"Whatcher doing of?" cried the boy angrily.

"Stopping you. There, you see you are better. You couldn't have attempted that a while ago."

"Ya! Think I'm such a silly as to bring the enemy down upon us?"

"Well, I didn't know."

"Then you ought to. I should just like to give the call, though, to set our dear old lads going along the mountain-side there skirmishing and peppering the frog-eating warmints till they ran for their lives."

"Hurrah!" shouted Pen. "Who's trying to bring the enemy down upon us now, when we know there are some of them sneaking about in vedettes as they hold both ends of the valley. Now you say you are not better if you dare."

"Oh, I don't want to fall out," grumbled the invalid. "You think you know, but you ain't got a wound in your back to feel when a cold wind comes off the mountains. I think I ought to know best."

"But you don't, Punch. Those pains will die out in time, and you will go on growing, and keeping thin perhaps for a bit; but your muscles will fill out by-and-by, same as mine do in this beautiful air."

"Needn't be so precious proud of them," said the boy sourly.

"I'm not. There, have another fish."

"Sha'n't. I'm sick to death on them. They are only Spanish or Portuguee trout, and not half so good as roach and dace out of a good old English pond."

Pen laughed merrily again.

"Ah, grin away! I think I ought to know."

"Yes—better than to grumble when I have broiled the fish so nicely over the wood embers with sticks I cut for skewers. They were delicious, and I ate till I felt ashamed."

"So you ought to be."

"To enjoy myself so," continued Pen, "while you, with your mouth so out of taste and no appetite, could hardly eat a bit."

"Well, who's to have a happetite with a wound like mine? I shall never get no better till I get a mug of real old English beer."

"Never mind; you get plenty of milk."

"Ya! Nasty, sickly stuff! I'll never touch it again."

"Well then, beautiful sparkling water."

"Who wants sparkling water? 'Tain't like English. It's so thin and cold."

"Come, come; you must own that you are mending fast, Punch."

"Who wants to be mended," snarled the poor fellow, "and go through life like my old woman's cracked chayney plate with the rivet in it! I was a strong lad once, and could beat any drummer in the regiment in a race, while now I ought to be in horspital."

"No, you ought not. I'll tell you what you want, Punch."

"Oh, I know."

"No, you don't. You want to get just a little stronger, so as you can walk ten miles in a day."

"Ten miles! Why, I used to do twenty easy."

"So you will again, lad; but I mean in a night, for we shall have to lie up all day and march all night so as to keep clear of the enemy."

"Then you mean for us to try and get out of this wretched hole?"

"I mean for us to go on tramp as soon as you are quite strong enough; and then you will think it's a beautiful valley. Why, Punch, I have crept about here of a night while you have been asleep, so that I have got to know the place by heart, and I should like to have the chance of leading our fellows into places I know where they could hold it against ten times or twenty times their number of Frenchmen who might try to drive them out."

"You have got to know that?" said Punch with a show of animation that had grown strange to the poor fellow.

"Yes," cried Pen triumphantly.

"Well, then, all I have got to say is you waren't playing fair."

"Of course it wasn't. Seeing you were so weak you couldn't walk."

"There now, you are laughing at a fellow; but you don't play fair."

"Don't I? In what way?"

"Why, you promised while I have been so bad that you would read to me a bit."

"And I couldn't, Punch, because we have got nothing to read."

"And then you promised that you would tell me how it was you come to take the king's shilling."

"Well, yes, I did; but you don't want to know that."

"Yes, I do. I have been wanting to know ever since."

"Why, boy?"

"Because it seems so queer that a lad like you should join the ranks."

"Why queer? You are too young yet, but you will be in the ranks some day as a full private."

"Yes, some day; but then, you see, my father was a soldier. Yours warn't, was he?"

"No-o," said Pen, frowning and looking straight away before him out of the hut-door.

"Well, then, why don't you speak out?"

"Because I don't feel much disposed. It is rather a tender subject, Punch."

"There, I always knew there was something. Look here; you and me's friends and comrades, ain't we?"

"I think so, Punch. I have tried to be."

"So you have. Nobody could have been better. I have lain awake lots of times and thought about what you did. You haven't minded my saying such nasty things as I have sometimes?"

"Not I, Punch. Sick people are often irritable."

"Yes," said the boy eagerly, "that's it. I have said lots of things to you that I didn't mean; but it's when my back's been very bad, and it seemed to spur me on to be spiteful, and I have been very sorry sometimes, only I was ashamed to tell you. But you haven't done anything to be ashamed of?" Pen was silent for a few moments.

"Ashamed? No—yes."

"Well, you can't have been both," said the boy. "Whatcher mean by that?"

"There have been times, Punch, when I have felt ashamed of what I have done."

"Why, what have you done? I don't believe it was ever anything bad. You say what it was. I'll never tell."

"Enlisted for a soldier."

"What?" cried the boy. "Why, that ain't nothing to be ashamed of. What stuff! Why, that's something to be proud of, specially in our Rifles. In the other regiments we have got out here the lads are proud of being in scarlet. Let 'em. But I know better. There isn't one of them who wouldn't be proud to be in our dark-green, and to shoulder a rifle. Besides, we have got our bit of scarlet on the collar and cuffs, and that's quite enough. Why, you are laughing at me! You couldn't be ashamed of being in our regiment. I know what it was—you ran away from home?"

"It was no longer home to me, Punch."

"Why, didn't you live there?"

"Yes; but it didn't seem like home any longer. It was like this, Punch. My father and mother had died."

"Oh," said the boy softly, "that's bad. Very good uns, waren't they?"

Pen bowed his head.

"Then it waren't your home any longer?"

"Yes and no, Punch," said the lad gravely.

"There you go again! Don't aggravate a fellow when he is sick and weak. I ain't a scholar like you, and when you puts it into me with your 'yes and no' it makes my head ache. It can't be yes and no too."

"Well, Punch," said Pen, smiling, "it was mine by rights, but I was under age."

"What's under age?"

"Not twenty-one."

"Of course not. You told me months ago that you was only eighteen. Anybody could see that, because you ain't got no whiskers. But what has that got to do with it?"

"Well, I don't see why I should tell you all this, Punch, for it's all about law."

"But I want to know," said the boy, "because it's all about you."

"Well, it's like this: my father left my uncle to be executor and my trustee."

"Oh, I say, whatcher talking about? You said your father was a good un, didn't you?"

"I did."

"Well, then, he couldn't have left your uncle to be your executioner when you hadn't done nothing."

"Executor, Punch," said the lad, laughing.

"Well, that's what I said, didn't I?"

"No; that's a very different thing. An executor is one who executes."

"Well, I know that. Hangs people who ain't soldiers, and shoots them as is. Court-martial, you know."

"Punch, you are getting in a muddle."

"Glad of it," said the boy, "for I thought it was, and I don't like to hear you talk like that."

"Then let's put it right. An executor is one who executes the commands of a person who is dead."

"Oh, I see," said the boy. "Dead without being executed."

