"Hist!" ejaculated the priest, turning upon him and raising one hand.

"Oh, I don't care for that," whispered Punch, "and I don't mind what you are. If you sold us to the enemy you shall have the first shot."

The priest shook his hand at him as if to bid him be silent; and then, placing his lips close to the door, he said something in Spanish, and listened to a reply that came in a hurried voice.

"Ah!" ejaculated the priest; and then he whispered again.

The next minute he was busy barring the closed door; and this done, he turned to the boys, to cross the room and open wide the cupboard-like door in the corner. Then, returning to Pen, he helped him to rise again, guided his halting steps, and half-carrying him to the step-like ladder urged him with a word or two to climb up.

"What does he mean, comrade?" whispered Punch.

"He means there's somebody coming, and we are to go upstairs."

"Let's stop here, comrade, and fight it out."

"No, he means well," replied Pen; and, making a brave effort, he began to climb the ladder, pulling himself up, but panting heavily the while and drawing his breath with pain.

As soon as the old man saw that he was being obeyed he turned to Punch, caught up Pen's musket, and signed to the boy to follow him.

"Well, you can't mean to give us up," said Punch excitedly, "or you wouldn't want me to keep my gun and his."

Disposition to resist passed away the next moment, for the old man pressed the second musket into his hand and urged him towards the door.

"Can you get up, comrade?" whispered Punch, who was now all excited action.

"Yes," came in a hoarse whisper, and a loud creak came from the ceiling.

"Ketch hold of these guns then. He wants me to bring the forage-basket.—Got 'em?" he continued, as he placed the two pieces together and held them up against the ladder.

"Bonum!" ejaculated the priest, who stood close up, as the two muskets were drawn upwards and disappeared.

"Right, sir," said Punch in answer, and he took hold of the basket, raised it above his head, took a step or two, then whispered, "Basket! Got it, comrade?"

"Yes," And it was drawn up after the muskets, the boards overhead creaking loudly the while.

"Anything else, master?—What, take this 'ere jar of water? Right! Of course! Here, comrade, you must look out now. Lean down and catch hold of the jar; and take care as you don't slop it over."

"Presto!" whispered the priest.

"Hi, presto!" muttered Punch. "That's what the conjuror said," he continued to himself, "and it means, 'Look sharp!' Got it, comrade?"

"Yes," came in Pen's eager whisper.

"Oh, I say," muttered Punch, "I don't want my face washed!"

"Bonum! Presto!" whispered the priest, as Punch shrank back with his face dripping; and, pressing the boy into the opening, he closed the door upon him and then hurried to the cottage entrance, took down the bar, throw the door wide, and then began slowly to strike a light, after placing a lamp upon the rough table.

By this time Punch had reached the little loft-like chamber, where Pen was lying beside the water-vessel.

"What game's this, comrade?" he whispered, breathless with his exertions.

"Hist! Hist!" came from below.

"It's all very fine," muttered Punch to himself; and he changed his position, with the result that the boards upon which he knelt creaked once more.

"Hist! Hist!" came again from below.

"Oh, all right then. I hear you," muttered the boy; and he cautiously drew himself to where he could place his eye to a large hole from which a knot in the plank had fallen out, so that he could now see what was going on below.

"Here, this caps me," he said to himself. "I don't want to think he's a bad un, but he's took down the bar and shoved the door wide-open. It don't mean, do it, that he's sent for some one to come and take us? No, or he wouldn't have given us our guns."

Nick, nick, nick, nick, went the flint against the steel; and the boy watched the sparks flying till one of them seemed to settle lightly in the priest's tinder-box, and the next minute that single spark began to glow as the old man deliberately breathed upon it till the tinder grew plain before the watcher's eyes, and the shape of the old man's bald head, with its roll of fat across the back of the neck, stood out like a silhouette.

Then there was a rustling sound, and the boy saw the point of a match applied, and marked that that point was formed of pale yellow brimstone, which began to turn of a lambent blue as it melted and quivered, and anon grew a flame-colour as the burning mineral fired the match.

A deep, heavy breath as of relief rose now through the floor as the old man applied the burning match to the wick of his oil-lamp, and Punch drew back from the knot-hole, for the loft was dimly lit up by the rays which came through the cracks of the badly laid floor, so that it seemed to him as if this could be no hiding-place, for any one in the room below must for certain be aware of the presence of any one in the loft.

In spite of himself, Punch started and extended his hand to catch at his comrade's arm, for he could see him plainly, though dimly, lying with the muskets on one side, the basket and jar of water upon the other, while half-behind him, where he himself lay, there was the black trap-like opening through which he had climbed.

