Chapter Twenty Nine.

Chapter Twenty Nine.The Royal Visitor.The two lads grasped hands as they listened in the intense darkness to what seemed to be a scene of extreme excitement, the actors in it having evidently been hurrying to reach the cottage, which they had gained in a state of exhaustion; for those who spoke gave utterance to their words as if panting and breathless with their exertions, while from their whispering it seemed evident that they were afraid of being overheard.The two listeners dared not stir, for the least movement would have betrayed them to those below, and before many minutes had elapsed they felt certain that the present invaders of the cottage were strangers.All at once some one gave vent to a piteous sigh and an ejaculation or two as if of pain; and this was followed by what sounded to be words that were full of pity and compassion, mingled with great deference, towards the sufferer.Pen could make out nothing more in the hurried and whispered conversation than that it was in Spanish, and for the time being he felt somewhat dazed as to who the new-comers were. He was too much startled to try and puzzle out matters calmly, and for a while he devoted himself to the preservation of utter silence.At last, though, a few more utterances below, spoken in a deferential tone, followed by a sharp, angry command or two, sent a flash through his brain, and he pressed Punch’s arm with greater energy in an effort to try and convey to his companion the thought that he knew who the fresh-comers must be.“If they would only strike a light,” he thought to himself, “I might get a peep through the knot-hole”—which was always carefully kept clear for inspection of what took place below—“and I could see then at a glance whether this was the expected King with his followers.”But the darkness remained profound.“If it is the escaped Spanish King,” he said to himself, “it will be plain to see. It must be, and they have been pursued by the French, or they wouldn’t be afraid to speak aloud.”Then he began to doubt again, for the Spanish King and his followers, who needed a guide to lead them through the intricate passes of the mountains, would not have known their way to the cottage.“Nonsense!” he thought to himself, as fresh doubts arose. “The old priest or the captain must have met them and brought them here.”Then all was silent for a time, till it was evident that some one was moving by the fireplace; and then there was the sound of some one blowing.This was followed by a faint glow of light; the blowing sound increased, and it was evident that the wood-ashes possessed sufficient life to be fanned into flame, which increased as the embers were evidently being drawn together by a piece of metal; and before another minute had elapsed Pen made out through the knot-hole that the instrument used for reviving the fire was the blade of a sword.Then some one sighed deeply and uttered a few words in an imperious tone whose effect was to set some one fanning the fire with more energy, when the cracks in the boarded floor began to show, and the watcher above began to get glimpses of those below him.A few minutes later the embers began to crackle, the members of the party below grew more visible, and some one uttered a few words in an eager tone—words which evoked an ejaculation or two of satisfaction, followed by an eager conversation that sounded like a dispute.This was followed by an angry, imperious command, and this again by what sounded to Pen like a word or two of protest. Then the sharp, commanding voice beat down the respectful objection, one of the flaming brands seemed to rise from the hearth, and directly after the smoky wick of thepadre’slamp flamed up.And now Pen had a view of the crowded room which completely dashed his belief in the party being the Spanish King and his followers, for he was looking down upon the heads of a gathering of rough-looking, unshorn, peasant-like men, for the most part in cloaks. Some wore the regular handkerchief tied round their heads and had their sombrero hats held in hand or laid by their sides. All, too, were well armed, wearing swords and rough scarves or belts which contained pistols.This scene was enough to sweep away all thought of this being a king and his courtiers, for nothing could have been less suggestive thereof, and the lad looked in vain for one of them who might have been wounded or so wearied out that he had been carried in.Then for a moment Pen let his thoughts run in another direction, but only for a few moments. These were evidently not any of the smuggler’s men. He had seen too many of them during his sojourn at the priest’s hut not to know what they were like—that is to say, men accustomed to the mountains; for they were all in their way jaunty of mien. Their arms, too, were different, and once more the thought began to gain entrance that his former surmise was right, and that these bearers of swords who had spoken in such deferential tones to one of their party were after all faithful followers or courtiers who had assumed disguises that would enable them to pass over the mountains unnoticed. Which then was the King?“If some of them would speak,” said Pen to himself, “it would be easier to tell.”But the silence, save for a faint crack or two from the burning wood, remained profound.At last the watcher was beginning to come to a conclusion and settle in his own mind that one of the party who was bending forward towards the fire with his cloak drawn about his face might be the King; and his belief grew stronger as a flickering flame from the tiny fire played upon this man’s high boots, one of which displayed a rusty spur.The next minute all doubt was at an end, for one of the men nearest the door uttered a sharp ejaculation which resulted in the occupants of thepadre’sdwelling springing to their feet. Swords leapt from their scabbards, and some of the men drew their cloaks about their left arms, while others snatched pistols from their belts, and there followed the sharp clicking of their locks.It was evident they were on the alert for anticipated danger, and Pen’s eyes glistened, for he could hear no sound. But he noted one thing, and that was that the booted and spurred individual in the cloak did not stir from where he was seated upon the priest’s stool by the fire.Then, with a gesture of impatience, Pen saw him throw back his cloak and put his hand to his belt to draw forth a pistol which refused to come. Then with an angry word he gave a fierce tug, with the result that the weapon came out so suddenly that its holder’s arm flew up, the pistol exploded with a loud crash, the bullet with which it was loaded passed upward through the boarded ceiling, and Pen started and made a snatch at the spot where his musket was propped up against the wall, while Punch leaped from where he had crouched and came down again upon the ill-fitting boards, which cracked loudly as if the boy were going through.

The two lads grasped hands as they listened in the intense darkness to what seemed to be a scene of extreme excitement, the actors in it having evidently been hurrying to reach the cottage, which they had gained in a state of exhaustion; for those who spoke gave utterance to their words as if panting and breathless with their exertions, while from their whispering it seemed evident that they were afraid of being overheard.

The two listeners dared not stir, for the least movement would have betrayed them to those below, and before many minutes had elapsed they felt certain that the present invaders of the cottage were strangers.

All at once some one gave vent to a piteous sigh and an ejaculation or two as if of pain; and this was followed by what sounded to be words that were full of pity and compassion, mingled with great deference, towards the sufferer.

Pen could make out nothing more in the hurried and whispered conversation than that it was in Spanish, and for the time being he felt somewhat dazed as to who the new-comers were. He was too much startled to try and puzzle out matters calmly, and for a while he devoted himself to the preservation of utter silence.

At last, though, a few more utterances below, spoken in a deferential tone, followed by a sharp, angry command or two, sent a flash through his brain, and he pressed Punch’s arm with greater energy in an effort to try and convey to his companion the thought that he knew who the fresh-comers must be.

“If they would only strike a light,” he thought to himself, “I might get a peep through the knot-hole”—which was always carefully kept clear for inspection of what took place below—“and I could see then at a glance whether this was the expected King with his followers.”

But the darkness remained profound.

“If it is the escaped Spanish King,” he said to himself, “it will be plain to see. It must be, and they have been pursued by the French, or they wouldn’t be afraid to speak aloud.”

Then he began to doubt again, for the Spanish King and his followers, who needed a guide to lead them through the intricate passes of the mountains, would not have known their way to the cottage.

“Nonsense!” he thought to himself, as fresh doubts arose. “The old priest or the captain must have met them and brought them here.”

Then all was silent for a time, till it was evident that some one was moving by the fireplace; and then there was the sound of some one blowing.

This was followed by a faint glow of light; the blowing sound increased, and it was evident that the wood-ashes possessed sufficient life to be fanned into flame, which increased as the embers were evidently being drawn together by a piece of metal; and before another minute had elapsed Pen made out through the knot-hole that the instrument used for reviving the fire was the blade of a sword.

Then some one sighed deeply and uttered a few words in an imperious tone whose effect was to set some one fanning the fire with more energy, when the cracks in the boarded floor began to show, and the watcher above began to get glimpses of those below him.

A few minutes later the embers began to crackle, the members of the party below grew more visible, and some one uttered a few words in an eager tone—words which evoked an ejaculation or two of satisfaction, followed by an eager conversation that sounded like a dispute.

This was followed by an angry, imperious command, and this again by what sounded to Pen like a word or two of protest. Then the sharp, commanding voice beat down the respectful objection, one of the flaming brands seemed to rise from the hearth, and directly after the smoky wick of thepadre’slamp flamed up.

And now Pen had a view of the crowded room which completely dashed his belief in the party being the Spanish King and his followers, for he was looking down upon the heads of a gathering of rough-looking, unshorn, peasant-like men, for the most part in cloaks. Some wore the regular handkerchief tied round their heads and had their sombrero hats held in hand or laid by their sides. All, too, were well armed, wearing swords and rough scarves or belts which contained pistols.

This scene was enough to sweep away all thought of this being a king and his courtiers, for nothing could have been less suggestive thereof, and the lad looked in vain for one of them who might have been wounded or so wearied out that he had been carried in.

Then for a moment Pen let his thoughts run in another direction, but only for a few moments. These were evidently not any of the smuggler’s men. He had seen too many of them during his sojourn at the priest’s hut not to know what they were like—that is to say, men accustomed to the mountains; for they were all in their way jaunty of mien. Their arms, too, were different, and once more the thought began to gain entrance that his former surmise was right, and that these bearers of swords who had spoken in such deferential tones to one of their party were after all faithful followers or courtiers who had assumed disguises that would enable them to pass over the mountains unnoticed. Which then was the King?

“If some of them would speak,” said Pen to himself, “it would be easier to tell.”

But the silence, save for a faint crack or two from the burning wood, remained profound.

At last the watcher was beginning to come to a conclusion and settle in his own mind that one of the party who was bending forward towards the fire with his cloak drawn about his face might be the King; and his belief grew stronger as a flickering flame from the tiny fire played upon this man’s high boots, one of which displayed a rusty spur.

The next minute all doubt was at an end, for one of the men nearest the door uttered a sharp ejaculation which resulted in the occupants of thepadre’sdwelling springing to their feet. Swords leapt from their scabbards, and some of the men drew their cloaks about their left arms, while others snatched pistols from their belts, and there followed the sharp clicking of their locks.

It was evident they were on the alert for anticipated danger, and Pen’s eyes glistened, for he could hear no sound. But he noted one thing, and that was that the booted and spurred individual in the cloak did not stir from where he was seated upon the priest’s stool by the fire.