"Look here, Punch," said Pen, laughing, "you had better be still and listen, and I will try and make it plain to you. My uncle was my father's executor, who had to see that the property he left was rightfully distributed."

"Oh, I see," said Punch.

"And my father made him my trustee, to take charge of the money that was to be mine when I became twenty-one."

"All right; go on. I am getting it now."

"Then he had to see to my education, and advise me till I grew up."

"Well, that was all right, only if I had been your old man, seeing what a chap you are, I shouldn't have called in no uncle. I should have said, 'Young Penton Gray has got his head screwed on proper, and he will do what's right.' I suppose, then, your uncle didn't."

"I thought not, Punch."

"Then, of course, he didn't. What did he do, then?"

"Made me leave school," said Pen.

"Oh, well, that don't sound very bad. Made you leave school? Well, I never was at school but once, but I'd have given anything to be made to come away."

"Ah, perhaps you would, Punch. But then there are schools and schools."

"Well, I know that," said the boy irritably; "but don't tease a fellow, it makes me so wild now I'm all weak like."

"Well, then, let's say no more about it."

"What! Leave off telling of me?"

"Yes, while you are irritable."

"I ain't irritable; not a bit. It's only that I want to know."

"Very well, then, Punch; I will cut it short."

"No, you don't, so come now! You promised to tell me all about it, so play fair."

"Very well, then, you must listen patiently."

"That's what I'm a-doing of, only you will keep talking in riddles like about your executioners and trustees. I want you to tell me just in plain English."

"Very well, then, Punch. I was at a military school, and I didn't want to be fetched away."

"Oh, I see," cried the boy. "You mean one of them big schools where they makes young officers?"

"Yes."

"Like Woolwich and Addiscombe?"

"Yes."

"You were going to be a soldier, then—I mean, an officer?"

"An officer is a soldier, Punch."

"Of course he is. Oh, well, I don't wonder you didn't want to be fetched away. Learning to be an officer, eh? That's fine. Didn't your uncle want you to be a soldier, then?"

"No. He wanted me to go as a private pupil with a lawyer."

"What, and get to be a lawyer?" cried the boy excitedly. "Oh, I say, you weren't going to stand that?"

"No, Punch. Perhaps I should have obeyed him, only I knew that it had always been my father's wish that I should go into the army, and he had left the money for my education and to buy a commission when I left the military school."

"Here, I know," cried the boy excitedly; "you needn't tell me no more. I heard a story once about a wicked uncle. I know—your one bought the commission and kept it for himself."

"No, Punch; that wouldn't work out right. When I begged him to let me stay at the military school he mocked at me, and laughed, and said that my poor father must have been mad to think of throwing away money like that; and over and over again he insisted that I should go on with my studies of the law, and give up all notion of wearing a red coat, for he could see that that was all I thought about."

"Well?" said the boy.

"Well, Punch?"

"And then you punched his head, and ran away from home."

"No, I did not."

"Then you ought to have done. I would if anybody said my poor father was mad; and, besides, your uncle must have been a bad un to want to make you a lawyer. I suppose he was a lawyer too."

"Yes."

"There, if I didn't think so! But he must have been a bad un. Said you wanted to be a soldier so as to wear the uniform? Well, if you did want to, that's only nat'ral. A soldier's always proud of his uniform. I heard our colonel say that it was the king's livery and something to be proud on. I am proud of mine, even if it has got a bit raggy-taggy with sleeping out in it in all sorts of weather, and rooshing through bushes and mud, and crossing streams. But soldiers don't think of that sort of thing, and we shall all have new things served out by-and-by. Well, go on."

"Oh, that's about all, Punch."

"You get on. I know better. Tain't half all. I want you to come to the cutting off and taking the shilling."

"Oh, you want to hear that?"

"Why, of course I do. Why, it's all the juicy part. Don't hang fire. Let's have it with a rush now. Fix bayonets, and at them!"

"Why, Punch," said Pen, laughing, "don't you tell me again that you are not getting better!"

"I waren't going to now. This warms a fellow up a bit. I say, your uncle is a bad un, and no mistake. There, forward!"

"But I have nearly told all, Punch. Life got so miserable at home, and I was so sick of the law, that I led such a life with my uncle through begging him to let me go back to the school, that he, one day—"

"Well, whatcher stopping for?" cried the boy, whose cheeks were flushed and eyes sparkling with excitement.

"I don't like talking about it," replied Pen. "I suppose I was wrong, for my father had left all the management of my affairs in his brother-in-law's hands."

"Why, you said your uncle's hands just now!"

"Yes, Punch; in my mother's brother's hands, so he was my uncle."

"Well, go on."

"And I had been begging him to alter his plans."

"Yes, and let you go back to the school?"

"And I suppose he was tired out with what he called my obstinacy, and he told me that if ever I dared to mention the army again he would give me a sound flogging."

"And you up and said you would like to catch him at it?" cried Punch excitedly. "No, Punch; but I lost my temper."

"Enough to make you! Then you knocked him down?"

"No, Punch, but I told him he was forgetting the commands my father had given him, and that I would never go to the lawyer's office again."

"Well, and what then?"

"Then, Punch? Oh, I don't like to talk about it. It makes me feel hot all over even to think."

"Of course it does. It makes me hot too; but then, you see, I'm weak. But do go on. What happened then?"

"He knocked me down," said the lad hoarsely.

"Oh!" cried the boy, trying to spring up from his rough couch, but sinking back with the great beads of perspiration standing upon his brown forehead. "Don't you tell me you stood that!"

"No, Punch; I couldn't. That night I went right away from home, just as I stood, made my way to London, and the next day I went to King Street, Westminster, and saw where the recruiting sergeants were marching up and down."

"I know," cried the boy, "with their canes under their arms and their colours flying."

"Yes, Punch, and I picked out the one in the new regiment, the —th Rifles."

"Yes," cried Punch, "the Rifle green with the red collars and cuffs."

Pen, half-excited by his recollections, half-amused at the boy's intense interest, nodded again.

"And took the king's shilling," cried Punch; "and I know, but I want you to tell me—you joined ours just to show that uncle that you wanted to serve the king, and not for the sake of the scarlet coat."

"Yes, Punch, that was why; and that's all."



CHAPTER NINE.

HOW TO TREAT AN ENEMY.

"Well, but is that all?" said Punch.

"Yes, and now you are tired and had better have a nap, and by the time you wake I will have some more milk for you."

"Bother the old milk! I'm sick of it; and I don't want to go to sleep. I feel sometimes as if I had nearly slept my head off. A fellow can't be always sleeping. Now, look here; I tell you what you have got to do some day. You must serve that uncle of yours out."

"Let him rest. You are tired and weak."

"No, I ain't. All that about you has done me good. I did not know that you had had such a lot of trouble, sir."

"Ah, what's that, Punch!" cried Pen sharply. "Don't you say 'sir' to me again!"

"Shall if I like. Ain't you a gentleman?"

"No, sir. Only Private Penton Gray, of the —th Rifles."

"Well, you are a-saying 'sir' to me."

"Yes, but I don't mean it as you do. While I am in the regiment we are equals."

