he attacked his share.“Me to help with the wounded,” said Pen huskily. “So you thought me long?”“Course I did. But the wounded—are there many?”“Heaps,” said Pen. “But don’t talk so loudly.”“Poor chaps,” said Punch, “they can’t hear what we say. How are things going? There, they are at it again.”“I think the French are giving ground,” said Pen in a whisper.“Hooray!”“Hush!”“What, mayn’t I say hooray?”“No, you mayn’t. I have picked up a little since I went away. I fancy our men have been coming on to try and take this village, but I couldn’t make out much for the smoke; and, besides, I have been with that surgeon nearly all the time.”“Yes,” said Punch. “Well, will they do it?”Pen shook his head.“Don’t think so,” he said. “They have tried it twice. I heard what was being done. Our people were driven back, and—”He said no more, but turned to the door; and Punch strained his eyes in the same direction, as from away to the right, beyond a group of cottages, came a bugle-call, shrill, piercing, then again and again, while Punch started upright with a cry, catching Pen’s arm.“I say, hear that? That’s our charge. Don’t you hear? They are coming on again!”The effort Punch had made caused a pain so intense that he fell back with a groan.“You can leave me, Pen, old chap,” he said.“Don’t mind me; don’t look. But—but it’s the English charge. Go to them. They are coming—they are, I tell you. Don’t look like that, and—and— There, listen!”The two lads were not the only ones in that hut to listen then and to note that the conflict was drawing nearer and nearer.Punch, indeed, was right, and a short time after Pen crouched down closer to his companion, for now, quite close at hand, came volley after volley, thezip, zipof the ricochetting bullets seeming to clear the way for the charge.Then more volleys.The dust was ploughed up, and Punch started as a bullet came with a softplugin the hut-wall, and Pen’s heart felt ready to stop beating as there was a hoarse command outside, and half-a-dozen French infantry dashed into the building, to fill the doorway, two lying down and their comrades kneeling and standing.“Don’t speak,” whispered Pen, for the boy had wrenched himself round and was gazing intently at the backs of the soldiers. “Don’t speak.”Silence, before a grim happening. Then a roar from outside, exultant and fierce, and in the wide-open space beyond the hut-door the two lads saw a large body of the enemy in retreat before the serried ranks of British infantry who came on at the double, their bayonets flashing in the sun’s rays, and cheering as they swept onward.The muskets in the doorway flashed, and the hut was filled with smoke.“Pen, I must whisper it—Hooroar!”There was a long interval then, with distant shouting and scattered firing, and it was long ere the cloud of smoke was dissipated sufficiently for the two lads to make out that now the doorway was untenanted except by a French chasseur who lay athwart the threshold on his back, his hand still clutching at the sling of his piece.“Think we have won?” whispered Punch, looking away.“Don’t know,” muttered Pen; but the knowledge that was wanted came soon enough, for an hour later it became evident that the gallant attempt of the British commander to take the village had been foiled.The British cheer they had heard still echoed in their ears, but it was not repeated, and it was speedily apparent that the fight had swept away to their left; and from scraps of information dropped by the members of the bearer-party who brought more wounded into the already crowded hut, and took away the silent figure lying prone in the entrance, Pen made out that the French had made a stand and had finally succeeded in driving back their foes.In obedience to an order from the grim-featured surgeon, he left Punch’s side again soon after, and it was dark ere he returned, to find the boy fast asleep. He sank down and listened, feeling now but little fatigue, starting up, however, once more, every sense on the alert, as there came a series of sharp commands at the hut-door, and he realised that he must have dropped off, for it was late in the evening, and outside the soft moonlight was making the scene look weird and strange.

But the morning brought not only the horizontal rays of the great sun which lit up the hut with its sad tale of death and suffering, but likewise a renewal of the fight of the previous day, and this time the tide of battle swept much nearer to the encampment of the wounded.

Punch started out of a state of dreamy calm, and wondered why the noise he heard had not roused up his sleeping comrade, for from apparently quite near at hand came the boom of artillery, a sound which for the moment drowned all others, even the hoarse, harshly uttered words of command, as large bodies of men swung past the doorway of the hut, and the fitful bugle-calls which a minute before had fallen on his ear.

“Ah,” he muttered, “it’s a big fight going on out there. I wonder if those are our guns;” and once more the air was rent by the dull, angry roar of artillery. “Pen! Pen! Oh, I can’t let him sleep! Why doesn’t he wake up? Here, I say, comrade!”

“Eh, what is it?” And Pen opened his eyes, to gaze wonderingly at Punch’s excited face.

“Don’t you hear?”

“Hear? Yes, yes,” And the dreamy look vanished from the other’s eyes.

The two lads waited, listening, and then Punch put his lips close to Pen’s ear.

“I am sure we are winning,” he said. “Hear that?”

“How can I help hearing it?”

“Well, it’s English guns, I know.”

“Think so?”

“Yes, and they will be here soon.”

Pen shook his head.

“Afraid not,” he said; “and— Ah, all right.—Punch, lad, I’m wanted.” For just then a man came hurriedly into the hut and made him a sign.

“What does he want?” grumbled Punch.

“It’s the surgeon,” said Pen, and he hurried away.