Then, with a gesture of impatience, Pen saw him throw back his cloak and put his hand to his belt to draw forth a pistol which refused to come. Then with an angry word he gave a fierce tug, with the result that the weapon came out so suddenly that its holder’s arm flew up, the pistol exploded with a loud crash, the bullet with which it was loaded passed upward through the boarded ceiling, and Pen started and made a snatch at the spot where his musket was propped up against the wall, while Punch leaped from where he had crouched and came down again upon the ill-fitting boards, which cracked loudly as if the boy were going through.

Chapter Thirty.An awkward Position.There was a burst of excitement, hurried ejaculations, and half-a-dozen pistols were rapidly discharged by their holders at the ceiling; while directly after, in obedience to a command uttered by one of the party, a dash was made for the corner door, which was dragged open, and, sword in hand, several of the men climbed to the loft. The boards creaked, there was a hurried scuffle, and first Punch and then Pen were compelled to descend into the room below, dragged before the leader, forced upon their knees, and surrounded by a circle of sword-points, whose bearers gazed at their leader, awaiting his command to strike.The leader sank back in his seat, nursing the pistol he had accidentally discharged. Then with his eyes half-closed he slowly raised it to take aim at Pen, who gazed at him firmly and without seeming to blench, while Punch uttered a low, growling ejaculation full of rage as he made a struggle to escape, but was forced back upon his knees, to start and wince as he felt the point of a sword touch his neck. Then he cried aloud, “Never mind, comrade! Let ’em see we are Bri’sh soldiers and mean to die game.”Pen did not withdraw his eyes from the man who held his life in hand, and reached out behind him to grasp Punch’s arm; but his effort was vain.Just then the seated man seemed to recollect himself, for he threw the empty pistol upon the floor and tugged another from his belt, cocked it, and then swung himself round, directing the pistol at the door, which was dashed open by the old priest, who ran in and stood, panting hard, between the prisoners and the holder of the pistol.He was too breathless to speak, but he gesticulated violently before grasping Pen’s shoulder with one hand and waving the other round as if to drive back those who held the prisoners upon their knees.He tried to speak, but the words would not come; and then there was another diversion, for a fresh-comer dashed in through the open door, and, regardless of the swords directed at him, forced his way to where the prisoners were awaiting their fate.He, too, was breathless with running, for he sank quickly on one knee, caught at the hand which held the pistol and raised it quickly to his lips, as he exclaimed in French:“No, no, your Majesty! Not that!”“They are spies,” shouted the tired-looking Spaniard who had given the command which had sent his followers to make the seizure in the loft.“No spies,” cried thecontrabandista. “Our and his Majesty’s friends—wounded English soldiers who had been fighting upon our side.”There was a burst of ejaculations; swords were sheathed, and the dethroned Spanish monarch uncocked his pistol and thrust it back into his belt.“They have had a narrow escape,” he said bitterly. “Why were you not here with the friends you promised?”“They are outside awaiting my orders, your Majesty,” said the smuggler bluntly. “May I remind you that you are not to your time, neither have you come by the pass I promised you to watch.”“Bah! How could I, when I was driven by these wretched French, who are ten times our number? We had to reach the trysting-place how we could, and it was natural that these boys should be looked upon as spies. Now then, where are you going to take us? The French soldiers cannot be far behind.”“No, sire; they are very near.”“And your men—where are they?”“Out yonder, sire, between you and your pursuers.”“Then are we to continue our flight to-night?”“I cannot tell yet, sire. Not if my men can hold the enemy at bay. It may be that they will fall back here, but I cannot say yet. I did intend to lead you through the forest and along a path I know by the mountain-side; but it is possible that the French are there before us.”“And are these your plans of which you boasted?” cried the King bitterly.“No, sire,” replied thecontrabandistabluntly. “Your Majesty’s delay has upset all those.”The King made an angry gesticulation.“How could I help it?” he said bitterly. “Man, we have been hemmed in on all sides. There, I spoke hastily. You are a tried friend. Act as you think best. You must not withdraw your help.”“Your Majesty trusts me, then, again?”“Trust you? Of course,” said the King, holding out his hand, which the smuggler took reverently and raised to his lips.Then dropping it he turned sharply to the priest and the two prisoners.“All a mistake, my friends. There,” he added, with a smile, “I see you are not afraid;” and noting Punch’s questioning look, he patted him on the shoulder before turning to Pen again. “Where are your guns?” he said.Pen pointed up to the loft.“Get them, then, quickly. We shall have to leave here now.”He had hardly spoken before a murmur arose and swords were drawn, for there was a quick step outside, a voice cried “El rey!” and one of the smuggler’s followers pressed through to whisper a few words.“Ah!” cried the recipient, who turned and said a few words in Spanish to the King, who rose to his feet, drew his rough cloak around him, and stood as if prepared for anything that might come.Just then Pen’s voice was heard, and, quite free now, Punch stepped to the door and took the two muskets that were passed down to him. Then Pen descended with the cartouche-boxes and belts, and handed one to Punch in exchange for a musket, and the two lads stood ready.The smuggler smiled approval as he saw his young friends’ prompt action, and nodded his head.“Can you walk?” he said.Pen nodded.“And can you fire a few shots on our behalf?”“Try us,” replied Pen. “But it rather goes against the grain after what we have received. You only came in time.”“Yes, I know,” replied the smuggler. “But there are many mistakes in war, and we are all friends now.”Thecontrabandistaturned from him sharply and hurried to the door, where another of his followers appeared, who whispered a few words to him, received an order, and stepped back, while his leader turned to the father and said something, which resulted in the old man joining the two lads and pressing their hands, looking at them sadly.The next minute the smuggler signed to them to join his follower who was waiting by the door, while he stepped to the King, spoke to him firmly for a few minutes, and then led the way out into the darkness, with the two English lads, who were conscious that they were being followed by the royal fugitive and his men, out along the shelf in the direction of the forest-path, which they had just gained when a distant shot rang out, to be repeated by the echoes and followed by another and another, ample indication that there was danger very near at hand.The captain said a few words to his follower, and then turned to Pen.“Keep with this man,” he said, “when I am not here. I must go back and see what is going on.”The lads heard his steps for a minute amongst the crackling husks of the past year’s chestnuts and parched twigs. Then they were merged with those of the party following.“I say,” whispered Punch, “how’s your leg?”“I had almost forgotten it,” replied Pen in a whisper.“That’s good, comrade. But, I say, all that set a fellow thinking.”“Yes; don’t talk about it,” replied Pen.“All right. But I say, isn’t this lovely—on the march again with a loaded gun over your shoulder? If I had got my bugle back, and one’s officer alongside, I should be just happy. Think we shall have a chance of a shot or two?”The smuggler, who was leading the way, stopped short and turned upon Punch with a deep, low growl.“Eh?” replied Punch. “It’s no good, comrade; I can’t understand a word.”The man growled again, and laid his hand sharply upon the boy’s lips.“Here, don’t do that!” cried Punch. “How do I know when you washed that last?”“Be quiet, Punch. The man means we may be nearing the enemy.”“Why don’t he say so, then?” grumbled Punch; and their guide grunted as if satisfied with the effect of Pen’s words, and led on again in and out a rugged, winding path, sometimes ascending, sometimes descending, but never at fault in spite of the darkness.Sometimes he stopped short to listen as if to find out how near the King’s party were behind, and when satisfied he led on again, giving the two lads a friendly tap or two upon the shoulder after finding that any attempt at other communication was in vain.At last after what must have been about a couple of hours’ tramp along the extremely rugged path, made profoundly dark by the overhanging low, gnarled trees, he stopped short again and laid his hand in turn upon the lips of the boys, and then touched Pen’s musket, which he made him ground, took hold of his hands in turn and laid them on the muzzle, and then stood still.“What’s he up to now?” whispered Punch, with his lips close to his comrade’s ear.“I think he means we are to halt and keep guard.”“Oh, that’s it, is it?” muttered Punch; and he stood fast, while the smuggler patted him on the shoulder and went off quickly, leaving the boys alone, with Punch muttering and fuming in his intense desire to speak. But he mastered himself and stood firm, listening as the steps of the party behind came nearer and nearer till they were close at hand. This was too much for Punch.“Lookye here,” he whispered; “they will be ready to march over us directly. How are we going to tell them to halt?”“Be silent. Perhaps they will have the sense to see that they ought to stop. Most likely there are some amongst them who understand French.”Pen proved to be right in his surmise, for directly after a portion of the following party were close to them, and the foremost asked a question in Spanish. “Halte!” said Pen sharply, and at a venture; but it proved sufficient. And as he stood in the dim, shadowy, overhung path the word was passed along to the rear, and the dull sound of footsteps died out. “Bravo!” whispered Punch. “They are beginning to understand English after all. I say, ain’t that our chaps coming back?”Pen heard nothing for a few moments. Then there was the faint crack of a twig breaking beneath some one’s feet, and the smuggler who was acting as their guide rejoined them.“Los Francéses,” said the man, in a whisper; and he dropped the carbine he carried with its butt upon the stony earth, rested his hands upon the muzzle, and stood in silence gazing right away, and evidently listening and keenly on the alert, for he turned sharply upon Punch, who could not keep his tongue quiet.“Oh, bother! All right,” growled the boy. “Here, comrade,” he whispered to Pen; “aren’t these ’ere cork-trees?”“Perhaps. I’m not sure,” whispered his companion impatiently. “Why do you ask? What does it matter now?”“Lots. Just you cut one of them. Cut a good big bung off and stuff it into my mouth; for I can’t help it, I feel as if I must talk.”“Urrrrrrr!” growled the guide; and then, “Hist! hist!” for there was a whispering behind, and directly after thecontrabandistacaptain joined them, to ask a low question in Spanish.“The enemy are in front. They are before us,” said the smuggler in French to Pen.Then he spoke to his follower, who immediately began to retrace his steps, while the leader followed him with the two lads, who were led back to where the King was waiting in the midst of his followers; and now a short colloquy took place which resulted in all facing round and following the two smugglers, who retraced their path for the next half-hour, and then suddenly struck off along a rugged track whose difficulty was such that it was quite plain to the two lads that they were striking off right up into the mountains.It was a wearisome route that was only followed with great difficulty, and now it was that Pen’s wounded leg began to give him such intense pain that there were moments when he felt that he must break down.But it came to an end at last, just before daybreak, in the midst of what seemed to be an amphitheatre of stones, or what might have been some quarry or place where prospecting had taken place in search of some one or other of the minerals which abounded in parts of the sterile land.And now a halt was made, the smuggler picking out a spot which was rough with bushes; and here he signed to the two lads to lie down and rest, a silent command so welcome that Pen sank at full length at once, the rugged couch seeming to him so welcome that it felt to him like down.A few specks of orange light high up in the sky told that sunrise was very near at hand, and for a few minutes Pen gazed upwards, rapt in wonder by the beauty of the sight. But as he lay and listened to the low murmur of voices, these gradually grew fainter and apparently more distant, while the ruddy specks of light paled and there seemed to be nothing more, for pain and exhaustion had had their way. Thoughts of Spaniards, officers and men, and thecontrabandistaswith their arms of knife and carbine, were quite as naught, danger non-existent, and for the time being sleep was lord of all.