"Oh yes, I like that!" said the boy with a faint laugh. "Wish we was. Only Private Penton Gray of the —th! Well, ain't that being a gentleman? Don't our chaps all carry rifles? They are not like the line regiments with their common Brown Besses. Sharpshooters, that's what we are. But they didn't shoot sharp enough the other day, or else we shouldn't be here. I have been thinking when I have been lying half-asleep that there were so many Frenchies that they got our lads between two fires and shot 'em all down."

"I hope not, Punch. What makes you think that?"

"Because if they had been all right they would have been after us before now to cut us out, and—and—I say, my head's beginning to swim again."

"Exactly, you are tired out and must go to sleep again."

"But I tell you I don't—"

The poor boy stopped short, to gaze appealingly in his companion's eyes as if asking for help, and the help Pen gave was to lay his hand gently on his eyelids and keep it there till he felt that the sufferer had sunk into a deep sleep.

The next day the poor fellow had quite a serious relapse, and lay looking so feeble that once more Pen in his alarm stood watching and blaming himself for rousing the boy into such a state of excitement that he seemed to have caused him serious harm.

But just as Punch seemed at the worst he brightened up again.

"Look here," he said, "I ain't bad. I know what it is."

"So do I," replied Pen. "You have been trying your strength too much."

"Wrong!" cried the boy faintly. "It was you give me too much to eat. You ought to have treated me like a doctor would, or as if I was a prisoner, and given me dry bread."

"Ah!" sighed Pen. "But where was the bread to come from?"

"Jusso," said Punch, with a faint little laugh; "and you can't make bread without flour, can you? But don't you think I'm going to die, because I am ever so much better to-day, and shall be all right soon. Now, go on talking to me again about your uncle."

"No," said Pen, "you have heard too much of my troubles already."

"Oh no, I ain't. I want to hear you talk about it."

"Then you will have to wait, Punch."

"All right, then. I shall lie and think till my head begins to go round and round, and I shall go on thinking about myself till I get all miserable and go backwards. You don't want that, do you?"

"You know I don't."

"Very well, then, let's have some more uncle. It's like doctor's stuff to me. I've been thinking that you might wait a bit, and then go and see that lawyer chap and punch his head, only that would be such a common sort of way. It would be all right if it was me, but it wouldn't do for you. This would be better. I have thought it out."

"Yes, you think too much, Punch," said Pen, laying his hand upon his companion's forehead.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," cried the boy pettishly. "It's nice and cool now."

"Yes, it is better now. That last sleep did you good."

"Not it, for I was thinking all the time."

"Nonsense! You were fast asleep."

"Yesterday," said the boy; "but I was only shamming to-day, so that I could think, and I have been thinking that this would do. You must wait till we have whopped the French and gone back to England, and got our new uniforms served out, and burnt all our rags. Then we must go and see your uncle, and—"

"That'll do, Punch. I want to see to your wound now."

"What for? It's going on all right. Here, whatcher doing of? You ain't going to cut up that other sleeve of your shirt, are you?"

"Yes; it is quite time that you had a fresh bandage."

"Ah, that's because you keep getting it into your head that I'm worse and that I'm going to die; and it's all wrong, for I am going to be all right. The Frenchies thought they'd done for me; but I won't die, out of spite. I am going to get strong again, and as soon as the colonel lets me carry a rifle I will let some of them have it, and—Oh, very well; if you must do it, I suppose I must lie still; only get it over. But—ya! I don't mean to die. What's the good of it, when there's so much for us to do in walloping the French? But when we do get back to the regiment you see how I will stick up for you, and what a lot I will make the chaps think of you!"

"Will you keep your tongue quiet, Punch?"

"No, I sha'n't," said the boy with a mocking laugh. "There, you needn't tie that so tight so as to make it hurt me, because I shall go on talking all the same—worse. You always begin to shy and kick out like one of those old mules when I begin talking to you like this. You hates to hear the truth. I shall tell the chaps every blessed thing."

But, all the same, Punch lay perfectly still now until the dressing of his wound was at an end; and then very faintly, almost in a whisper, he said, "Yes; our chaps never knew what a good chap—"

"Ah! Asleep again!" said Pen, with a sigh of relief. "There must be slight delirium, and I suppose I shall be doing no good by trying to stop him. Poor fellow! He doesn't know how he hurts me when he goes wandering on like this. I wish I could think out some way of getting a change of food. Plenty of milk, plenty of fish. I have been as far as I dared in every direction, but there isn't a trace of a cottage. I don't want much—only one of those black-bread cakes now and then. Any one would have thought that the people in a country like this would have kept plenty of fowls. Perhaps they do where there are any cottages. Ah, there's no shamming now. He's fast enough asleep, and perhaps when he awakes he will be more himself."

But poor Punch's sleep only lasted about half an hour, and then he woke up with his eyes glittering and with a strangely eager look in his countenance, as he stretched out the one hand that he could use.

"Yes," he said, "that's it. I know what you will have to do. Go to that uncle of yours—"

"Punch, lad," cried Pen, laying his hand softly upon the one that had closed upon his wrist, "don't talk now."

"I won't much, only it stops my head from going round. I just want to say—"

"Yes, I know; but I have been watching a deal while you slept."

"What for?" cried the boy.

"To make sure that the enemy did not surprise us."

"Ah, you are a good chap," said the boy, pressing his wrist.

"And I am very tired, and when you talk my head begins to go round too."

"Does it? Well, then, I won't say much; only I have got this into my head, and something seems to make me tell you."

"Leave it till to-morrow morning, then."

"No; it must come now, for fear I should forget it. What you have to do is to go to your uncle like an officer and a gentleman—"

"Punch, Punch!"

"All right; I have just done. Pistols like an officer—same as they uses when they fights duels. Then you walks straight up to him, with your head in the air, and you says to him, 'You don't desarve it, sir, but I won't take any dirty advantage of you; so there's the pistols,' you says. 'Which will you choose? For we are going to settle this little affair.' Then I'll tell you how it is. Old Pat Reilly—who was a corporal once, before he was put back into the ranks—I heerd him telling our chaps over their pipes how he went with the doctor of the regiment he was in to carry his tools to mend the one of them who was hurt. He called it—he was an Irishman, you know—a jool; and he said when you fight a jool, and marches so many paces, and somebody—not the doctor, but what they calls the second—only I think Pat made a mistake, because there can't be two seconds; one of them must be a first or a third—"

"There, Punch, tell me the rest to-morrow."

"No," said the boy obstinately; but his voice was growing weaker. "I have just done, and I shall be better then, for what I wanted to say will have left off worrying me. Let's see what it was. Oh, I know. You stands opposite to your uncle, turns sideways, raises your pistol, takes a good aim at him, and shoots him dead. Now then, what do you say to that?"

"That I don't want to shoot him dead, Punch."

"You don't?"

"No."

"Why, isn't he your enemy?"

"I don't know."

"Then I suppose that won't do."

"I'm afraid not, Punch."