The boy's was a very slight movement, but it was sufficient to make a board creak, and a warning "Hist!" came once more from below; while, as he looked downward, the boy found that he could see what the old man was doing, as he drew his lamp across the rough table and bent over a little open book, while he began muttering softly, half-aloud, as he read from his Book of Hours.

Punch softly pressed his comrade's arm, and then there was a slight movement and the pressure was returned.

"Wonder whether he can see too," thought Punch; and then in spite of himself he started, and his breath seemed to come thick and short, for plainly from a short distance off came the unmistakable tramp of marching men.

"Then he has sold us after all," thought the boy, and by slow degrees he strained himself over so that he could look through the knot-hole again. To his great surprise the priest had not stirred, but was bending over his book, and his muttered words rose softly to the boy's ear, while the old man seemed to be in profound ignorance of the approaching steps.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

IN THE NIGHT.

Nearer and nearer came the sound of marching, and it was all Punch could do to keep from rising to his knees and changing his position; but he mastered himself into a state of content by sending and receiving signals with his companion, each giving and taking a long, firm pressure, as at last the invisible body of approaching men reached the cottage door, and an authoritative voice uttered the sharp command, "Halte!"

Punch's eye was now glued to the hole. He felt that if anybody looked up he would be sure to see it glittering in the lamplight; but the fascination to learn what was to be their fate was too strong to be resisted.

From his coign of vantage he could command the doorway and the legs of a small detachment of men, two of whom separated themselves and came full into sight, one being an officer, from the sword he bore, the other a rough, clumsy-looking peasant. And now for the first time the little priest appeared to be aware of the presence of strangers, for he slowly lowered the hand which held the book, raised his head, and seemed to be looking wonderingly at his visitors.

"Ah!" he said, as if just awakened from his studies; and he uttered some words, which sounded like a question, to the peasant, who made a rough obeisance and replied in apologetic tones, as if making an excuse for his presence there.

And now the officer uttered an impatient ejaculation and took another step into the room, saying in French, "I am sorry to interrupt your devotions, father; but this fellow tells me that he saw a couple of our English prisoners take refuge here."

"I do not speak French, my son," replied the old man calmly.

"Bah! I forgot," ejaculated the officer; and then in a halting way he stumbled through the same sentence in a very bad translation as he rendered it into Spanish.

"Ah!" said the old man, rising slowly; and Punch saw him look as if wonderingly at the rough peasant, who seemed to shrink back, half-startled, from the priest's stern gaze.

There was a few moments' silence, during which the two fugitives clutched each other's hands so tightly that Punch's nerves literally quivered as he listened for the sharp cracking of the boards, which he seemed to know must betray them to their pursuers.

But no sound came; and, as the perspiration stood out in big drops upon his face in the close heat of the little loft, both he and his companion could feel the horrible tickling sensation of the beads joining together and trickling down their necks.

Then after what seemed to be quite an interval, the old man's voice arose in deep, stern tones, as he exclaimed, "What lie is this, my son, that you have uttered to these strangers?"

"I—I, father—" faltered the man, shrinking back a step and dropping the soft cap he was turning in his hands upon the beaten floor, and then stooping hastily to snatch it up again—"I—father—I—"

"I say, what lie is this you have told these strangers for the sake of gaining a few accursed pieces of silver? Go, before I—Ah!" For there was a quick movement on the part of the peasant, and he dashed out of the door.

"Halte!" yelled the French officer, following the peasant outside; and then, giving a sharp command, the scattered reports of some half-dozen muskets rang out on the night-air, the two fugitives starting as at each shot the flash of the musket lit up the loft where they lay. Then a short question or two, and their replies came through the open doorway, and it became evident to the listeners that the peasant had escaped.

"Bah!" ejaculated the officer, as Punch saw him stride through the doorway into the room again. "Look here, father," he said in his bad Spanish, "I paid this scoundrel to guide me to the place where he said two Englishmen were in hiding; but he did not tell me it was with his priest. As he has brought us here I must search."

"For the escaped prisoners?" the old man said, drawing himself up with dignity. "I do not speak your language, sir, but I think that is what you mean. Can you repeat your words in Latin? You might make your wishes more plain."

"Latin? No, I have forgotten all that," said the officer impatiently in more clumsy Spanish than before. "The English prisoners—my men must search," And the fugitives, unable though they were to comprehend the words, naturally grasped their meaning and held their breath till they felt they must draw it again with a sound that would betray their presence.

Then, with a slight laugh, the old priest laid his book upon the table and took up the smoky oil-lamp. As he did so, Punch could see his face plainly, for it was lit up by the lamp, and the boy could perceive the mocking mirth in his eyes as he raised it above his head with his left hand, and walked slowly towards the door which covered the ladder-like staircase; and then as Punch felt that all was over, the old man slowly passed the light across and moved to the rough fireplace, and so on all round the room, before raising the light above his head once more, and with a comprehensive movement waving his right hand slowly round the place as if to say, "You see there are no prisoners here."