There was a burst of excitement, hurried ejaculations, and half-a-dozen pistols were rapidly discharged by their holders at the ceiling; while directly after, in obedience to a command uttered by one of the party, a dash was made for the corner door, which was dragged open, and, sword in hand, several of the men climbed to the loft. The boards creaked, there was a hurried scuffle, and first Punch and then Pen were compelled to descend into the room below, dragged before the leader, forced upon their knees, and surrounded by a circle of sword-points, whose bearers gazed at their leader, awaiting his command to strike.

The leader sank back in his seat, nursing the pistol he had accidentally discharged. Then with his eyes half-closed he slowly raised it to take aim at Pen, who gazed at him firmly and without seeming to blench, while Punch uttered a low, growling ejaculation full of rage as he made a struggle to escape, but was forced back upon his knees, to start and wince as he felt the point of a sword touch his neck. Then he cried aloud, “Never mind, comrade! Let ’em see we are Bri’sh soldiers and mean to die game.”

Pen did not withdraw his eyes from the man who held his life in hand, and reached out behind him to grasp Punch’s arm; but his effort was vain.

Just then the seated man seemed to recollect himself, for he threw the empty pistol upon the floor and tugged another from his belt, cocked it, and then swung himself round, directing the pistol at the door, which was dashed open by the old priest, who ran in and stood, panting hard, between the prisoners and the holder of the pistol.

He was too breathless to speak, but he gesticulated violently before grasping Pen’s shoulder with one hand and waving the other round as if to drive back those who held the prisoners upon their knees.

He tried to speak, but the words would not come; and then there was another diversion, for a fresh-comer dashed in through the open door, and, regardless of the swords directed at him, forced his way to where the prisoners were awaiting their fate.

He, too, was breathless with running, for he sank quickly on one knee, caught at the hand which held the pistol and raised it quickly to his lips, as he exclaimed in French:

“No, no, your Majesty! Not that!”

“They are spies,” shouted the tired-looking Spaniard who had given the command which had sent his followers to make the seizure in the loft.

“No spies,” cried thecontrabandista. “Our and his Majesty’s friends—wounded English soldiers who had been fighting upon our side.”

There was a burst of ejaculations; swords were sheathed, and the dethroned Spanish monarch uncocked his pistol and thrust it back into his belt.

“They have had a narrow escape,” he said bitterly. “Why were you not here with the friends you promised?”

“They are outside awaiting my orders, your Majesty,” said the smuggler bluntly. “May I remind you that you are not to your time, neither have you come by the pass I promised you to watch.”

“Bah! How could I, when I was driven by these wretched French, who are ten times our number? We had to reach the trysting-place how we could, and it was natural that these boys should be looked upon as spies. Now then, where are you going to take us? The French soldiers cannot be far behind.”

“No, sire; they are very near.”

“And your men—where are they?”

“Out yonder, sire, between you and your pursuers.”

“Then are we to continue our flight to-night?”

“I cannot tell yet, sire. Not if my men can hold the enemy at bay. It may be that they will fall back here, but I cannot say yet. I did intend to lead you through the forest and along a path I know by the mountain-side; but it is possible that the French are there before us.”

“And are these your plans of which you boasted?” cried the King bitterly.

“No, sire,” replied thecontrabandistabluntly. “Your Majesty’s delay has upset all those.”

The King made an angry gesticulation.

“How could I help it?” he said bitterly. “Man, we have been hemmed in on all sides. There, I spoke hastily. You are a tried friend. Act as you think best. You must not withdraw your help.”

“Your Majesty trusts me, then, again?”

“Trust you? Of course,” said the King, holding out his hand, which the smuggler took reverently and raised to his lips.

Then dropping it he turned sharply to the priest and the two prisoners.

“All a mistake, my friends. There,” he added, with a smile, “I see you are not afraid;” and noting Punch’s questioning look, he patted him on the shoulder before turning to Pen again. “Where are your guns?” he said.

Pen pointed up to the loft.

“Get them, then, quickly. We shall have to leave here now.”

He had hardly spoken before a murmur arose and swords were drawn, for there was a quick step outside, a voice cried “El rey!” and one of the smuggler’s followers pressed through to whisper a few words.

“Ah!” cried the recipient, who turned and said a few words in Spanish to the King, who rose to his feet, drew his rough cloak around him, and stood as if prepared for anything that might come.

Just then Pen’s voice was heard, and, quite free now, Punch stepped to the door and took the two muskets that were passed down to him. Then Pen descended with the cartouche-boxes and belts, and handed one to Punch in exchange for a musket, and the two lads stood ready.

The smuggler smiled approval as he saw his young friends’ prompt action, and nodded his head.

“Can you walk?” he said.

Pen nodded.

“And can you fire a few shots on our behalf?”

“Try us,” replied Pen. “But it rather goes against the grain after what we have received. You only came in time.”

“Yes, I know,” replied the smuggler. “But there are many mistakes in war, and we are all friends now.”

Thecontrabandistaturned from him sharply and hurried to the door, where another of his followers appeared, who whispered a few words to him, received an order, and stepped back, while his leader turned to the father and said something, which resulted in the old man joining the two lads and pressing their hands, looking at them sadly.

The next minute the smuggler signed to them to join his follower who was waiting by the door, while he stepped to the King, spoke to him firmly for a few minutes, and then led the way out into the darkness, with the two English lads, who were conscious that they were being followed by the royal fugitive and his men, out along the shelf in the direction of the forest-path, which they had just gained when a distant shot rang out, to be repeated by the echoes and followed by another and another, ample indication that there was danger very near at hand.

The captain said a few words to his follower, and then turned to Pen.

“Keep with this man,” he said, “when I am not here. I must go back and see what is going on.”

The lads heard his steps for a minute amongst the crackling husks of the past year’s chestnuts and parched twigs. Then they were merged with those of the party following.

“I say,” whispered Punch, “how’s your leg?”

“I had almost forgotten it,” replied Pen in a whisper.

“That’s good, comrade. But, I say, all that set a fellow thinking.”

“Yes; don’t talk about it,” replied Pen.

“All right. But I say, isn’t this lovely—on the march again with a loaded gun over your shoulder? If I had got my bugle back, and one’s officer alongside, I should be just happy. Think we shall have a chance of a shot or two?”

The smuggler, who was leading the way, stopped short and turned upon Punch with a deep, low growl.

“Eh?” replied Punch. “It’s no good, comrade; I can’t understand a word.”

The man growled again, and laid his hand sharply upon the boy’s lips.

“Here, don’t do that!” cried Punch. “How do I know when you washed that last?”

“Be quiet, Punch. The man means we may be nearing the enemy.”

“Why don’t he say so, then?” grumbled Punch; and their guide grunted as if satisfied with the effect of Pen’s words, and led on again in and out a rugged, winding path, sometimes ascending, sometimes descending, but never at fault in spite of the darkness.

Sometimes he stopped short to listen as if to find out how near the King’s party were behind, and when satisfied he led on again, giving the two lads a friendly tap or two upon the shoulder after finding that any attempt at other communication was in vain.

At last after what must have been about a couple of hours’ tramp along the extremely rugged path, made profoundly dark by the overhanging low, gnarled trees, he stopped short again and laid his hand in turn upon the lips of the boys, and then touched Pen’s musket, which he made him ground, took hold of his hands in turn and laid them on the muzzle, and then stood still.

“What’s he up to now?” whispered Punch, with his lips close to his comrade’s ear.

“I think he means we are to halt and keep guard.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” muttered Punch; and he stood fast, while the smuggler patted him on the shoulder and went off quickly, leaving the boys alone, with Punch muttering and fuming in his intense desire to speak. But he mastered himself and stood firm, listening as the steps of the party behind came nearer and nearer till they were close at hand. This was too much for Punch.

“Lookye here,” he whispered; “they will be ready to march over us directly. How are we going to tell them to halt?”

“Be silent. Perhaps they will have the sense to see that they ought to stop. Most likely there are some amongst them who understand French.”

Pen proved to be right in his surmise, for directly after a portion of the following party were close to them, and the foremost asked a question in Spanish. “Halte!” said Pen sharply, and at a venture; but it proved sufficient. And as he stood in the dim, shadowy, overhung path the word was passed along to the rear, and the dull sound of footsteps died out. “Bravo!” whispered Punch. “They are beginning to understand English after all. I say, ain’t that our chaps coming back?”

Pen heard nothing for a few moments. Then there was the faint crack of a twig breaking beneath some one’s feet, and the smuggler who was acting as their guide rejoined them.

“Los Francéses,” said the man, in a whisper; and he dropped the carbine he carried with its butt upon the stony earth, rested his hands upon the muzzle, and stood in silence gazing right away, and evidently listening and keenly on the alert, for he turned sharply upon Punch, who could not keep his tongue quiet.

“Oh, bother! All right,” growled the boy. “Here, comrade,” he whispered to Pen; “aren’t these ’ere cork-trees?”

“Perhaps. I’m not sure,” whispered his companion impatiently. “Why do you ask? What does it matter now?”

“Lots. Just you cut one of them. Cut a good big bung off and stuff it into my mouth; for I can’t help it, I feel as if I must talk.”

“Urrrrrrr!” growled the guide; and then, “Hist! hist!” for there was a whispering behind, and directly after thecontrabandistacaptain joined them, to ask a low question in Spanish.

“The enemy are in front. They are before us,” said the smuggler in French to Pen.

Then he spoke to his follower, who immediately began to retrace his steps, while the leader followed him with the two lads, who were led back to where the King was waiting in the midst of his followers; and now a short colloquy took place which resulted in all facing round and following the two smugglers, who retraced their path for the next half-hour, and then suddenly struck off along a rugged track whose difficulty was such that it was quite plain to the two lads that they were striking off right up into the mountains.