"Then you must wait a little longer till you get promoted for bravery in the field. You will be Captain Gray then, and then you can go to him, and look him full in the face, and smile at him as if you felt that he was no better than a worm, and ask him what he thinks of that."

"What! Of my captain's uniform, Punch?"

"No, I mean you smiling down at him as if he wasn't worth your notice."

"Ah, that sounds better, Punch."

"Then, you think that will do?"

"Yes."

"Then, now I will go to sleep."

"Ah, and get better, Punch."

"Oh yes, I am going to get better now."

With a sigh of satisfaction, the boy closed his eyes, utterly exhausted, and lay breathing steadily and well, while Pen stood leaning over him waiting till he felt sure that the boy was asleep; and then, as he laid his hand lightly upon his patient's brow, a sense of hopefulness came over him on feeling that he was cool and calm.

"There are moments," he thought to himself, "when it seems as if I ought to give up as prisoners, for it is impossible to go on like this. Poor fellow, he wants suitable food, and think how I will I don't know what I could do to get him better food. I should be to blame if I stand by and see him die for want of proper nourishment." And it seemed to him that his depressing thoughts had affected his eyes, for the cabin had grown dull and gloomy, and his despair became more deep.

"Oh, it's no use to give way," he muttered. "There must be food of some kind to be found if I knew where to forage for it. Why not kill one of the kids?"

He stopped short in his planning and took a step forward, to pass round the rough heather pallet, thus bringing him out of the shadow into the light and face to face with a girl of about seventeen or eighteen, who was resting one hand upon the doorpost and peering in at the occupant of the rough bed, but who now uttered a faint cry and turned to run.



CHAPTER TEN.

TALKING IN HIS SLEEP.

"No, no! Pray, pray, stop!" cried Pen, dashing out after his strange visitor, who was making for the edge of the nearest patch of wood.

The imploring tone of his words had its effect, though the tongue was foreign that fell upon the girl's ears, and she stopped slowly, to look back at him; and, then as it seemed to dawn upon her what her pursuer was, she slowly raised her hands imploringly towards him, the gesture seeming to speak of itself, and say, "Don't hurt me! I am only a helpless girl."

Then she looked up at him in wonder, for Pen raised his in turn, as he exclaimed, "Don't run away. I want your help."

The girl shook her head.

"Ingles."

"Si, si, Ingles, Ingles. Don't go. I won't hurt you."

"Si, si, Ingles," said the girl with some animation now.

"Ah, she understands that!" thought Pen; and then aloud, "Help! Wounded!" and he pointed at the open door.

The girl looked at him, then at the door, and then shook her head.

"Can you understand French?" cried Pen eagerly; and the girl shook her head again.

"How stupid to ask like that!" muttered Pen; and then aloud, "Help! Wounded."

The girl shook her head once more, and then started and struggled slightly as Pen caught her by the arm.

"Don't fight," he cried. "Help! help!" And he gesticulated towards the hut as he pointed through the door at the dimly seen bed, while the girl held back at arm's-length, gazing at him wildly, until a happy thought struck him, for he recalled the words that he had more than once heard used by the villagers while he and his fellows were foraging.

"El pano," he cried; "el pano—bread, bread!" And he pointed to the dimly seen boy and then to his own mouth.

"Si, el pano!" cried the girl, ceasing her faint struggle.

"Si, si!" cried Pen again, and he joined his hands together for a moment before slowly beckoning their visitor to follow him into the cottage.

He stepped in, and then turned to look back, but only to find that the girl still held aloof, and then turned to look round again as if in search of help. As she once more glanced in his direction with eyes that were full of doubt, Pen walked round to the back of the rough pallet, placing the bed between them, and then beckoned to the girl to come nearer as he pointed downward at his sleeping patient.

Their visitor still held aloof, till Pen raised his hands towards her, joining them imploringly, and his heart leaped with satisfaction as she began slowly and cautiously to approach.

And now for his part he sank upon his knees, and as she watched him, looking ready to dart away at any moment, he placed one finger upon his lips and raised his left hand as if to ask for silence, while he uttered softly the one word, "Hush!"

To his great satisfaction the girl now approached till her shadow fell across the bed, and, supporting herself by one hand, she peered in.

"I'd give something if I could speak Spanish now," thought Pen. "What can I do to make her understand that he is wounded? She ought to be able to see. Ah, I know!"

He pointed quickly to his rifle, which was leaning against the bed, and then downward at where the last-applied bandage displayed one end. Then, pointing to poor Punch's face, he looked at the girl sadly and shook his head.

It was growing quite dusk inside the hut, but Pen was able to see the girl's face light up as, without a moment's hesitation now she stepped quickly through the rough portal and bent down so that she could lightly touch the sleeper's hand, which she took in hers as she bent lower and then rose slowly, to meet Pen's inquiring look; and as she shook her head at him sadly he saw that her eyes were filling with tears.

"Sick," he whispered; "dying. El pano, el pano;" and his next movement was telling though grotesque, for he opened his mouth and made signs of eating, before pointing downward at the boy.

"Si, si," cried the girl quickly, and, turning to the door again, she passed through, signing to him to follow, but only to turn back, point to the little pail that stood upon the floor by the bed's head, and indicate that she wanted it.

Pen grasped her meaning, caught up the pail, handed it to her, and quite simply and naturally sank upon one knee and bent over to lightly kiss the girl's extended hand, which closed upon the edge of the little vessel.

She shrank quickly, and a look of half-dread, half-annoyance came upon her countenance; but, as Pen drew back, her face smoothed and she nodded quickly, pointed in the direction of the big fall, made two or three significant gestures that might or might not have meant, "I'll soon be back," and then whispered, "El pano, el pano;" and ran off over the rugged stones as swiftly as one of her own mountain goats.

"Ha!" said Pen softly, as he sighed with satisfaction, "el pano means bread, plain enough, and she must have understood that. Gone," he added, as the girl disappeared. "Then there must be another cottage somewhere in that direction, and I am going to hope that she will come back soon with something to eat. Who could have thought it?—But suppose she has gone to join some of the French who are about here, and comes back with a party to take us prisoners!—Oh, she wouldn't be so treacherous; she can't look upon us as enemies. We are not fighting against her people. But I don't know; they must look upon us as made up of enemies. No, no, she was only frightened, and no wonder, to find us in her hut, for it must be hers or her people's. Else she wouldn't have come here. No, a girl like that, a simple country girl, would only think of helping two poor lads in distress, and she will come back and bring us some bread."

As Pen stood watching the place where the girl had disappeared his hand went involuntarily to his pocket, where he jingled a few pesetas that he had left; and then, as he canvassed to himself the possibility of the girl's return before long, he went slowly back into the hut and stood looking down at the sleeper.