"Bah!" ejaculated the French officer, and, turning angrily, he marched out through the open doorway.

Punch was beginning to breathe again, but to his horror the officer marched back into the room, for he had recollected himself. He was the French gentleman still.

"Pardon, mon pere!" he said sharply, keeping now to his own tongue. "Bon soir!"

Then, marching out again, he gave a short command, and, from where Punch's eye was still glued to the opening, he saw the soldiers turn rightabout face, disappear through the open doorway, and then, beat, beat, beat, the sound of marching began again, this time to die slowly away, and he looked and listened till the pressure of Pen's hand upon his arm grew almost painful. But he did not wince, till a movement on the part of the priest drew his attention to what was passing beneath; and he saw him set down the lamp and cross to the door, which he closed and barred, and then dropped upon his knees, as his head sank down upon his clasped-together hands.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

CONTRABANDISTAS.

"Think they have gone, comrade?" whispered Punch, after they had listened for some minutes, and the tramp of the French soldiers had quite died away.

"Yes; but speak low. He will come and tell us when he thinks it is safe."

"All right, I'll whisper; but I must talk. I can't bear it any longer, I do feel so savage with myself."

"Why, what about?"

"To think about that old chap. I wanted to trust him, but I kept on feeling that he was going to sell us; and all the time he's been doing everything he could for us. But, I say, it was comic to see him carrying you. Here, I mustn't talk about it, or I shall be bursting out laughing."

"Hush! Don't!" whispered Pen.

"All right. But, I say, don't you think we might have a go at the prog? There's all sorts of good things in that basket; and I want a drink of water too. But you needn't have poured a lot of it down my back. I know you couldn't help it, but it was horrid wet all the same."

"Don't touch anything, Punch; and be quiet. He will be coming up soon, I dare say."

"Wish he'd come, then," said the boy wearily. "I say, how's your leg?"

"Hurts," said Pen curtly.

"Poor old chap! Can't you turn yourself round?"

"No. It's worse when I try to move it."

"That's bad; but, I say, you see now we couldn't have gone away unless I carried you."

"But it seems so unfair to be staying here," said Pen bitterly. "I believe now I could limp along very slowly."

"I don't," said Punch. "You see, those Frenchies have made up their minds to catch us, and I believe if they caught sight of us creeping along now they would let go at us again; and as we have had a bullet apiece, we don't want any more."

"Hist!" whispered Pen; "they think we are here still, and they are coming back."

"Nonsense! Fancy!"

"Listen."

"Oh, murder!" whispered Punch. "This is hard!" For he could distinctly hear hurried steps approaching the cottage, and he placed his eye to the knot-hole again to see what effect it was having upon the old man. But he was so still as he crouched there in the lamplight that it seemed as if he had dropped asleep, worn out by his efforts, till all at once the footsteps ceased and there was a sharp tapping on the door, given in a peculiar way, first a rap, then a pause, then two raps close together, another pause, and then rap, rap, rap, quickly.

The old man sprang to his feet, unbarred the door, and seized it to throw it open.

"It's all over, comrade," whispered Punch. "Well, let's fill our pockets with the prog. I don't want to starve any more."

He placed his eye to the knot-hole again, and then turned his head to whisper to his companion.

"'Tain't the Frenchmen," he said. "It's one of the Spanish chaps with a red handkercher tied round his head, and him and the old priest is friends, for they are a hugging one another. This chap has got a short gun, and now he's lighting a cigarette at the lamp. Can you hear me?"

"Yes; go on."

"There's four more of them outside the door, and they have all got short guns. One of them's holding one of them horse-donkeys. Oh, I say, comrade!" continued the boy, as a quick whispering went on and the aromatic, pungent odour of tobacco floated up between the boards.

"What is it, Punch? Oh, go on—tell me! You can see, and I'm lying here on my back and can make out nothing. What does it all mean?"

"Well, I don't like to tell you, comrade?" whispered the boy huskily.

"Oh yes; tell me. I can bear it."

"Well, it seems to me, comrade, as we have got out of the frying-pan into the fire."

"Why, what do you mean?"

"That we thought the old chap was going to sell us to the French when all the time it was to some of those Spanish thieves, and it's them as has come now to take us away.—Here, wait a minute."

"I can't, Punch. I can't bear it."

"I'm afraid you will have to, comrade—both on us—like Englishmen. But if we are to be shot for furriners I should like it to have been as soldiers, and by soldiers who know how to use their guns, and not by Spanish what-do-you-call-'ems—robbers and thieves—with little short blunderbusters."

There was a few moments' pause, during which hurried talking went on. Then a couple more fierce-looking Spaniards came in, saluted the priest, lit cigarettes at the lamp, and propped the short carbines they carried against the cottage-wall before joining in the conversation.