It was a wearisome route that was only followed with great difficulty, and now it was that Pen’s wounded leg began to give him such intense pain that there were moments when he felt that he must break down.

But it came to an end at last, just before daybreak, in the midst of what seemed to be an amphitheatre of stones, or what might have been some quarry or place where prospecting had taken place in search of some one or other of the minerals which abounded in parts of the sterile land.

And now a halt was made, the smuggler picking out a spot which was rough with bushes; and here he signed to the two lads to lie down and rest, a silent command so welcome that Pen sank at full length at once, the rugged couch seeming to him so welcome that it felt to him like down.

A few specks of orange light high up in the sky told that sunrise was very near at hand, and for a few minutes Pen gazed upwards, rapt in wonder by the beauty of the sight. But as he lay and listened to the low murmur of voices, these gradually grew fainter and apparently more distant, while the ruddy specks of light paled and there seemed to be nothing more, for pain and exhaustion had had their way. Thoughts of Spaniards, officers and men, and thecontrabandistaswith their arms of knife and carbine, were quite as naught, danger non-existent, and for the time being sleep was lord of all.

Chapter Thirty One.A Dream of a Ramrod.It seemed to Pen to be a dream, and then by some kind of mental change it appeared to be all reality. In the first instance he felt that he was lying in the loft over the priest’s room, trying to sleep, but he could not get himself into a comfortable position because Punch had gone down below to clean his musket and wanted him to come down too and submit his weapon to the same process. But it had happened that he wanted to go to sleep horribly, and he had refused to go down; with the consequence that as he lay just over the knot-hole Punch kept on poking his ramrod through the opening to waken him up, and the hard rod was being forced through the dry leaves of the Indian corn to reach his leg exactly where the bullet had ploughed, while in the most aggravating way Punch would keep on sawing the ramrod to and fro and giving him the most acute pain.Then the boy seemed to leave off in a tiff and tell him that he might sleep for a month for aught he cared, and that he would not try to waken him any more.Then somehow, as the pain ceased, he did not go to sleep, but went right off up the mountain-side in the darkness, guiding the King and his followers into a place of safety; still it was not so safe but that he could hear the French coming and firing at them now and then.However, he went on and on, feeling puzzled all the time that he should know the way through the mountains so well, and he took the King to rest under the great chestnut-tree, and then on again to where the French were firing, and one of them brought him down with the bullet that ploughed his leg.But that did not seem to matter, for, as if he knew every bit of the country by heart, he led the King to the goat-herd’s cottage, and advised him to lie down and have a good rest on the rough bed, because the peasant-girl would be there before long with a basket of food.The King said that he did not care to sleep because he was so dreadfully thirsty, and what he wanted was a bowl of goat’s-milk. Then somehow he went to where the goat was waiting to be milked, and for a long time the milk would not come, but when it did and he was trying to fill the little woodenseauit was all full of beautiful cold water from the foot of the falls where the trout were rushing about.Then somehow Punch kept on sawing his ramrod to and fro along the wound in his leg, and the more he tried to catch hold of the iron rod the more Punch kept on snatching it away; and they were going through the darkness again, with the King and his followers close behind, on the way to safety; while Pen felt that he was quite happy now, because he had saved the King, who was so pleased that he made him Sir Arthur Wellesley and gave him command of the British army.Whereupon Punch exclaimed, “I never saw such a fellow as you are to sleep! Do wake up. Here’s Mr Contrabando waiting to speak to you, and he looks as if he wanted to go away.”“Punch!” exclaimed Pen, starting up.“Punch it is. Are you awake now?”“Awake? Yes. Have I been dreaming?”“I d’know whether you have been dreaming or not, but you have been snoring till I was ashamed of you, and the more I stirred you up the more you would keep on saying, ‘Ramrod.’”“Bah! Nonsense!”“That’s what I thought, comrade. But steady! Here he is again.”“Ah, my young friend!” said thecontrabandista, holding out his hand. “Better after your long sleep?”“Better? Yes,” replied Pen eagerly. “Leg’s very stiff; but I am ready to go on. Are we to march again?”“Well, no, there’s not much chance of that, for we are pretty well surrounded by the enemy, and here we shall have to stay unless we can beat them off.”“Where are we? What place is this?” asked Pen rather confusedly.“One of our hiding-places, my friend, where we store up our goods and stable the mules when the pass near here is blocked up by snow or the frontier guards. Well, how do you feel now? Ready to go into hiding where you will be safe, or are you ready to help us against your enemies the French?”“Will there be fighting?” asked Pen eagerly.“You may be pretty sure of that; but I don’t want to force you two wounded young fellows into taking part therein unless you are willing.”“I am willing,” said Pen decisively; “but it’s only fair that I should ask my comrade, who is only one of the buglers of my regiment.”“Oh, of course,” said the smuggler captain, “a non-combatant. He carries a musket, I see, like yourself.”“Yes,” replied Pen, with a smile, “but it is only a French piece. We belong to a rifle-regiment by rights.”“Yes; I have heard of it,” said the smuggler.“Well, I will ask him,” said Pen, “for he doesn’t understand a word we are saying.—Punch,” he continued, addressing the boy, “thecontrabandistawants to know whether we will fire a few shots against the French who are trying to take the Spanish King.”“Where do they want to take him?” cried the boy eagerly.“Back to prison.”“Why, of course we will,” said the boy sharply. “What do you want to ask that for?”“Because he knows that you are not a private soldier, but a bugle-boy.”“Well, I can’t help that, can I? I am a-growing, and I dare say I could hit a haystack as well as a good many of our chaps. They ain’t all of them so clever because they are a bit older than I am.”“Well, don’t get into a tiff, Punch. This isn’t a time to show your temper.”“Who’s a-showing temper? I can’t help being a boy. What does he want to chuck that in a fellow’s teeth for?”“Quiet! Quiet!” said Pen, smiling. “Then I am to tell him that you are ready to have a shot or two at the enemy?”“Well, I do call you a pretty comrade!” said the boy indignantly. “I should have thought you would have said yes at once, instead of parlyvooing about it like that.—Right, sir!” cried the boy, catching up his musket, giving it two or three military slaps, and drawing himself up as if he had just heard the command, “Present arms!”“Bon!” said the smuggler, smiling; and he gave the boy a friendly slap on the shoulder.“Ah!” ejaculated Punch, “that’s better,” as the smuggler now turned away to speak to a group of his men who were standing keeping watch behind some rocks a short distance away.—“I say, comrade—you did tell me once, but I forgetted it—what doesbongmean?”“Good.”“Ho! All right.Bong! I shall remember that next time. Fire a few shots! I am game to go on shooting as long as the cartridges last; and my box is full. How’s yours?”“Only half,” replied Pen.“Oh, well, fair-play’s a jewel; share and share alike. Here, catch hold. That looks like fair measure. We don’t want to count them, do we?”“Oh no, that’s quite near enough.”“Will we fire a few shots at the French?” continued Punch eagerly. “I should just think we will! Father always said to me, ‘Pay your debts, my boy, as long as the money lasts;’ and though it ain’t silver and copper here, it’s cartridges and— There! Ain’t it rum, comrade? Now, I wonder whether you feel the same. The very thought of paying has made the pain in my back come again. I say, how’s your leg?”

It seemed to Pen to be a dream, and then by some kind of mental change it appeared to be all reality. In the first instance he felt that he was lying in the loft over the priest’s room, trying to sleep, but he could not get himself into a comfortable position because Punch had gone down below to clean his musket and wanted him to come down too and submit his weapon to the same process. But it had happened that he wanted to go to sleep horribly, and he had refused to go down; with the consequence that as he lay just over the knot-hole Punch kept on poking his ramrod through the opening to waken him up, and the hard rod was being forced through the dry leaves of the Indian corn to reach his leg exactly where the bullet had ploughed, while in the most aggravating way Punch would keep on sawing the ramrod to and fro and giving him the most acute pain.

Then the boy seemed to leave off in a tiff and tell him that he might sleep for a month for aught he cared, and that he would not try to waken him any more.

Then somehow, as the pain ceased, he did not go to sleep, but went right off up the mountain-side in the darkness, guiding the King and his followers into a place of safety; still it was not so safe but that he could hear the French coming and firing at them now and then.

However, he went on and on, feeling puzzled all the time that he should know the way through the mountains so well, and he took the King to rest under the great chestnut-tree, and then on again to where the French were firing, and one of them brought him down with the bullet that ploughed his leg.

But that did not seem to matter, for, as if he knew every bit of the country by heart, he led the King to the goat-herd’s cottage, and advised him to lie down and have a good rest on the rough bed, because the peasant-girl would be there before long with a basket of food.

The King said that he did not care to sleep because he was so dreadfully thirsty, and what he wanted was a bowl of goat’s-milk. Then somehow he went to where the goat was waiting to be milked, and for a long time the milk would not come, but when it did and he was trying to fill the little woodenseauit was all full of beautiful cold water from the foot of the falls where the trout were rushing about.

Then somehow Punch kept on sawing his ramrod to and fro along the wound in his leg, and the more he tried to catch hold of the iron rod the more Punch kept on snatching it away; and they were going through the darkness again, with the King and his followers close behind, on the way to safety; while Pen felt that he was quite happy now, because he had saved the King, who was so pleased that he made him Sir Arthur Wellesley and gave him command of the British army.

Whereupon Punch exclaimed, “I never saw such a fellow as you are to sleep! Do wake up. Here’s Mr Contrabando waiting to speak to you, and he looks as if he wanted to go away.”

“Punch!” exclaimed Pen, starting up.

“Punch it is. Are you awake now?”

“Awake? Yes. Have I been dreaming?”

“I d’know whether you have been dreaming or not, but you have been snoring till I was ashamed of you, and the more I stirred you up the more you would keep on saying, ‘Ramrod.’”

“Bah! Nonsense!”

“That’s what I thought, comrade. But steady! Here he is again.”

“Ah, my young friend!” said thecontrabandista, holding out his hand. “Better after your long sleep?”

“Better? Yes,” replied Pen eagerly. “Leg’s very stiff; but I am ready to go on. Are we to march again?”

“Well, no, there’s not much chance of that, for we are pretty well surrounded by the enemy, and here we shall have to stay unless we can beat them off.”

“Where are we? What place is this?” asked Pen rather confusedly.