"Bread and milk," he said softly. "It will be like life to him. But how queer it seems that I should be worrying myself nearly to death, giving up my clothes to make him comfortable, playing doctor and nurse, and nearly starving myself, for a boy for whom I never cared a bit. I couldn't have done any more for him if he had been my brother. Why, when I used to hear him speak it jarred upon me, he seemed so coarse and common. It's human nature, I suppose, and I'm not going to doubt that poor girl again. She looks common and simple too—a Spanish peasant, I suppose, who had come to milk and see to the goats after perhaps being frightened away by the firing. A girl of seventeen or eighteen, I should say. Well, Spanish girls would be just as tender-hearted as ours at home. Of course; and she did just the same as one of them would have done. She looked sorry for poor Punch, and I saw one tear trickle over and fall down.—There, Punch, boy; we shall be all right now if the French don't come."

Pen stepped out in the open and seated himself upon a piece of mossy rock where he could gaze in the direction where he had last seen his visitor. But it was all dull and misty now. There was the distant murmur of the great fall, the sharp, sibilant chirrup of crickets. The great planet which had seemed like a friend to him before had risen from behind the distant mountain, and there was a peculiar sweet, warm perfume in the air that made him feel drowsy and content.

"Ah," he sighed, "they say that when things are at their worst they begin to mend. They are mending now, and this valley never felt, never looked, so beautiful before. How one seems to breathe in the sweet, soft, dewy night-air! It's lovely. I don't think I ever felt so truly happy. There, it's of no use for me to watch that patch of wood, for I could not see our visitor unless she was coming with a lantern; and perhaps she has had miles to go. Well, watching the spot is doing no good, and if she's coming she will find her way, and she is more likely not to lose heart if I'm in the hut, for I might scare her away. Here, let's go in and see how poor old Punch is getting on! But I never thought—I never could have imagined—when I was getting up my 'lessons for to-morrow morning' that the time would come when I should be waiting and watching in a Spanish peasant's hut for some one to come and bring me in for a wounded comrade a cake of black-bread to keep us both alive."

Pen Gray walked softly in the direction of the dimly seen hut through heathery brush, rustling at every step and seeming to have the effect of making him walk on tiptoe for fear he should break the silence of the soft southern evening.

The lad stopped and listened eagerly, for there was a distant shout that suggested the hailing of a French soldier who had lost his way in the forest. Then it was repeated, "Ahoy-y-hoy-hoy-y-y!" and answered from far away, and it brought up a suggestion of watchful enemies searching for others in the darkened woods.

Then came another shout, and an ejaculation of impatience from the listener.

"I ought to have known it was an owl. Hallo! What's that? Has she come back by some other way?"

For the sound of a voice came to him from inside the rough hut, making him hurry over the short distance that separated him from the door, where he stood for a moment or two listening, and he heard distinctly, "Not me! I mean to make a big fight for it out of spite. Shoot me down—a boy—for obeying orders! Cowards! How would they like it themselves?"

"Why, Punch, lad," said Pen, stepping to the bedside and leaning over his comrade, "what's the matter? Talking in your sleep?"

There was no reply, but the muttering voice ceased, and Pen laid his hand upon the boy's forehead, as he said to himself, "Poor fellow! A good mess of bread-and-milk would save his life. I wonder how long she will be!"



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

PUNCH'S COMMISSARIAT.

It was far longer than Pen anticipated, for the darkness grew deeper, the forest sounds fainter and fainter, and there were times when the watcher went out to listen and returned again and again to find Punch sleeping more restfully, while the very fact that the boy seemed so calm appeared to affect his comrade with a strange sense of drowsiness, out of which he kept on rousing himself, muttering the while with annoyance, "I can't have her come and find me asleep. It's so stupid. She must be here soon."

And after a trot up and down in the direction in which he had seen the girl pass, and back, he felt better.

"Sleep is queer," he said to himself. "I felt a few minutes ago as if I couldn't possibly keep awake."

He softly touched Punch's temples again, to find them now quite cool, and seating himself at the foot of the rough pallet he began to think hopefully of the future, and then with his back propped against the rough woodwork he stared wonderingly at the glowing orange disc of the sun, which was peering over the mountains and sending its level rays right through the open doorway of the hut.

Pen gazed at the soft, warm glow wonderingly, for everything seemed strange and incomprehensible.

There was the sun, and here was he lying back with his shoulders against the woodwork of the rough bed. But what did it all mean?

Then came the self-evolved answer, "Why, I have been asleep!"

Springing from the bed, he just glanced at his softly breathing companion as he ran out to look once more in the direction taken by the girl.

Then he stepped back again in the hope that she might have returned during the night and brought some bread; but all was still, and not a sign of anybody having been there.

Pen's heart sank.

"Grasping at shadows," he muttered. "Here have I been wasting time over sleep instead of hunting for food."

Ignorant for the time being of the cause of the wretched feeling of depression which now stole over him, and with no friendly voice at hand to say, "Heart sinking? Despondent? Why, of course you are ready to think anything is about to occur now that you are literally starving!" Pen had accepted the first ill thought that had occurred to him, and this was that his companion had turned worse in the night and was dying.

Bending over the poor fellow once more, he thrust a hand within the breast of his shirt, and his spirits sank lower, for there was no regular throbbing beat in response, for the simple reason that in his hurry and confusion of intellect he had not felt in the right place.

"Oh!" he gasped, and his own voice startled him with its husky, despairing tone, while he bent lower, and it seemed to him that he could not detect the boy's breath playing upon his cheek.

"Oh, what have I done?" he panted, and catching at the boy's shoulders he began to draw him up into a sitting position, with some wild idea that this would enable him to regain his breath.

But the next moment he had lowered him back upon the rough pallet, for a cry Punch uttered proved that he was very much alive.

"I say," he cried, "whatcher doing of? Don't! You hurt?"

"Oh, Punch," cried Pen, panting hard now, "how you frightened me!"

"Why, I never did nothink," cried the boy in an ill-used tone.

"No, no. Lie still. I only thought you were getting worse. You were so still, and I could not hear you breathe."

"But you shouldn't," grumbled the wounded boy surlily, as he screwed first one shoulder up to his ear and then the other. "Hff! You did hurt! What did you expect? Think I ought to be snoring? I say, though, give a fellow some more of that milk, will you? I'm thirsty. Couldn't you get some bread—not to eat, but to sop in it?"

"I don't think I could eat anything, but—" The boy stopped short as he lay passing his tongue over his fever-cracked lips, for the doorway of the miserable cabin was suddenly darkened, and Pen sprang round to find himself face to face with his visitor of the previous evening, who stood before him with the wooden vessel in one hand and a coarse-looking bread-cake in the other.

She looked searchingly and suspiciously at Pen for a few moments; and then, as if seeing no cause for fear, she stepped quickly in, placed the food she had brought upon the rough shelf, and then bent over Punch and laid one work-roughened hand upon the boy's forehead, while he stared up at her wonderingly.

The girl turned to look round at Pen, and uttered a few words hurriedly in her Spanish patois. Then, as if recollecting herself, she caught the bread-cake from where she had placed it, broke a piece off, and put it in the young rifleman's hand, speaking again quickly, every word being incomprehensible, though her movements were plain enough as she signed to him to eat.

"Yes, I know what you mean," said Pen smiling; "but I want the bread for him," and he pointed to the wounded boy.