For some hours—long, hot, weary hours—Punch saw little of his fellow-prisoner, the morning wearing on and the atmosphere of the hovel becoming unbearably close, while all the time outside in the brilliant sunshine, evidently just on the other side of a stretch of purple hilly land, a battle was in progress, the rattle of musketry breaking into the heavy volume of sound made by the field-guns, while every now and again on the sun-baked, dusty stretch which lay beyond the doorway, where the shadows were dark, a mounted man galloped past.

“Wish my comrade would come back,” he muttered; and it was long ere his wish was fulfilled. But the time came at last, and Pen was standing there before him, holding in his hands a tin drinking-cup and a piece of bread.

“Take hold,” he said hoarsely, looking away.

“Where you been?” said Punch.

“Working in the ambulance. I—I—” And Pen staggered, and sat down suddenly on the ground.

“What’s the matter? Not hit?”

“No, no.”

“Had anything yourself?”

“Bother!” said Pen. “Make haste. Toss off that water. I want the cup.”

“Had anything yourself?” repeated Punch firmly.

“Well, no.”

“Then I sha’n’t touch a drop until you have half and take some of that bread.”

“But—”

“It’s no good, Pen. I sha’n’t and I won’t—so there!”

Pen hesitated.

“Very well,” he said; “half.” And he drank some of the water. “It’s very good—makes one feel better,” and he ate a morsel or two of bread. “I had a job to get it.”

“What did that fellow want?” asked Punch as he attacked his share.

“Me to help with the wounded,” said Pen huskily. “So you thought me long?”

“Course I did. But the wounded—are there many?”

“Heaps,” said Pen. “But don’t talk so loudly.”

“Poor chaps,” said Punch, “they can’t hear what we say. How are things going? There, they are at it again.”

“I think the French are giving ground,” said Pen in a whisper.

“Hooray!”

“Hush!”

“What, mayn’t I say hooray?”

“No, you mayn’t. I have picked up a little since I went away. I fancy our men have been coming on to try and take this village, but I couldn’t make out much for the smoke; and, besides, I have been with that surgeon nearly all the time.”

“Yes,” said Punch. “Well, will they do it?”

Pen shook his head.

“Don’t think so,” he said. “They have tried it twice. I heard what was being done. Our people were driven back, and—”

He said no more, but turned to the door; and Punch strained his eyes in the same direction, as from away to the right, beyond a group of cottages, came a bugle-call, shrill, piercing, then again and again, while Punch started upright with a cry, catching Pen’s arm.

“I say, hear that? That’s our charge. Don’t you hear? They are coming on again!”

The effort Punch had made caused a pain so intense that he fell back with a groan.

“You can leave me, Pen, old chap,” he said.

“Don’t mind me; don’t look. But—but it’s the English charge. Go to them. They are coming—they are, I tell you. Don’t look like that, and—and— There, listen!”

The two lads were not the only ones in that hut to listen then and to note that the conflict was drawing nearer and nearer.

Punch, indeed, was right, and a short time after Pen crouched down closer to his companion, for now, quite close at hand, came volley after volley, thezip, zipof the ricochetting bullets seeming to clear the way for the charge.

Then more volleys.

The dust was ploughed up, and Punch started as a bullet came with a softplugin the hut-wall, and Pen’s heart felt ready to stop beating as there was a hoarse command outside, and half-a-dozen French infantry dashed into the building, to fill the doorway, two lying down and their comrades kneeling and standing.

“Don’t speak,” whispered Pen, for the boy had wrenched himself round and was gazing intently at the backs of the soldiers. “Don’t speak.”

Silence, before a grim happening. Then a roar from outside, exultant and fierce, and in the wide-open space beyond the hut-door the two lads saw a large body of the enemy in retreat before the serried ranks of British infantry who came on at the double, their bayonets flashing in the sun’s rays, and cheering as they swept onward.

The muskets in the doorway flashed, and the hut was filled with smoke.

“Pen, I must whisper it—Hooroar!”

There was a long interval then, with distant shouting and scattered firing, and it was long ere the cloud of smoke was dissipated sufficiently for the two lads to make out that now the doorway was untenanted except by a French chasseur who lay athwart the threshold on his back, his hand still clutching at the sling of his piece.

“Think we have won?” whispered Punch, looking away.

“Don’t know,” muttered Pen; but the knowledge that was wanted came soon enough, for an hour later it became evident that the gallant attempt of the British commander to take the village had been foiled.

The British cheer they had heard still echoed in their ears, but it was not repeated, and it was speedily apparent that the fight had swept away to their left; and from scraps of information dropped by the members of the bearer-party who brought more wounded into the already crowded hut, and took away the silent figure lying prone in the entrance, Pen made out that the French had made a stand and had finally succeeded in driving back their foes.

In obedience to an order from the grim-featured surgeon, he left Punch’s side again soon after, and it was dark ere he returned, to find the boy fast asleep. He sank down and listened, feeling now but little fatigue, starting up, however, once more, every sense on the alert, as there came a series of sharp commands at the hut-door, and he realised that he must have dropped off, for it was late in the evening, and outside the soft moonlight was making the scene look weird and strange.

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