“One of our hiding-places, my friend, where we store up our goods and stable the mules when the pass near here is blocked up by snow or the frontier guards. Well, how do you feel now? Ready to go into hiding where you will be safe, or are you ready to help us against your enemies the French?”

“Will there be fighting?” asked Pen eagerly.

“You may be pretty sure of that; but I don’t want to force you two wounded young fellows into taking part therein unless you are willing.”

“I am willing,” said Pen decisively; “but it’s only fair that I should ask my comrade, who is only one of the buglers of my regiment.”

“Oh, of course,” said the smuggler captain, “a non-combatant. He carries a musket, I see, like yourself.”

“Yes,” replied Pen, with a smile, “but it is only a French piece. We belong to a rifle-regiment by rights.”

“Yes; I have heard of it,” said the smuggler.

“Well, I will ask him,” said Pen, “for he doesn’t understand a word we are saying.—Punch,” he continued, addressing the boy, “thecontrabandistawants to know whether we will fire a few shots against the French who are trying to take the Spanish King.”

“Where do they want to take him?” cried the boy eagerly.

“Back to prison.”

“Why, of course we will,” said the boy sharply. “What do you want to ask that for?”

“Because he knows that you are not a private soldier, but a bugle-boy.”

“Well, I can’t help that, can I? I am a-growing, and I dare say I could hit a haystack as well as a good many of our chaps. They ain’t all of them so clever because they are a bit older than I am.”

“Well, don’t get into a tiff, Punch. This isn’t a time to show your temper.”

“Who’s a-showing temper? I can’t help being a boy. What does he want to chuck that in a fellow’s teeth for?”

“Quiet! Quiet!” said Pen, smiling. “Then I am to tell him that you are ready to have a shot or two at the enemy?”

“Well, I do call you a pretty comrade!” said the boy indignantly. “I should have thought you would have said yes at once, instead of parlyvooing about it like that.—Right, sir!” cried the boy, catching up his musket, giving it two or three military slaps, and drawing himself up as if he had just heard the command, “Present arms!”

“Bon!” said the smuggler, smiling; and he gave the boy a friendly slap on the shoulder.

“Ah!” ejaculated Punch, “that’s better,” as the smuggler now turned away to speak to a group of his men who were standing keeping watch behind some rocks a short distance away.—“I say, comrade—you did tell me once, but I forgetted it—what doesbongmean?”

“Good.”

“Ho! All right.Bong! I shall remember that next time. Fire a few shots! I am game to go on shooting as long as the cartridges last; and my box is full. How’s yours?”

“Only half,” replied Pen.

“Oh, well, fair-play’s a jewel; share and share alike. Here, catch hold. That looks like fair measure. We don’t want to count them, do we?”

“Oh no, that’s quite near enough.”

“Will we fire a few shots at the French?” continued Punch eagerly. “I should just think we will! Father always said to me, ‘Pay your debts, my boy, as long as the money lasts;’ and though it ain’t silver and copper here, it’s cartridges and— There! Ain’t it rum, comrade? Now, I wonder whether you feel the same. The very thought of paying has made the pain in my back come again. I say, how’s your leg?”

Chapter Thirty Two.A cavernous Breakfast.“I say, comrade,” whispered Punch; “are we going to begin soon?”The boys were seated upon a huge block of stone watching the coming and going of thecontrabandistas, several of whom formed a group in a nook of the natural amphitheatre-like chasm in which they had made their halt.This seemed to be the entrance to a gully, down which, as they waited, the lads had seen the smuggler-leader pass to and fro several times over, and as far as they could make out away to their left lay the track by which they had approached during the night; but they could not be sure.That which had led them to this idea was the fact that it seemed as if sentries had been stationed somewhere down there, one of whom had come hurriedly into the amphitheatre as if in search of his chief.“I say, comrade,” said Punch, repeating his question rather impatiently, “aren’t we going to begin soon? I feel just like old O’Grady.”“How’s that, Punch?”“What he calls ‘spoiling for a fight, me boy.’”“Oh, you needn’t feel like that, Punch,” said Pen, smiling.“Well, don’t you?”“No. I never do. I never want to kill anybody.”“You don’t? That ain’t being a good soldier.”“I can’t help that, Punch. Of course, when one’s in for it I fire away like the rest; but when I’m cool I somehow don’t like the feeling that one has killed or wounded some brave man.”“Oh, get out,” cried the boy, “with your ‘killed or wounded some brave man!’ They ain’t brave men—only Frenchies.”“Why, Punch, there are as brave men amongst the French as amongst the English.”“Get out! I don’t believe that,” said the boy. “There can’t be. If there were, how could our General with his little bit of an army drive the big army of Frenchies about as he does? Ask any of our fellows, and they will tell you that one Englishman is worth a dozen Frenchies. Why, you must have heard them say so.”“Oh yes, I have, Punch,” said Pen, laughing, as he nursed his leg, which reminded him of his wound from time to time. “But I don’t believe it. It’s only bluster and brag, of which I think our fellows ought to be ashamed. Why, you’ve more than once seen the French soldiers drive our men back.”“Well, yes,” said Punch grudgingly. “But that’s when there have been more of them.”“Not always, Punch.”“Why is it, then?”“Oh, when they have had better positions and our officers have been outflanked.”“Now you are dodging away from what we were talking about,” said Punch. “You were saying that you didn’t like shooting the men.”“Well, I don’t.”“That’s because you don’t understand things,” cried the boy triumphantly. “You see, although I am only a boy, and younger than you are, I am an older soldier.”“Are you, Punch?” said Pen, smiling.“Course I am! Why, you’ve only been about a year in the regiment.”“Yes, about a year.”“Well,” cried the boy triumphantly, “I was born in it, so I’m just as old a soldier as I am years old. You needn’t mind shooting as many of them as you can. They are the King’s enemies, and it is your duty to. Don’t the song say, ‘God save the King?’ Well, every British soldier has got to help and kill as many enemies as he can. But I say, we are going to fight for the Spanish King, then? Well, all right; he’s our King’s friend. But where is he now? I haven’t seen anything of him this morning. I hope he hasn’t run away and left us to do the fighting.”“Oh no,” said Pen, “I don’t think so. Our smuggler friend said we were surrounded by the French.”“Surrounded, eh?” cried Punch. “So much the better! Won’t matter which way we fire then, we shall be sure to bring some one down. Glad you think the Spanish King ain’t run away though. If I was a king I know what I should do, comrade,” continued Punch, nursing his musket and giving it an affectionate rub and pat here and there. “Leg hurt you, comrade?”“No, only now and then,” said Pen, smiling. “But what would you do if you were a king?”“Lead my army like a man.”“Nonsense! What are the generals for?”“Oh, you would want your generals, of course, and the more brave generals the King has—like Sir Arthur Wellesley—the better. I say, he’s an Irishman, isn’t he?”“Yes, I believe so,” replied Pen.“Yes,” continued Punch after a minute. “They are splendid fellows to fight. I wonder whether he’s spoiling for one now. Old O’Grady would say he was. You should hear him sometimes when he’s on the talk. How he let go, my boy, about the Oirish! Well, they are good soldiers, and I wish, my boy, old O was here to help. O, O, and it’s O with me, I am so hungry! Ain’t they going to give us anything to eat?”“Perhaps not, Punch, for it’s very doubtful whether our friends keep their provisions here.”“Oh, I say!” cried the boy, with his face resembling that of the brave man inChevy Chasewho was in doleful dump, “that’s a thing I’d see to if I was a king and led my army. I would have my men get a good feed before they advanced. They would fight ever so much better. Yes, if I was a king I’d lead my own men. They’d like seeing him, and fight for him all the better. Of course I wouldn’t have him do all the dirty work, but— Look there, comrade; there’s Mr Contrabando making signals to you. We are going to begin. Come on!”The boy sprang to his feet, and the companions marched sharply towards the opening where the group of smugglers were gathered.“Bah!” ejaculated Punch contemptuously. “What a pity it is! I don’t believe that they will do much good with dumpy tools like them;” and the boy literally glared at the short carbines the smugglers had slung across their shoulders. “Of course a rifle would be best, but a good musket and bayonet is worth a dozen of those blunderbusters. What do they call them? Bell-mouthed? Why, they are just like so many trumpet-things out of the band stuck upon a stick. Why, it stands to reason that they can’t go bang. It will only be a sort of apooh!” And the boy pursed up his lips and held his hand to his mouth as if it were his lost bugle, and emitted a soft, low note—poooooh!“Déjeuner, mes amis!” said the smuggler, as the boys advanced; and he led the way past a group of his followers along the narrow passage-like opening to where it became a hewn-out tunnel which showed the marks of picks, and on into a rock-chamber of great extent, in one corner of which a fire was blazing cheerfully, with the smoke rising to an outlet in the roof. Directly after the aromatic scent of hot coffee smote the nostrils of the hungry lads, as well as the aroma of newly fried ham, while away at one side to the right they caught sight of the strangers of the past night, Pen recognising at once the now uncloaked leader who had presented a pistol at his head.“Here, I say,” whispered Punch excitedly, “hold me up, comrade, or I shall faint.”“What’s the matter?” said Pen anxiously. “You feel that dreadful pain again? Is it your wound?”“Pain? Yes,” whispered Punch; “but it ain’t there;” and he thrust his hand into his pocket to feel for his knife.It was a rough meal, roughly served, but so abundant that it was evident that the smugglers were adepts in looking after the commissariat department. In one part of the cavern-like place the King and his followers were being amply supplied, while right on the other side—partly hidden by a couple of stacks piled-up in the centre of the great chamber, and formed in the one case of spirit-kegs, in the other of carefully bound up bales that might have been of silk or velvet—were grouped together near the fire some scores of thecontrabandistaswho seemed to be always coming and going—coming to receive portions of food, and going to make place for others of the band.And it was beyond these stacks of smuggled goods that theircontrabandistafriend signed to the lads to seat themselves. One of the men brought them coffee and freshly fried ham and cake, which the captain shared with them and joined heartily in the meal.“I say, Pen,” whispered Punch, “do tell him in ‘parlyvoo’ that I say he’s a trump! Fight for him and the King! I should just think we will! D’ye ’ear? Tell him.”“No,” said Pen. “Let him know what we feel towards him by what we do, Punch, not what we say.”“All right. Have it your own way,” said the boy. “But, I say, I do like this ham. I suppose it’s made of some of them little pigs we see running about in the woods. Talk about that goat’s mutton! Why, ’tain’t half so good as ours made of sheep, even though they do serve it out and call it kid. Why, when we have had it sometimes for rations, you couldn’t get your teeth into it. Kid, indeed! Grandfather kid! I’m sure of that. I say, pass the coffee, comrade. Only fancy! Milk and sugar too! Oh no, go on; drink first. Age before honesty. I wonder whether this was smuggled.—What’s the matter now?”For in answer to a shrill whistle that rang loudly in echoes from the roof, everycontrabandistain the place sprang up and seized his carbine, their captain setting the example.“No, no,” he said, turning to the two lads. “Finish your breakfast, and eat well, boys. It may be a long time before you get another chance. There’s plenty of time before the firing begins, and I will come back for you and station you where you can fight for Spain.”He walked quickly across to where the King’s followers had started up and stood sword in hand, their chief remaining seated upon an upturned keg, looking calm and stern; but at the same time his eyes wandered proudly over the roughly disguised devoted little band who were ready to defend him to the last.Pen watched thecontrabandistaas he advanced and saluted the dethroned monarch without a trace of anything servile; the Spanish gentleman spoke as he addressed his sovereign in a low tone, but his words were not audible to the young rifleman. Still the latter could interpret them to himself by the Spaniard’s gestures.“What’s he a-saying of?” whispered Punch; and as he spoke the boy surreptitiously cut open a cake, turned it into a sandwich, and thrust it into his haversack.“I can’t hear, Punch,” replied Pen; “and if I could I shouldn’t understand, for he’s speaking in Spanish. But he’s evidently telling him that his people may finish their breakfast in peace, for, like us, they are not wanted yet.”As Pen spoke the officers sheathed their swords, and two or three of them replaced pistols in their sashes. Then thecontrabandistaturned and walked sharply across the cavern-like chamber to overtake his men, and as he disappeared, distant but sharp and echoingrap, rap, rap, came the reports of firearms, and Punch looked sharply at his companion.“Muskets, ain’t they?” he said excitedly.“I think so,” replied Pen.“Must be, comrade. Those blunderbusters—trabookoosdon’t they call them?—couldn’t go off with a bang like that. All right; we are ready. But, I say, a soldier should always make his hay when the sun shines. Fill your pockets and haversack, comrade.—There they go again! I am glad. It’s like the old days once more. It will be ‘Forward!’ directly—a skirmishing advance. Oh, bad luck, as old O’Grady says, to the spalpeen who stole my bugle! The game’s begun.”