The peasant-girl showed on the instant that though she could not understand the stranger's words his signs were clear enough. She broke off another piece of the bread and took down the little wooden-handled pail, which was half-full of warm milk. This she held up to Pen, and signed to him to drink; but he shook his head and pointed to Punch. This produced a quick, decisive nod of the head, as the girl wrinkled up her forehead and signed in an insistent way that Pen should drink first.

He obeyed, and then the girl seated herself upon the bed and began to sop pieces of the bread and hold them to Punch's lips.

"Thenkye," he said faintly, and for the first time for many days the boy showed his white teeth, as he smiled up in their visitor's face. "'Tis good," he said, and his lips parted to receive another fragment of the milk-softened bread, which was given in company with a bright girlish smile and a few more words.

"I say," said Punch, slowly turning his head from side to side, "I suppose you can't understand plain English, can you?"

The girl's voice sounded very pleasant, as she laughingly replied.

"Ah," said Punch, "and I can't understand plain Spanish. But I know what you mean, and I will try to eat.—'Tis good. Give us a bit more."

For the next ten minutes or so the peasant-girl remained seated upon the bedside attending to the wounded boy, breaking off the softer portions of the cake, soaking them in the warm milk, and placing them to the sufferer's lips, and more than once handing portions of the cake to Pen and giving him the clean wood vessel so that he might drink, while the sun lit up the interior of the hut and lent a peculiar brightness to the intently gazing eyes of its three occupants, till the rustic breakfast came to an end, this being when Punch kept his lips closed, gazed up straight in the girl's face, and smiled and shook his head.

"Good!" said the girl in her native tongue, and she nodded and laughed in satisfaction before playfully making believe to close the boy's eyes, and ending by keeping her hand across the lids so that he might understand that he was now to sleep.

To this Punch responded by taking the girl's hand in his and holding it for a few moments against his cheek before it was withdrawn, when the poor wounded lad turned his face away so that no one should see that a weak tear was stealing down his sun-browned cheek.

But the girl saw it, and her own eyes were wet as she turned quickly to Pen, pointed to the bread and milk, signed to him that he should go on eating, and then hurried out into the bright sunshine, Pen following, to see that she was making straight for the waterfall.

The next minute she had disappeared amongst the trees.

"Well, Punch," cried Pen, as he stepped back to the hut, "feel better for your breakfast?"

"Better? Yes, of course. But I say, she didn't see me snivelling, did she?"

"Yes, I think so; and it made her snivel too, as you call it. Of course she was sorry to see you so weak and bad."

"Ah!" said Punch, after a few moments' silence, during which he had lain with his eyes shut.

"What is it? Does your wound hurt you?"

"No; I forgot all about it. I say, I should like to give that girl something, because it was real kind of her; but I ain't got nothing but a sixpence with a hole in it, and she wouldn't care for that, because it's English."

"Well, I don't know, Punch. I dare say she would. A good-hearted girl like that wouldn't look upon its value, but would keep it out of remembrance of our meeting."

"Think so?" said Punch eagerly, and with his eyes sparkling. "Oh, don't I wish I could talk Spanish!"

"Oh, never mind that," said Pen. "Think about getting well. But, all the same, I wish I could make her understand so that she could guide me to where our fellows are."

"Eh?" cried the boy eagerly. "You ain't a-going to run away and leave me here, are you?"

"Is it likely, Punch?"

"Of course not," cried the boy. "Never you mind what I say. I get muddly and stupid in my head sometimes, and then I say things I don't mean."

"Of course you do; I understand. It's weakness," said Pen cheerily; "but you are getting better."

"Think so, comrade? You see, I ain't had no doctor."

"Yes, you have. Nature's a fine doctor; and if we can keep in hiding here a few days more, and that girl will keep on bringing us bread and milk, you will soon be in marching order; so we are not going to be in the dumps. We will find our fellows somehow."

"To be sure we will," said Punch cheerfully, as he wrenched himself a little over, wincing with pain the while.

"What is it, Punch? Wound hurt you again?"

"Yes; horrid," said the boy with a sigh.

"Then, why don't you lie still? You should tell me you wanted to move."

"Yes, all right; I will next time. It did give me a stinger. Sets a fellow thinking what some of our poor chaps must feel who get shot down and lie out in the mountains without a comrade to help them—a comrade like you. I shall never—"

"Look here, Punch," interrupted Pen, "I don't like butter."

"I do," said the boy, with his eyes dancing merrily. "Wished I had had some with that bread's morning."

"Now, you know what I mean," cried Pen; "and mind this, if you get talking like that to me again I will go off and leave you."

"Ha, ha!" said the boy softly, "don't believe you. All right then, I won't say any more if you don't like it; but I shall think about it all the more."

"There you go again," cried Pen. "What is it you want? What are you trying to get? You are hurting yourself again."

"Oh, I was only trying to get at that there sixpence," said the poor fellow, with a dismal look in his face. "I'm half-afraid it's lost.— No, it ain't! I just touched it then."

"Then don't touch it any more."

"But I want it."

"No, you don't, not till that girl comes; and you had better keep it till we say good-bye."

"Think so?" said Punch.

Pen nodded.

"You think she will come again, then?"

"She is sure to."

"Ah," said Punch, rather drowsily now, "I say, how nice it feels for any one to be kind to you when you are bad."

"Very," said Pen thoughtfully. "Pain gone off?"

"Yes; I am all right now. Think she will come back soon?"

"No, not for hours and hours."

"Oh, I say, Pen. Think it would be safe for me to go to sleep?"

"Yes, quite."

"Then I think I will, for I feel as if I could sleep for a week."

"Go to sleep then. It's the best thing you can do."

"Well, I will. Only, promise me one thing: if she comes while I'm asleep, I—I—want you—promise—promise—wake—"

"Poor fellow!" said Pen, "he's as weak as weak. But that breakfast has been like life to him. Well, there's some truth in what they say, that when things come to the worst they begin to mend."

A few minutes later, after noting that his poor wounded comrade had sunk into a deep sleep, Pen stole gently out among the trees, keeping a sharp lookout for danger as he swept the slopes of the valley in search of signs of the enemy, for he felt that it was too much to hope for the dark-green or scarlet of one of their own men.

But the valley now seemed thoroughly deserted, and a restful feeling began to steal through the lad's being, for everything looked peaceful and beautiful, and as if the horrors of war had never visited the land.

The sun was rising higher, and he was glad to take shelter beneath the rugged boughs of a gnarled old cork-tree, where he stood listening to the low, soft, musical murmur of the fall. And as he pictured the clear, bright, foaming water flashing back the sun's rays, and in imagination saw the shadowy forms of the trout darting here and there, he took a step or two outward, but checked himself directly and turned back to where he could command the door of the hut, for a feeling of doubt crossed his mind as to what might happen if he went away; and before long he stole back to the side of the rough pallet, where he found Punch sleeping heavily, feeling, as he seated himself upon a rough stool, that he could do nothing more but wait and watch. But it was with a feeling of hope, for there was something to look forward to in the coming of the peasant-girl.