"What are they doing now, Punch?"

"Talking about shooting or something," whispered the boy, "and that old ruffian's laughing and pointing up at the ceiling to tell them he has got us safe. Oh, murder in Irish!" continued the boy. "He's took up the lamp and he's showing them the way. Here, Private Gray, try and pull yourself together and let's make a fight for it, if we only have a shot apiece. They are coming up to fetch us now."

Pen stretched out his hand in the dim loft to seize his musket, but he could not reach it, while in his excitement the boy did not notice his comrade's helplessness, but seized his own weapon and stood up ready as the light and shadows danced in the gloomy loft, and prepared to give the armed strangers a warm reception.

And now the door at the foot of the ladder creaked and the light of the lamp struck up as the old man began to ascend the few steps till he could reach up, thrusting the lamp he carried before him, and placing it upon the floor, pushing it farther along towards the two boys; and then, drawing himself up, he lifted the light and held it so that those who followed him could see their way.

At that moment he caught sight of Punch's attitude, and a smile broke out across his face.

"No, no!" he said eagerly. "Amigos! Contrabandistas."

"What does he mean by that, Pen?"

"That they are friends."

And the head of the first friend now appeared above the trap in the shape of the first-comer, a handsome, swarthy-looking Spaniard, whose dark eyes flashed as his face was lit up by the priest's lamp, which shot the scarlet silk handkerchief about his head with hues of orange.

"Buenos Ingles, amigos," he cried, as he noted the presented musket; and then volubly he asked if either of them spoke French.

"Yes," cried Pen eagerly; and the rest was easy, for the man went on in that tongue:

"My friend the priest tells me that you have had a narrow escape from the French soldiers who had shot you down. But you are safe now. We are friends to the English. Do you want to join your people?"

"Yes, yes," cried Pen eagerly. "Can you help us? Are any of our regiments near?"

"Not very," replied the Spanish smuggler, "for the French are holding nearly all the passes; but we will help you and get you up into the mountains, where you will be safe with us. But our good friend the padre tells me that one of you is badly hurt, and he wants me to look at your wound."

"Oh, it's not very bad," said Pen warmly.

"Ah, I must see," said the man, who had seated himself at the edge of the opening up which he had come, and proceeded to light a fresh cigarette.

The next moment, as he began puffing away, he seemed to recollect himself, and drew out a cigar, which he offered with a polite gesture to the old priest.

The old man set down the lamp which he had held for his visitor to light his cigarette, and smiled as he shook his head. Then, thrusting a hand into his gown, he took out his snuff-box, made the lid squeak loudly, and proceeded to help himself to a bounteous pinch.

"It is you who have the wound," continued the smuggler. "You are, I suppose, an officer and a gentleman?"

"No," said Pen, "only a common English soldier."

"But you speak French like a gentleman. Ah, well, no matter. You are wounded—fighting for my country against the brigand French, and we are friends and brothers. I have had many a fight with them, my friend, and I know what their bullets do, so that I perhaps can dress your wound better than the padre—brave old man! He can cure our souls—eh, father?" he added, in Spanish—"but I can cure bodies better than he, sometimes, when the French bullets have not been too bad.—Now, father," he added, "hold the lamp and let us see."

The priest nodded as he took up the lamp again in answer to the request made to him in his own tongue; and he now spoke a few words to the smuggler which resulted in the picturesque-looking man shaking his head.

"The good father," he said to Pen, "asks me if I think the French soldiers will come back; but I think not. If they do we shall have warning from my men, who are watching them, for we are expecting friends to meet us here—friends who may come to-night, perhaps many nights hence—for us to guide them through the passes."

Then, drawing up his legs, he stepped into the loft and called down the stairway to the men below.

There was a short reply, and steps were heard as if the two men had stepped out into the open.

"Now, my friend," said the smuggler, as he went down on one knee and leaned over Pen, whose hand he took, afterwards feeling his temples and looking keenly into his eyes as the priest threw the light full in the wounded lad's face.

"Why," he said, "you are suffering from something else besides your wound. My men will bring some wine. I see you have water here. You are faint. There, let me place you more comfortably.—That's better. I'll see to your wound soon.—And you, my friend," he continued, turning to Punch, who started and shook his head.

"No parly Frenchy," he said.

"Never mind," continued the smuggler. "Your friend can.—Tell him to eat some of the bread and fruit, and I will give him some of our grape medicine as soon as my men bring the skin.—A good hearty draught would do you good too, father," he added, turning to the old man and laying his hand with an affectionate gesture upon the priest's arm. "You have been working too hard, and must have had quite a scare. I am very glad we have come."