“I say, comrade,” whispered Punch; “are we going to begin soon?”

The boys were seated upon a huge block of stone watching the coming and going of thecontrabandistas, several of whom formed a group in a nook of the natural amphitheatre-like chasm in which they had made their halt.

This seemed to be the entrance to a gully, down which, as they waited, the lads had seen the smuggler-leader pass to and fro several times over, and as far as they could make out away to their left lay the track by which they had approached during the night; but they could not be sure.

That which had led them to this idea was the fact that it seemed as if sentries had been stationed somewhere down there, one of whom had come hurriedly into the amphitheatre as if in search of his chief.

“I say, comrade,” said Punch, repeating his question rather impatiently, “aren’t we going to begin soon? I feel just like old O’Grady.”

“How’s that, Punch?”

“What he calls ‘spoiling for a fight, me boy.’”

“Oh, you needn’t feel like that, Punch,” said Pen, smiling.

“Well, don’t you?”

“No. I never do. I never want to kill anybody.”

“You don’t? That ain’t being a good soldier.”

“I can’t help that, Punch. Of course, when one’s in for it I fire away like the rest; but when I’m cool I somehow don’t like the feeling that one has killed or wounded some brave man.”

“Oh, get out,” cried the boy, “with your ‘killed or wounded some brave man!’ They ain’t brave men—only Frenchies.”

“Why, Punch, there are as brave men amongst the French as amongst the English.”

“Get out! I don’t believe that,” said the boy. “There can’t be. If there were, how could our General with his little bit of an army drive the big army of Frenchies about as he does? Ask any of our fellows, and they will tell you that one Englishman is worth a dozen Frenchies. Why, you must have heard them say so.”

“Oh yes, I have, Punch,” said Pen, laughing, as he nursed his leg, which reminded him of his wound from time to time. “But I don’t believe it. It’s only bluster and brag, of which I think our fellows ought to be ashamed. Why, you’ve more than once seen the French soldiers drive our men back.”

“Well, yes,” said Punch grudgingly. “But that’s when there have been more of them.”

“Not always, Punch.”

“Why is it, then?”

“Oh, when they have had better positions and our officers have been outflanked.”

“Now you are dodging away from what we were talking about,” said Punch. “You were saying that you didn’t like shooting the men.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“That’s because you don’t understand things,” cried the boy triumphantly. “You see, although I am only a boy, and younger than you are, I am an older soldier.”

“Are you, Punch?” said Pen, smiling.

“Course I am! Why, you’ve only been about a year in the regiment.”

“Yes, about a year.”

“Well,” cried the boy triumphantly, “I was born in it, so I’m just as old a soldier as I am years old. You needn’t mind shooting as many of them as you can. They are the King’s enemies, and it is your duty to. Don’t the song say, ‘God save the King?’ Well, every British soldier has got to help and kill as many enemies as he can. But I say, we are going to fight for the Spanish King, then? Well, all right; he’s our King’s friend. But where is he now? I haven’t seen anything of him this morning. I hope he hasn’t run away and left us to do the fighting.”

“Oh no,” said Pen, “I don’t think so. Our smuggler friend said we were surrounded by the French.”

“Surrounded, eh?” cried Punch. “So much the better! Won’t matter which way we fire then, we shall be sure to bring some one down. Glad you think the Spanish King ain’t run away though. If I was a king I know what I should do, comrade,” continued Punch, nursing his musket and giving it an affectionate rub and pat here and there. “Leg hurt you, comrade?”

“No, only now and then,” said Pen, smiling. “But what would you do if you were a king?”

“Lead my army like a man.”

“Nonsense! What are the generals for?”

“Oh, you would want your generals, of course, and the more brave generals the King has—like Sir Arthur Wellesley—the better. I say, he’s an Irishman, isn’t he?”

“Yes, I believe so,” replied Pen.

“Yes,” continued Punch after a minute. “They are splendid fellows to fight. I wonder whether he’s spoiling for one now. Old O’Grady would say he was. You should hear him sometimes when he’s on the talk. How he let go, my boy, about the Oirish! Well, they are good soldiers, and I wish, my boy, old O was here to help. O, O, and it’s O with me, I am so hungry! Ain’t they going to give us anything to eat?”

“Perhaps not, Punch, for it’s very doubtful whether our friends keep their provisions here.”

“Oh, I say!” cried the boy, with his face resembling that of the brave man inChevy Chasewho was in doleful dump, “that’s a thing I’d see to if I was a king and led my army. I would have my men get a good feed before they advanced. They would fight ever so much better. Yes, if I was a king I’d lead my own men. They’d like seeing him, and fight for him all the better. Of course I wouldn’t have him do all the dirty work, but— Look there, comrade; there’s Mr Contrabando making signals to you. We are going to begin. Come on!”

The boy sprang to his feet, and the companions marched sharply towards the opening where the group of smugglers were gathered.

“Bah!” ejaculated Punch contemptuously. “What a pity it is! I don’t believe that they will do much good with dumpy tools like them;” and the boy literally glared at the short carbines the smugglers had slung across their shoulders. “Of course a rifle would be best, but a good musket and bayonet is worth a dozen of those blunderbusters. What do they call them? Bell-mouthed? Why, they are just like so many trumpet-things out of the band stuck upon a stick. Why, it stands to reason that they can’t go bang. It will only be a sort of apooh!” And the boy pursed up his lips and held his hand to his mouth as if it were his lost bugle, and emitted a soft, low note—poooooh!

“Déjeuner, mes amis!” said the smuggler, as the boys advanced; and he led the way past a group of his followers along the narrow passage-like opening to where it became a hewn-out tunnel which showed the marks of picks, and on into a rock-chamber of great extent, in one corner of which a fire was blazing cheerfully, with the smoke rising to an outlet in the roof. Directly after the aromatic scent of hot coffee smote the nostrils of the hungry lads, as well as the aroma of newly fried ham, while away at one side to the right they caught sight of the strangers of the past night, Pen recognising at once the now uncloaked leader who had presented a pistol at his head.

“Here, I say,” whispered Punch excitedly, “hold me up, comrade, or I shall faint.”

“What’s the matter?” said Pen anxiously. “You feel that dreadful pain again? Is it your wound?”

“Pain? Yes,” whispered Punch; “but it ain’t there;” and he thrust his hand into his pocket to feel for his knife.

It was a rough meal, roughly served, but so abundant that it was evident that the smugglers were adepts in looking after the commissariat department. In one part of the cavern-like place the King and his followers were being amply supplied, while right on the other side—partly hidden by a couple of stacks piled-up in the centre of the great chamber, and formed in the one case of spirit-kegs, in the other of carefully bound up bales that might have been of silk or velvet—were grouped together near the fire some scores of thecontrabandistaswho seemed to be always coming and going—coming to receive portions of food, and going to make place for others of the band.

And it was beyond these stacks of smuggled goods that theircontrabandistafriend signed to the lads to seat themselves. One of the men brought them coffee and freshly fried ham and cake, which the captain shared with them and joined heartily in the meal.

“I say, Pen,” whispered Punch, “do tell him in ‘parlyvoo’ that I say he’s a trump! Fight for him and the King! I should just think we will! D’ye ’ear? Tell him.”

“No,” said Pen. “Let him know what we feel towards him by what we do, Punch, not what we say.”

“All right. Have it your own way,” said the boy. “But, I say, I do like this ham. I suppose it’s made of some of them little pigs we see running about in the woods. Talk about that goat’s mutton! Why, ’tain’t half so good as ours made of sheep, even though they do serve it out and call it kid. Why, when we have had it sometimes for rations, you couldn’t get your teeth into it. Kid, indeed! Grandfather kid! I’m sure of that. I say, pass the coffee, comrade. Only fancy! Milk and sugar too! Oh no, go on; drink first. Age before honesty. I wonder whether this was smuggled.—What’s the matter now?”

For in answer to a shrill whistle that rang loudly in echoes from the roof, everycontrabandistain the place sprang up and seized his carbine, their captain setting the example.