"And that can't be for hours yet," thought the lad; and then his mind drifted off to England, and the various changes of his life, and the causes of his being there. And then, as he listened to the soft hum of insect-life that floated through the open door, his eyelids grew heavy as if he had caught the drowsy infection from his companion. Weak as he was from light feeding, he too dropped asleep, so that the long, weary time that he had been wondering how he should be able to pass was but as a minute, for the sun was setting when he next unclosed his eyes, to meet the mirthful gaze of Punch, who burst into a feeble laugh as he exclaimed, "Why, you have been asleep!"



CHAPTER TWELVE.

A RUSTLE AMONG THE TREES.

"Asleep!" cried Pen, starting up and hurrying to the door.

"Yes; I have been watching ever so long. I woke up hours ago, all in a fright, thinking that gal had come back; and I seemed to see her come in at the door and look round, and then go again."

"Ah, you saw her!" said Pen, looking sharply to right and left as if in expectation of some trace of her coming.

"No," said Punch, "it's no use to look. I have done that lots of times. Hurt my shoulder, too, screwing myself round. She ain't been and left nothing."

"But you saw her?" cried Pen.

"Well," said Punch, in a hesitating way, "I did and I didn't, like as you may say. She seemed to come; not as I saw her at first—I only felt her, like. It was the same as I seemed to see things when I have been off my head a bit."

"Yes," said Pen, "I understand."

"Do you?" said Punch dreamily. "Well, I don't. I didn't see her, only it was like a shadow going out of the door; but I feel as sure as sure that she came and stood close to me for ever so long, and I think I saw her back as she went out; and then I quite woke up and lay and listened, hoping that she would come again."

"I hope it was only a dream, Punch," said Pen; "but I had no business to go to sleep like that."

"Why not? You waren't on sentry-go; and there was nothing to do."

"I ought to have kept awake."

"No, you oughtn't. I was jolly glad to see you sleep; and I lay here and thought of what a lot of times you must have kept awake and watched over me when I was so bad, and—Here, whatcher going to do?"

"Going away till you have done talking nonsense."

"Oh, all right. I won't say no more. You are such a touchy chap. Don't go away. Give us a drink."

"Ah, now you are talking sense," said Pen, as he made for the shelf upon which the little wooden vessel stood. "Here, Punch," he said, "you mustn't drink this. It has turned sour."

"Jolly glad of it. Chuck it away and fetch me a good drink of water. Only, I say, I'd give it a good rinse out first."

"Yes," said Pen dryly, "I think it would be as well. Now, you don't think that I should have given you water out of a dirty pail?"

"Well, how should I know?" said the boy querulously. "But, where are you going to get it from?"

"Out of the pool just below the waterfall."

"Ah, it will be nice and cool from there," said the boy, passing his tongue over his dry lips. "I was afraid that you might get it from where the sun had been on it all day."

"Were you?" said Pen, smiling.

"Here, I say, don't grin at a fellow like that," said the boy peevishly. "You do keep catching a chap up so. Oh, I am so thirsty! It's as if I had been eating charcoal cinders all day; and my wound's all as hot and dry as if it was being burnt."

"Yes, I had no business to have been asleep," said Pen. "I'll fetch the water, and when you have had a good drink I will bathe your wound."

"Ah, do; there's a good chap. But don't keep on in that aggravating way, saying you oughtn't to have gone to sleep. I wanted you to go to sleep; and it wasn't a dream about her coming and looking at me while I was asleep. I dessay my eyes were shut, but I felt somebody come, and it only aggravates me for you to say nobody did."

"Then I won't say it any more, Punch," cried Pen as he hurried out of the door. "But you dreamt it, all the same," he continued to himself as he hurried along the track in the direction of the fall, keeping a sharp lookout the while, partly in search of danger, partly in the faint hope that he might catch sight of their late compassionate visitor, who might be on the way bearing a fresh addition to their scanty store.

But he encountered no sign of either friend or enemy. One minute he was making his way amongst the gnarled cork-trees, the next he passed out to where the soft, deep, lulling, musical sound of the fall burst upon his ears; and soon after he was upon his knees drinking deeply of the fresh, cool water, before rinsing out and carefully filling the wooden seau, which he was in the act of raising from the pool when he started, for there was a movement amongst the bushes upon the steep slope on the other side of the falls.

Pen's heart beat heavily, for, fugitive as he was, the rustling leaves suggested an enemy bent upon taking aim at him or trapping him as a prisoner.

He turned to make his way back to the hut, and then as the water splashed from the little wooden pail, he paused.

"What a coward I am!" he muttered, and, sheltering himself among the trees, he began to thread his way between them towards where he could pass among the rocks that filled the bed of the stream below the falls so as to reach the other side and make sure of the cause of the movement amidst the low growth.

"I dare say it was only goats," he said. "Time enough to run when I see a Frenchman; but I wish I had brought my piece."

Keeping a sharp lookout for danger, he reached the other side of the little river, and then climbed up the rocky bank, gained the top in safety, and once more started violently, for he came suddenly upon a goat which was browsing amongst the bushes and sprang out in alarm.

"Yes, I am a coward!" muttered the lad with a forced laugh; and, stepping back directly, he lowered himself down the bank, recrossed the stream, filled the little pail, and made his way to where his wounded companion was waiting for him impatiently.

"Oh, I say, you have been a time!" grumbled the boy, "and I am so thirsty."

"Yes, Punch, I have been a while. I had rilled the pail, when there was a rustle among the trees, and I thought one of the Frenchies was about to pounce upon me."

"And was it?"

"No, only a goat amongst the bushes; and that made me longer. There, let me hold you up—no, no, don't try yourself. That's the way. Did it hurt you much?"

The boy drank with avidity, and then drew a long breath.

"Oh, 'tis good!" he said. "Nice and cool too. What, did it hurt? Yes, tidy; but I ain't going to howl about that. Good job it wasn't a Frenchy. Don't want them to find us now we are amongst friends. If that gal will only bring us a bit to eat for about another day I shall be all right then. Sha'n't I, comrade?"

"Better, I hope, Punch," said Pen, smiling; "but you won't be all right for some time yet."

"Gammon!" cried the boy. "I shall. It only wants plenty of pluck, and a wound soon gets well. I mean to be fit to go on again precious soon, and I will. I say, give us a bit more of that cake, and—I say—what's the Spanish for butter?"

Pen shook his head.

"Well, cheese, then? That will do. I want to ask her to bring us some. It's a good sign, ain't it, when a chap begins to get hungry?"

"Of course it is. All you have got to do is to lie still, and not worry your wound by trying to move."

"Yes, it is all very fine, but you ain't got a wound, and don't know how hard it is to lie still. I try and try, and I know how it hurts me if I do move, but I feel as if I must move all the same. I say, I wish we had got a book! I could keep quiet if you read to me."

"I wish I had one, Punch, but I must talk to you instead."

"Well, tell us a story."

"I can't, Punch."

"Yes, you can; you did tell me your story about how you came to take the shilling."

"Well, yes, I did tell you that."

"Of course you did, comrade. Well, that's right. Tell us again."

"Nonsense! You don't want to hear that again."