A deep-toned voice came now from the room below, the smuggler replied, and there was a sound of ascending steps; then another of the smugglers appeared at the opening in the floor, thrusting something so peculiar and strange through the aperture that, as it subsided upon the edge in the full light cast by the smoky lamp, Punch whispered:

"Why, it's a raw kid, comrade, and I don't believe it's dead!"

Pen laughed, and Punch's eyes dilated as he saw the smuggler, who was standing with his head and shoulders in the opening, take what looked like a drinking-horn from his breast and place it upon the floor; and then it seemed to the boy that he untied a thong that was about one of the kid's legs, and the next moment it appeared as if the animal had begun to bleed, its vital juice trickling softly into the horn cup, for it was his first acquaintance with a skin of rich Spanish wine.

"There, my friend," said the smuggler, taking up the half-filled cup, "they say this is bad for fever, but I never knew it do harm to a man whose lifeblood had been drained. Drink: it will put some spirit in you before I perhaps put you to a good deal of pain." And the next moment he was holding the wine-cup to the wounded lad's lips.

"There," said the smuggler at last, as he finished his self-imposed task, "I think you have borne it bravely."

"Oh, nonsense," said Pen quietly. "Surely a soldier should be able to bear a little pain."

"I suppose so," said his new surgeon; "but I am afraid that some of my countrymen would have shouted aloud at what I have done to you. I know some of my men have when I have tied them up after they have been unlucky enough to get one of the French Guards' bullets in them. There now, the best thing you can do is to go to sleep;" and, having improvised a pillow for him with one of his follower's cloaks, the Spaniard descended to the priest's room, where several of his men were assembled; and after the priest had seen that Punch had been supplied from the basket, he followed his friend to where the men were gathered, leaving the boys in the semi-darkness, for he took down the lamp, whose rays once more shone up through the knot-hole and between the ill-fitting boards.

"Feel better, comrade?" asked Punch. But there was no reply. "I say, you aren't gone to sleep already, are you?"

Still no answer, and, creeping closer, Punch passed his hand gently over Pen's arm and touched his face; but this evoked no movement, only the drawing and expiration of a deep breath which came warmly to the boy's hand as he whispered:

"Well, he must be better or he wouldn't have gone to sleep like that. Don't think I could. And, my word, that chap did serve him out!"

The low sound of voices from below now attracted the boy's attention; and, turning to the knot-hole, he looked down into the priest's room to see that it was nearly full of the dark, fierce-looking Spaniards, who were listening to the old padre, whose face shone with animation, lit up as it was by the lamp, while he talked earnestly to those who bent forward to listen to his words.

It was a picturesque scene, for the moon was now shining brightly, its rays striking in through the open door and throwing up the figures of several of the contrabandistas for whom there was no room within the cottage, but who pressed forward as if to listen to the priest's words.

"Why, he must be preaching to them," said Punch to himself at last, "but I can't understand a word. This Spanish seems queer stuff. What does el rey mean, I wonder. Dunno," he muttered, as he yawned drowsily. "Seems queer that eating and drinking should make you sleepy. Well, I ain't obliged to listen to what that old fellow says. Wonder whether Private Gray knows what el rey means? Better not ask him, though, now he's asleep. Phew! It is hot up here! Buzz, buzz, buzz! What is he talking about? Seems to make me sleepier to listen to him.—I say, not awake, are you, comrade?"

There was no reply, and soon after Punch's heavy breathing was heard in addition to the low murmur of the priest's voice, for the boy too, worn out with what he had gone through during the past hours, was fast asleep.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

THE NEW FRIEND.

Punch woke up with a start to find that it was broad daylight, for the sun was up, the goats on the valley-side were bleating, and a loud musical bell was giving forth its constantly iterated sounds.

Punch looked down the knot-hole through which the bright morning rays were streaming up as well as between the ill-fitting boards; but as far as he could make out there was no one below, and he remained peering down for some minutes, recalling all that had taken place overnight, till, turning slightly, he caught sight of the basket of provisions.

"It makes one feel hungry again," muttered the boy, and his hand was stretched out to draw the basket to his side. "No, no," he continued, pulling back his hand; "let's have fair-play.—Awake, comrade?—Fast asleep. That looks well. My word, how I slept after that supper! Wish he would wake up, though. Be no harm in filling up with water," And, creeping softly to where the jar had been placed for safety, he took a long, deep draught. "Ah!" he ejaculated, "that will keep the hungries quiet for a bit;" and then he chuckled to himself as his eye wandered about the loft, and he noted how the priest used it for a storeroom, one of his chief stores being onions. "And so the French are holding the country everywhere, are they? And we are to lie snug here for a bit, and then that Spanish chap is going to show us the way to get to our regiment again. Well, we have tumbled among friends at last; but I hope we sha'n't have to lie here till all the fighting's done, for my comrade and me owe the Frenchies something, and we should both like to get a chance to pay it.—Here, I say, Private Gray, you might wake up now. Water's only water, after all, and I want my breakfast. I shouldn't mind if there was none, but it's aggravating to your inside to see it lying there.—Hallo! There's somebody coming," for he heard voices from somewhere outside. "That's the old father," muttered the boy. "Yes, and that's that big Spanish chap. Didn't he look fine with his silk handkercher round his head and his pistols in his scarf? I suppose he's captain of the band. What did Gray say they were—smugglers? Why, they couldn't be. Smugglers have vessels by the seaside. I do know that. There's no seaside here up in the mountains. What have they got to smuggle?"