“No, no,” he said, turning to the two lads. “Finish your breakfast, and eat well, boys. It may be a long time before you get another chance. There’s plenty of time before the firing begins, and I will come back for you and station you where you can fight for Spain.”

He walked quickly across to where the King’s followers had started up and stood sword in hand, their chief remaining seated upon an upturned keg, looking calm and stern; but at the same time his eyes wandered proudly over the roughly disguised devoted little band who were ready to defend him to the last.

Pen watched thecontrabandistaas he advanced and saluted the dethroned monarch without a trace of anything servile; the Spanish gentleman spoke as he addressed his sovereign in a low tone, but his words were not audible to the young rifleman. Still the latter could interpret them to himself by the Spaniard’s gestures.

“What’s he a-saying of?” whispered Punch; and as he spoke the boy surreptitiously cut open a cake, turned it into a sandwich, and thrust it into his haversack.

“I can’t hear, Punch,” replied Pen; “and if I could I shouldn’t understand, for he’s speaking in Spanish. But he’s evidently telling him that his people may finish their breakfast in peace, for, like us, they are not wanted yet.”

As Pen spoke the officers sheathed their swords, and two or three of them replaced pistols in their sashes. Then thecontrabandistaturned and walked sharply across the cavern-like chamber to overtake his men, and as he disappeared, distant but sharp and echoingrap, rap, rap, came the reports of firearms, and Punch looked sharply at his companion.

“Muskets, ain’t they?” he said excitedly.

“I think so,” replied Pen.

“Must be, comrade. Those blunderbusters—trabookoosdon’t they call them?—couldn’t go off with a bang like that. All right; we are ready. But, I say, a soldier should always make his hay when the sun shines. Fill your pockets and haversack, comrade.—There they go again! I am glad. It’s like the old days once more. It will be ‘Forward!’ directly—a skirmishing advance. Oh, bad luck, as old O’Grady says, to the spalpeen who stole my bugle! The game’s begun.”

Chapter Thirty Three.At Bay.The King’s party remained perfectly still during the first few shots, and then, unable to contain themselves, they seemed to the lads to be preparing for immediate action. The tall, stern-looking Spaniard who had seemed to be their leader the previous night, and who had given the orders which resulted in the boys being dragged down into the priest’s room, now with a due show of deference approached the King, who remained seated, and seemed to be begging his Sovereign to go in the direction he pointed, where a dark passage evidently led onward right into the inner portions of the cavern or deserted mine.The conversation, which was carried on in Spanish, would not have been comprehended by the two lads even if they had understood that tongue; but in spite of the Spaniard going even so far as to follow up his request and persuasion by catching at the King’s arm and trying to draw him in the direction he indicated, that refugee shook his head violently, wrested his wrist away, drew his sword, placed himself in front of his followers, and signed to them to advance towards the entrance.“Well done!” whispered Punch. “He is something like a king after all. He means fighting, he does!”“Hush,” whispered back Pen, “or you will be heard.”“Not us,” replied Punch, who began busying himself most unnecessarily with his musket, placing the butt between his feet, pulling out the ramrod and running it down the barrel to tap the end of the cartridge as if to make sure that it was well driven home.Satisfied with this, he drew the iron rod again, thrust it into the loops, threw the piece muzzle forward, opened the pan to see that it was full of powder, shut it down again, and made a careful examination of the flint. For these were the days long prior to the birth of the copper percussion-cap, and plenty of preliminaries had to be gone through before the musket could be fired.Satisfied now that everything possible had been done, he whispered a suggestion to his companion that he too should make an examination.“I did,” replied Pen, “a few minutes ago.”“But hadn’t you better look again?” whispered Punch.“No, no,” cried his companion impatiently. “Look at them; they are all advancing to the entrance, and we oughtn’t to be left behind.”“We ain’t a-going to be,” said the boy through his set teeth. “Come on.”“No,” replied Pen.“Come on, I say,” cried the boy again. “We have only got muskets, but we are riflemen all the same, and our dooty is to go right in front skirmishing to clear the way.”“Our orders were,” said Pen, “to wait here till our captain fetched us to the front and did what he told us.”“But he ain’t come,” protested Punch.“Not yet,” replied Pen. “Do you want him to come and find that we have broken faith with him and are not here?”“Course I don’t,” cried the boy, speaking now excitedly. “But suppose he ain’t coming? How do we know that he aren’t got a bullet in him and has gone down? He can’t come then.” Pen was silent.“And look here,” continued Punch; “when he gave us those orders he told that other lot—the Spaniel reserve, you may call them—to stop yonder till he come. Well, that’s the King, ain’t it? He’s ordered an advance, and he’s leading it hisself. Where’s his cloud of riflemen feeling the way for him? Are we to stop in the rear? I thought you did know better than that, comrade. I do. This comes of you only being a year in the regiment and me going on learning for years and years. I say our place is in the front; so come on.”“Yes, Punch; you must be right,” said Pen unwillingly, “Forwards then. Double!”“That’s your sort!” And falling into step and carrying their muskets at the trail, the two lads ran forward, their steps drowned for the moment by the heavy firing going on away beyond the entrance; and they were nearly close up to the little Spanish party before their advance was observed, and then one of the Spaniards shouted a command which resulted in his fellows of the King’s bodyguard of friends turning suddenly upon them to form achevaux-de-friseof sword-blades for the protection of their Sovereign.For the moment, in the excitement, the two lads’ lives were in peril; but Pen did not flinch, and, though suffering acute pain from his wound, ran on, his left arm almost brushing the little hedge of sword-points, and only slackening his speed when he was a dozen yards in front and came right upon the smuggler-leader, pistol in one hand, long Spanish knife in the other.Instead of angrily denouncing them for their disobedience to his order, he signed to them to stop, and ran on to meet the King’s party, holding up his hand; and then, taking the lead, he turned off a little way to his left toward a huge pile of stones and mine-refuse, where he placed them, as it were, behind a bank which would act as a defence if a rush upon them were made from the front.The two lads watched him, panting the while with excitement, listening as they watched to the fierce burst of firing that was now being sustained.The King gave way at once to the smuggler’s orders, planting himself with his followers ready for an anticipated assault; and, apparently satisfied, the smuggler waved the hand that grasped his knife and ran forward again with the two young Englishmen.This time it was the pistol that he waved to them as if bidding them follow, and he ran on some forty or fifty yards to where the entrance widened out and another heap of mine-rubbish offered itself upon the other side as a rough earthwork for defence, and where the two lads could find a temporary parapet which commanded the entry for nearly a hundred yards.Here he bade the two lads kneel where, perfectly safe themselves, they could do something to protect their Spanish friends behind on their left.“Do your best,” he said hoarsely. “They are driving my men back fast; but if you can keep up a steady fire, little as it will be, it will act as a surprise and maybe check their advance. But take care and mind not to injure any of my men.”He said no more, but ran forward again along the still unoccupied way, till a curve of the great rift hid him from their sight.“What did he say?” whispered Punch excitedly, as Pen now looked round and diagonally across the way to the great chamber, and could see the other rough stonework, above which appeared a little line of swords.“Said we were to be careful not to hurt him and his friends if they were beaten back.”“No fear,” said Punch; “we can tell them by their red handkerchiefs round their heads and their little footy guns. We’ve got nothing to do, then, yet.”“For a while, Punch; but they are coming on fast. Hark at them!” For the firing grew louder and louder, and was evidently coming nearer.“And only two of us as a covering-party!” muttered Punch. “Oh, don’t I wish all our chaps were here!”“Or half of them,” said Pen.“Yes, or half of them, comrade. Why, I’d say thank ye if it was only old O’Grady, me boy. He can load and fire faster than any chap in our company. Here, look at that!” For the sunlight shone plainly upon the red silk handkerchief of a Spaniard who suddenly ran into sight, stopped short, and turned to discharge his carbine as if at some invisible pursuers, and then dropped his piece, threw up his hands, and fell heavily across the way, which was now tenanted by a Spanish defender of the King.“Only wounded perhaps,” panted Punch; and Pen watched the fallen man hopefully in the expectation of seeing him make an effort to crawl out of the line of fire; but the two lads now became fully conscious of the fact that bullets were pattering faster and faster right into the gully-like passage and striking the walls, some to bury themselves, others to flatten and fall down, bringing with them fragments of stone and dust.The musketry of the attacking party and the replies of pistol and carbine blended now in a regular roll, but it was evident that the defenders were stubbornly holding their own; while the muskets that rested on the stones in front of the two lads remained silent, and Punch uttered an impatient ejaculation as he looked sharply round at Pen.“Oh, do give us a chance,” he cried. “Here, comrade, oughtn’t we two to run to cover a little way in advance?”“No,” said Pen excitedly. “Now then, look out! Here they come!”As the words left his lips, first one and then another, and directly after three more, of thecontrabandistasran round the curve well into sight and divided, some to one side, some to the other, seeking the shelter of the rocky wall, and fired back apparently at their pursuing enemy before beginning to reload.They were nearly a hundred yards from the two boys, who crouched, trembling with excitement, waiting impatiently to afford the little help they could by bringing their muskets to bear. Then, as the firing went on, there was another little rush of retiring men, half-a-dozen coming one by one into sight, to turn, seek the cover of the wall, and fire back as if in the hope of checking pursuit. But a couple of these went down, and it soon became evident from the firing that the advance was steadily continued.Another ten minutes of wild excitement followed, and then there was a rush of the Spaniards, who continued their predecessors’ tactics, firing back and sheltering themselves; but the enemy were still hidden from the two lads.“Let’s—oh, do let’s cross over to the other side,” cried Punch. “There’s two places there where we could get shelter;” and he pointed to a couple of heaps of stone that diagonally were about forty yards in advance.But as he spoke there was another rush of their friends round the curve, with the same tactics, while those who had come before now dashed across the great passage and occupied the two rough stoneworks themselves.“Too late!” muttered Punch amidst the roar of musketry which now seemed to have increased in a vast degree, multiplied as the shots were by echoing repetitions as they crossed and recrossed from wall to wall.“No!” shouted Pen. “Fire!” For half-a-dozen French chasseurs suddenly came running into sight in pursuit of the last little party of the Spaniards, dropped upon one knee, and, rapidly taking aim, fired at and brought down a couple more of the retreating men.There was a sharp flash from Punch’s piece, and a report from Pen’s which sounded like an echo from the first, and two of the half-dozen chasseurs rolled over in the dust, while their comrades turned on the instant and ran back out of sight, followed by a tremendous yell of triumph from the Spaniards, who had now manned the two heaps of stones on the other side.There was another yell, and another which seemed to fill the entry to the old mine with a hundred echoes, while as the boys were busily reloading a figure they did not recognise came running towards their coign of vantage at the top of his speed.“Quick, Punch! An enemy! Bayonets!” cried Pen.“Tain’t,” grumbled Punch. “Nearly ready. It’s Contrabando.”The next minute the Spaniard was behind them, slapping each on the back.“Bravo! Bravissimo!” he shouted, making his voice heard above the enemy’s firing, for his men now were making no reply. “Continuez! Continuez!” he cried, and then dashed off forward again and, heedless of the flying bullets, crossed to where his men were lying down behind the two farther heaps of stones, evidently encouraging some of them to occupy better places ready for the enemy when they made their attack in force.