"Oh, don't I? But I do. I could listen to that a hundred times over. It sets me thinking about how I should like to punch somebody's head— your somebody, I mean. Tell us all about it again."

"No, no; don't ask me to do that, Punch," said Pen, wrinkling up his forehead.

"Why? It don't hurt your feelings, does it?"

"Well, yes, it does set me thinking about the past."

"All right, then; I won't ask you. Here, I know—give us my bugle and the bit of flannel and stuff out of the haversack. I want to give it a polish up again."

"Why, you made it quite bright last time, Punch. It doesn't want cleaning. You can't be always polishing it."

"Yes, I can. I want to keep on polishing till I have rubbed out that bruise in the side. It's coming better already. Give us hold on it."

Pen hesitated, but seeing how likely it was to quiet his patient's restlessness, he placed the bright instrument beside him, and with it the piece of cloth with which he scoured it, and the leather for a polisher, and then sat thoughtfully down to watch the satisfied look of intentness in the boy's countenance as he held the copper horn so close to his face that he could breathe upon it without moving his head, and then go on polish, polish, slowly, till by degrees the movement of his hand became more slow, his eyes gradually closed, his head fell sideways, and he sank to sleep.

"Poor fellow!" said Pen thoughtfully. "But he can't be worse, or he wouldn't sleep like that."

Pen rose carefully so as not to disturb the sleeper, and cautiously peered outside the hut-door, keeping well out of sight till he had assured himself that there was no enemy visible upon the slopes of the valley, and then, taking a few steps under the shelter of the trees, he scanned the valley again from another point of view, while he listened intently, trying to catch the sound of the tramping of feet or the voice of command such as would indicate the nearness of the enemy.

But all was still, all looked peaceful and beautiful; and after stepping back to peer through the hut-door again to see that Punch had not stirred, he passed round to the back, where he could gaze in the direction of the fall and of the track by which the peasant-girl had hurried away.

"I wonder whether she will come back again," thought Pen; and then feeling sure that they would have another visit from their new friend, he went slowly back to the hut and seated himself where he could watch the still-sleeping boy and think; for there was much to dwell upon in the solitude of that mountain valley—about home, and whether he should ever get back there and see England again, or be one of the unfortunates who were shot down and hastily laid beneath a foreign soil; about how long it would be before Punch was strong enough to tramp slowly by his side in search of their own corps or of some other regiment where they would be welcome enough until they could join their own.

These were not inspiriting thoughts, and he knew it must be weeks before the poor fellow's wound would be sufficiently healed. Then other mental suggestions came to worry him as to whether he was pursuing the right course; as a companion he felt that he was, but as a soldier he was in doubt about the way in which his conduct would be looked upon by his superiors.

"Can't help it," he muttered. "I didn't want to skulk. I couldn't leave the poor fellow alone—perhaps to the wolves."

The day went by very slowly. It was hot, and the air felt full of drowsiness, and the more Pen forced himself to be wakeful the more the silence seemed to press him down like a weight of sleep to which he was forced to yield from time to time, only to start awake again with a guilty look at his companion, followed by a feeling of relief on finding that Punch's eyes were still closed and not gazing at him mockingly.

Slow as it was, the evening began to approach at last, and with it the intense longing for the change that would be afforded by the sight of their visitor.

But the time glided on, and with it came doubts which were growing into feelings of surety which were clinched by a sudden movement on the part of the wounded boy, whose long afternoon-sleep was brought to an end with an impatient ejaculation.

"There! I knew how it would be," he said. "She won't come now."

"Never mind, Punch," said Pen, trying to speak cheerily. "There's a little more bread, and I will go now and see if I can find the goat, and try and get some milk."

"Not you," said the boy peevishly. "She will know you are a stranger, and won't let you try again. I know what them she-billy goats are. I have watched them over and over again. Leave the bread alone, and let's go to sleep. We shall want it for breakfast, and water will do. I mean to have one good long snooze ready for to-morrow, and then I am going to get up and march."

"Nonsense, Punch," cried Pen. "You can't."

"Can't I?" said the boy mockingly. "I must, and, besides, British soldiers don't know such a thing as can't."

"Ah!" cried Pen excitedly, as he started up and made for the door, for there was the rustling sound of feet amongst the bushes; and directly after, hot and panting with exertion, the peasant-girl appeared at the opening that was growing dim in the failing light.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

"LOOK OUT, COMRADE!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is it?" cried Pen.

"Look out, comrade—the window behind," said Punch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

PUNCH WILL TALK.

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

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

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

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

"Juan malo!" she cried. "Malo—malo!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I hope not, Punch."

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

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

"But you needn't say it's a bad job," said Punch. "There's nothing to mind."

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

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

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

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

"There, there, don't worry about it. Go on eating the grapes."

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

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

"But, I say, do have some of these grapes."

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

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

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

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

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

"To be sure," replied Pen; "and you want to get strong, don't you?"

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

"What for?"

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

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

"Oh, but I just want to tell you this."

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

"How do you know? You ain't a doctor."

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

"Well, that only means that it's getting dry."

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

"Well, I must talk," pleaded the boy.

"Yes, a little."

"What am I to do? I can't be always going to sleep."

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

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

"What is it? What do you want?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

JUAN'S REVENGE.

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothing, I am sorry to say."

"Well, but what are we going to do? We can't starve."

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah!" he sighed, "that's better! Which way did you go this time?"

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

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

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

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

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

"But you didn't see no enemy this time, did you?"

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

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

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

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

"Perhaps, Punch, if I had not been taken."

"Well, then, why didn't you try?"

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

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

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

"'Cept cutting off and leaving me to take my chance. You haven't done that."

"No, I haven't done that, Punch."

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

"But you are not going to do that, Punch."

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

"I told you, Punch, what I believe," replied Pen.

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

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

"Well, it wouldn't matter," said the boy dismally.

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

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

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

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

"Yes, yes—please don't take it away."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Would you?" said Pen, smiling.

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

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

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

"Do you feel so hungry now, Punch?"

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

"I don't believe you thought I had forsaken you, Punch."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"All right; I won't squeak, comrade. Up with me. For'ard!"

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

PRISONERS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, you bore it bravely."

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

"Yes, I know," said Pen, watching the lad anxiously. "But don't talk so much."

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

"What do you mean?" said Pen.

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

"March you off!" said Pen bitterly. "Why, you know you can't stand."

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

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

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

"No, Punch."

"But you might give a fellow a bit of advice."

"My advice is to lie still and wait."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Say, comrade," whispered Punch, "that's done me good. But do you see that?"

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

"No, I don't mean that," whispered Punch impatiently. "I meant the gal."

"The girl?" said Pen. "What about her?"

"Where is she?" whispered Punch.

"Why, she was—"

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

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

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

"No," said Pen. "But don't talk; he's close here."

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

"Badly wounded, eh?" said the officer in French.

"Yes, sir; too bad to stand."

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir."

"See to his fastenings. I leave him to you."

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

"Eh, do you understand French?"

"Yes, sir; every word you have said."

"But you are not an officer?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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