"Punch, you there?" came in a sharp whisper.

"Yes," whispered back the boy. "All right. Wake up. Here's your doctor coming to see to your wound."

The next minute the voices sounded from the room below, and the smuggler's voice was raised and he called up in French:

"Are you awake there, my friends?" And upon receiving an answer in the affirmative he began to ascend the step-ladder cautiously, and apparently quite at home. As soon as he stood stooping in the loft he drew back a rough shutter and admitted a little of the sunshine.

"Good-morning!" he said. "How's the wound? Kept you awake all night?"

Pen explained that he had only just woke up.

"Well, that means you are getting better," said the smuggler; and the boys scanned the speaker's handsome, manly-looking face.

Just then fresh steps were heard upon the ladder, and the pleasant-countenanced priest appeared, carefully bearing a large bowl of water, and with a long strip of coarse linen hanging over his arm.

He smilingly nodded at the two lads, and then knelt by the side of the bowl and watched attentively while Pen's wound was dressed and carefully bandaged with the coarse strip of linen, after which a few words passed in Spanish between the priest and the smuggler, who directly after addressed Pen.

"He was asking me about getting you down to breakfast, but I tell him that you will be better if you lie quite still for a bit, perhaps for a few days, I don't think the French will come here again. They are more likely to forget all about you, for they are always on the move; but you could do no good if you came down, and I shall not stir for some days yet, unless my friends come, and I don't expect they will. It would be too risky. So you lie here patiently and give your wound a chance to get well before I try to take you through the pass. Besides, your friends are a long way off, and they will be sure to come nearer before long. You can make yourself very comfortable here, can't you, and eat and drink and sleep?"

"But it is not fair to the father," said Pen, "and we have no money to pay him for our lodging."

"You Englishmen are brave fellows," said the smuggler with a merry laugh. "You like to pay your way, while those French thieves plunder and steal and ill-use every one they come near. Don't you make yourself uncomfortable about that, my lad. As you hinted just now, the holy father is poor, and it may seem to you hard that you should live upon him; but you English are our friends, and so is the father. Make yourselves quite comfortable. You are very welcome, and we are glad to have you as our guests.—Eh, padre mio!" he continued, relapsing into his own tongue. "They are quite welcome, are they not?"

The priest nodded and smiled as he bent down and patted both the lads on the shoulder, Punch contenting himself with what he did not understand, for it seemed very friendly, while Pen took the hand that rested on his shoulder and raised it to his lips.

Then the old man slowly descended, and the smuggler turned and continued talking pleasantly to Pen.

"I have told him," he said, "that I am going to have breakfast with you here, as my men have gone up to the mountains with the mules, and I don't want to show myself and get a shot sent after me, for some of the Frenchmen are down in the village still. Be quiet for a day or two, and if my friends come before you are able to march we will get you on one of my mules. Hallo!" he added, "the father's making a fire to cook us some breakfast. I shouldn't wonder if he bakes us a cake and makes us a cup of good fragrant coffee. He generally contents himself with bread and herbs and a glass of water; but he knows my weaknesses—and I know his," added the smuggler, laughing. "He never objects to a glass of good wine."

The smuggler's surmises were right, for before very long the old man paid several visits to the loft, and ended by seating himself with the others and partaking of a roughly prepared but excellent breakfast, which included newly made cake, fried bacon and eggs, with a capital bowl of coffee and goat's-milk.

"Well, my friend," said the smuggler, turning to Punch, "have you made a good meal?"

Punch looked uncomfortable, gave his head a scratch, and frowned.

"Tell him, comrade, I can't jabber French," he said.

"He asks if you have made a good breakfast, Punch."

"Tell him it's splendid."

The wounded lad interpreted between them; while the smuggler now addressed himself to his patient.

"And you?" he said. "I suppose I may tell the father that his breakfast was capital, and that you can make yourself happy here till you get better?"

"Yes; and tell him, please, that our only regret is that we cannot show our gratitude more."