The King’s party remained perfectly still during the first few shots, and then, unable to contain themselves, they seemed to the lads to be preparing for immediate action. The tall, stern-looking Spaniard who had seemed to be their leader the previous night, and who had given the orders which resulted in the boys being dragged down into the priest’s room, now with a due show of deference approached the King, who remained seated, and seemed to be begging his Sovereign to go in the direction he pointed, where a dark passage evidently led onward right into the inner portions of the cavern or deserted mine.

The conversation, which was carried on in Spanish, would not have been comprehended by the two lads even if they had understood that tongue; but in spite of the Spaniard going even so far as to follow up his request and persuasion by catching at the King’s arm and trying to draw him in the direction he indicated, that refugee shook his head violently, wrested his wrist away, drew his sword, placed himself in front of his followers, and signed to them to advance towards the entrance.

“Well done!” whispered Punch. “He is something like a king after all. He means fighting, he does!”

“Hush,” whispered back Pen, “or you will be heard.”

“Not us,” replied Punch, who began busying himself most unnecessarily with his musket, placing the butt between his feet, pulling out the ramrod and running it down the barrel to tap the end of the cartridge as if to make sure that it was well driven home.

Satisfied with this, he drew the iron rod again, thrust it into the loops, threw the piece muzzle forward, opened the pan to see that it was full of powder, shut it down again, and made a careful examination of the flint. For these were the days long prior to the birth of the copper percussion-cap, and plenty of preliminaries had to be gone through before the musket could be fired.

Satisfied now that everything possible had been done, he whispered a suggestion to his companion that he too should make an examination.

“I did,” replied Pen, “a few minutes ago.”

“But hadn’t you better look again?” whispered Punch.

“No, no,” cried his companion impatiently. “Look at them; they are all advancing to the entrance, and we oughtn’t to be left behind.”

“We ain’t a-going to be,” said the boy through his set teeth. “Come on.”

“No,” replied Pen.

“Come on, I say,” cried the boy again. “We have only got muskets, but we are riflemen all the same, and our dooty is to go right in front skirmishing to clear the way.”

“Our orders were,” said Pen, “to wait here till our captain fetched us to the front and did what he told us.”

“But he ain’t come,” protested Punch.

“Not yet,” replied Pen. “Do you want him to come and find that we have broken faith with him and are not here?”

“Course I don’t,” cried the boy, speaking now excitedly. “But suppose he ain’t coming? How do we know that he aren’t got a bullet in him and has gone down? He can’t come then.” Pen was silent.

“And look here,” continued Punch; “when he gave us those orders he told that other lot—the Spaniel reserve, you may call them—to stop yonder till he come. Well, that’s the King, ain’t it? He’s ordered an advance, and he’s leading it hisself. Where’s his cloud of riflemen feeling the way for him? Are we to stop in the rear? I thought you did know better than that, comrade. I do. This comes of you only being a year in the regiment and me going on learning for years and years. I say our place is in the front; so come on.”

“Yes, Punch; you must be right,” said Pen unwillingly, “Forwards then. Double!”

“That’s your sort!” And falling into step and carrying their muskets at the trail, the two lads ran forward, their steps drowned for the moment by the heavy firing going on away beyond the entrance; and they were nearly close up to the little Spanish party before their advance was observed, and then one of the Spaniards shouted a command which resulted in his fellows of the King’s bodyguard of friends turning suddenly upon them to form achevaux-de-friseof sword-blades for the protection of their Sovereign.

For the moment, in the excitement, the two lads’ lives were in peril; but Pen did not flinch, and, though suffering acute pain from his wound, ran on, his left arm almost brushing the little hedge of sword-points, and only slackening his speed when he was a dozen yards in front and came right upon the smuggler-leader, pistol in one hand, long Spanish knife in the other.

Instead of angrily denouncing them for their disobedience to his order, he signed to them to stop, and ran on to meet the King’s party, holding up his hand; and then, taking the lead, he turned off a little way to his left toward a huge pile of stones and mine-refuse, where he placed them, as it were, behind a bank which would act as a defence if a rush upon them were made from the front.

The two lads watched him, panting the while with excitement, listening as they watched to the fierce burst of firing that was now being sustained.

The King gave way at once to the smuggler’s orders, planting himself with his followers ready for an anticipated assault; and, apparently satisfied, the smuggler waved the hand that grasped his knife and ran forward again with the two young Englishmen.

This time it was the pistol that he waved to them as if bidding them follow, and he ran on some forty or fifty yards to where the entrance widened out and another heap of mine-rubbish offered itself upon the other side as a rough earthwork for defence, and where the two lads could find a temporary parapet which commanded the entry for nearly a hundred yards.

Here he bade the two lads kneel where, perfectly safe themselves, they could do something to protect their Spanish friends behind on their left.

“Do your best,” he said hoarsely. “They are driving my men back fast; but if you can keep up a steady fire, little as it will be, it will act as a surprise and maybe check their advance. But take care and mind not to injure any of my men.”

He said no more, but ran forward again along the still unoccupied way, till a curve of the great rift hid him from their sight.

“What did he say?” whispered Punch excitedly, as Pen now looked round and diagonally across the way to the great chamber, and could see the other rough stonework, above which appeared a little line of swords.

“Said we were to be careful not to hurt him and his friends if they were beaten back.”

“No fear,” said Punch; “we can tell them by their red handkerchiefs round their heads and their little footy guns. We’ve got nothing to do, then, yet.”

“For a while, Punch; but they are coming on fast. Hark at them!” For the firing grew louder and louder, and was evidently coming nearer.

“And only two of us as a covering-party!” muttered Punch. “Oh, don’t I wish all our chaps were here!”

“Or half of them,” said Pen.

“Yes, or half of them, comrade. Why, I’d say thank ye if it was only old O’Grady, me boy. He can load and fire faster than any chap in our company. Here, look at that!” For the sunlight shone plainly upon the red silk handkerchief of a Spaniard who suddenly ran into sight, stopped short, and turned to discharge his carbine as if at some invisible pursuers, and then dropped his piece, threw up his hands, and fell heavily across the way, which was now tenanted by a Spanish defender of the King.

“Only wounded perhaps,” panted Punch; and Pen watched the fallen man hopefully in the expectation of seeing him make an effort to crawl out of the line of fire; but the two lads now became fully conscious of the fact that bullets were pattering faster and faster right into the gully-like passage and striking the walls, some to bury themselves, others to flatten and fall down, bringing with them fragments of stone and dust.

The musketry of the attacking party and the replies of pistol and carbine blended now in a regular roll, but it was evident that the defenders were stubbornly holding their own; while the muskets that rested on the stones in front of the two lads remained silent, and Punch uttered an impatient ejaculation as he looked sharply round at Pen.

“Oh, do give us a chance,” he cried. “Here, comrade, oughtn’t we two to run to cover a little way in advance?”

“No,” said Pen excitedly. “Now then, look out! Here they come!”

As the words left his lips, first one and then another, and directly after three more, of thecontrabandistasran round the curve well into sight and divided, some to one side, some to the other, seeking the shelter of the rocky wall, and fired back apparently at their pursuing enemy before beginning to reload.

They were nearly a hundred yards from the two boys, who crouched, trembling with excitement, waiting impatiently to afford the little help they could by bringing their muskets to bear. Then, as the firing went on, there was another little rush of retiring men, half-a-dozen coming one by one into sight, to turn, seek the cover of the wall, and fire back as if in the hope of checking pursuit. But a couple of these went down, and it soon became evident from the firing that the advance was steadily continued.

Another ten minutes of wild excitement followed, and then there was a rush of the Spaniards, who continued their predecessors’ tactics, firing back and sheltering themselves; but the enemy were still hidden from the two lads.

“Let’s—oh, do let’s cross over to the other side,” cried Punch. “There’s two places there where we could get shelter;” and he pointed to a couple of heaps of stone that diagonally were about forty yards in advance.

But as he spoke there was another rush of their friends round the curve, with the same tactics, while those who had come before now dashed across the great passage and occupied the two rough stoneworks themselves.

“Too late!” muttered Punch amidst the roar of musketry which now seemed to have increased in a vast degree, multiplied as the shots were by echoing repetitions as they crossed and recrossed from wall to wall.

“No!” shouted Pen. “Fire!” For half-a-dozen French chasseurs suddenly came running into sight in pursuit of the last little party of the Spaniards, dropped upon one knee, and, rapidly taking aim, fired at and brought down a couple more of the retreating men.

There was a sharp flash from Punch’s piece, and a report from Pen’s which sounded like an echo from the first, and two of the half-dozen chasseurs rolled over in the dust, while their comrades turned on the instant and ran back out of sight, followed by a tremendous yell of triumph from the Spaniards, who had now manned the two heaps of stones on the other side.

There was another yell, and another which seemed to fill the entry to the old mine with a hundred echoes, while as the boys were busily reloading a figure they did not recognise came running towards their coign of vantage at the top of his speed.

“Quick, Punch! An enemy! Bayonets!” cried Pen.

“Tain’t,” grumbled Punch. “Nearly ready. It’s Contrabando.”

The next minute the Spaniard was behind them, slapping each on the back.

“Bravo! Bravissimo!” he shouted, making his voice heard above the enemy’s firing, for his men now were making no reply. “Continuez! Continuez!” he cried, and then dashed off forward again and, heedless of the flying bullets, crossed to where his men were lying down behind the two farther heaps of stones, evidently encouraging some of them to occupy better places ready for the enemy when they made their attack in force.

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