"Tut, tut! There is no need. The father has helped you because you are brave young Englishmen who are over here risking your lives for our countrymen in trying to drive out the French invaders who have come down like a swarm of locusts upon our land. You understand very well, I suppose,"—continued the Spaniard, rolling up a cigarette and offering it to Pen, who took it and waited while the smuggler rolled up another for Punch and again another for himself before turning and taking a smouldering brand of wood from the priest, who had fetched it from the hearth below—"you understand very well why the French are here?"

"Not very well," said Pen. "I am an English soldier here with my people to fight against the French, who have placed a French king in your country."

"Yes," said the Spaniard, frowning, as he sent a curl of fragrant smoke eddying towards the shutter-opening in the sloping roof, where as it rose soft and grey it began to glow with gold as it reached the sunshine that streamed across the little square; "they have thrust upon us another of the usurper's kin, and this Napoleon has imprisoned our lawful ruler in Valencay."

"I didn't know all this," replied Pen; "but I like to hear."

"Good!" said the smuggler, nodding and speaking eagerly. "And you are an Englishman and fighting on our side. I know all this, and that your Wellesley is a brave general who is only waiting his time to sweep our enemies back to their own country. You are a friend who has suffered in our cause, and I can confide in you. You will be glad to hear that the prisoner has escaped."

"Yes," said Pen, forgetting the pain of his wound for the time in the interest of what he heard, while Punch yawned and did not seem happy with his cigarette. "But what prisoner?"

"The King, Ferdinand."

Pen had never heard of any Ferdinand except one that he had read of in Shakespeare; but he said softly, "I am glad."

"Yes," said the smuggler, "and I and my friends are glad—glad that, poor smugglers though we are, and no soldiers, we can be of service to his Majesty. He has escaped from the French prison and is on his way to the Pyrenees, where we can help him onward to Madrid. For we as contrabandistas know all the passes through the frontier; and I and my followers are waiting till he reaches the appointed spot, where some of our brothers will bring him on to meet us, who will be ready to guide him and his friends farther on their way to the capital, or place them in safety in one of our hiding-places, our stores, of which we have many here in the mountains. He is long in coming, but he is on his way, and the last news I heard is that he is hidden by my friends at one of our caches a score or so of leagues away. He may be here to-night if the pass seems clear. It may be many nights; but he will come, and if the French arrive—well, they will have to fight," said the smuggler, with a smile; and he lightly tapped the butt of one of his pistols. "It is hard for a king to have to steal away and hide; but every league he passes through the mountains here he will find more friends; and we shall try, some of us, to guide your English generals to where they can strike at our French foes. Yes, my young friend," continued the captain, rolling up a fresh cigarette, "and we shall serve our King well in all this, and if some of us fall—well, it will be in a good cause, and better than spending our lives in carrying smuggled goods—silks and laces, eau de vie, cigars and tobacco duty free across these hills. There, we are contrabandistas, and we are used to risking our lives, for on either side of the mountains the Governments shoot us down. But we are patriots all the same, and we are risking our lives for our King just as if we were of the best. So get well, you two brave soldier lads. I see you have your guns, and maybe, as we have helped you, we may ask you to help us. You need not mind, for you will be fighting against your enemies the French. Come, light up your cigarette again. You must be tired of my long story."

"Tired! No," said Pen. "I am glad to hear it, for I have often thought and wondered why we English had come here to fight, and all I knew was that Napoleon was conquering everywhere and trying to master the world."

"Which he will never do," said the smuggler, laughing. "Strong as he is, and masterful, he will never succeed, and you know why?"

"No, I can't say that," replied Pen, wincing.

"Then I will tell you. Because the more he conquers the more enemies he makes, and nowhere friends. There, you are growing weary."

"Oh no," cried Pen. "I shrank because I felt my wound a little more. I am glad to hear all this."

"But your friend—no?" said the contrabandista.

"That's because he cannot understand what you say; but I shall tell him all that you have said when we are alone, and then he will be as much your friend as I am, and quite as ready to fight in your cause, though he is a boy."

"Good!" said the Spaniard. "And some day I shall put you both to the proof."



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

PUNCH PROVES STURDY.

"Thank you," said Punch. "I didn't want to bother you, you know, comrade, only you see I ain't like you—I don't know a dozen languages, French and Latin, and all the rest of them; and when you get on talking to that contrabando chap it worries me. Seems as if you are saying all sorts of things about me. He will keep looking at me all the time he's talking. I've got to know a bit now that it's meant for you, but he will keep fixing his eyes like a pair of gimlets, and screwing them into me; and then he goes on talking, and it makes you feel uncomfortable like. Now, you see, there was the other day, a week—no, it was nine days—ago, when you said when he was telling you all about the Spanish King coming here—"

"Nine days ago, Punch! Nonsense! We can't have been here nine days."

"Oh yes, we can. It's ten, because there was the day before, when he came first and doctored your leg."

"Well, you seem very sure about it; but I think you are wrong."

"I ain't," said Punch sturdily. "Lookye here," and he thrust his hand into his pocket and brought it out again full of little pebbles.

"Well, what have they got to do with it?"

"Everything. I puts a fresh one into my pocket every day we stops."

"What for?"

"To count up with. Each of those means two shillings that we owe the old gentleman for our prog. Knowing what a gentleman you are in your ideas, I says to myself you will want to pay him some day—a shilling apiece a day; that's what I put it at, and that means we owe him a pound; and if we are going to stop here much longer I must try another dodge, especially if we are going on the march, for I don't want to go tramping along with half a hundredweight of stones in my pocket."

"You're a rum fellow, Punch," said Pen, smiling.

"That's what my mother used to say; and I am glad of it. It does a fellow good to see you burst out laughing. Why, I haven't seen you grin like that not since the day when I went down with the bullet in my back. Here, I know what I'll do. I'll chuck all these stones, and make a scratch for every day on the stock of my musket. 'Tain't as if it was a Bri'sh rifle and the sergeant coming round and giving you hooroar for not keeping your arms in order. That would be a good way, wouldn't it, because the musket-stock wouldn't weigh any heavier when you had done than when you had begun."

"Well, are you satisfied now, Punch, that he isn't talking about you?"

"Well, you say he ain't, and that's enough; but I want to know, all the same, why that there Spanish King don't come."

"So does he. You saw how earnest he was yesterday when he came and talked to me, after seeing to my leg, and telling me that he shouldn't do any more to it."

"Telled you that, did he? I am glad. And that means it's nearly well."

"It means it's so far well that I am to exercise it all I can."

"Glad of it. But you ought to have telled me. That is good news. But how are you going to exercise it if we are under orders not to go outside this place for fear of the people seeing us and splitting upon the father?"

"Yes, that is awkward, Punch."

"Awkward! I call it more than awkward, for we did nearly get the poor old chap into a bad scrape that first night. Tell you what, though. You ask Mr Contrabando to come some night and show us the way."

"Show us the way where?"

"Anywhere. Up into the passes, as he calls them, right up in the mountains, so that we shall know which way to go when we want to join the Bri'sh army."

"It would be hardly fair to him, Punch," said Pen.

"Never mind that. It would be fair to us, and it would be exercising your leg. Pretty muddle we should be in when the order comes to march and your poor old leg won't go."

"Ah, well, we shall see, Punch," said Pen.

"Ah, I would; and soon. It strikes me sometimes that he's getting rather tired of his job, him and all his chaps too. I've watched them when they come here of an evening to ask questions of the father and lay their heads together; and I can't understand their jibber-jabber, but it's plain enough to see that they are grumpy and don't like it, and the way they goes on screwing up those bits of paper and lighting up and smoking away is enough to make you ill to watch them. 'Tain't as if they were good honest pipes. Why, they must smoke as much paper as they do 'bacco. Think their captain is going to give it up as a bad job?"

"No, Punch."

"Well, anyhow, I think you might ask him to take us out with him a bit. If you don't like to do it on account of yourself, because, as you say, he might think it ungrateful, you put it all on to me. Look here. You says, if you can put it into French, as you wouldn't mind it a bit. You says as it's your comrade as wants to stretch his legs awful bad. Yes, and you tell him this too, that I keeps on worrying you about having pins and needles in my back."

"Stuff, Punch!"

"That it ain't, honour bright. It's lying on my back so much up there in that there cock-loft. It all goes dead-like where the bullet went in. It's just as if it lay there still, and swelled up nearly as big as a cannon ball, and that lump goes all dead and dumb in needles and pins like for ever so long. There, you try it on him that way. You say I'm so sick of it as never was."

"And it was only yesterday, Punch, you told me that you were thoroughly happy and contented here, and the country was so beautiful and we were living so well that you didn't mind if we stayed here for months."

"'Twaren't yesterday. It was the day before the day before that. You have got all the time mixed up. I don't know where you would have been if I hadn't counted up."

"Well, never mind when it was. You can't deny that you said something like that."

"Ah, but I wasn't so tired then. I am all right again now, and so are you, and I want to be at it. Who's going to be contented shut-up here like a prisoner?"

"Not bad sort of imprisonment, Punch."

"Oh no, that's all right enough, comrade; but I want to get back to our chaps. They'll be crossing us off as killed and wounded, and your people at home will be thinking you are dead. I want to get back to the fighting again. Why, if we go on like this, one of these days they will be sarving out the promotions, and then where do we come in? I say, the captain didn't come to see us last week. Think he will to-night?"

"I hope so, and bring us news."

"So do I. But isn't it about time that Mr Padre came back?"

"Must be very near," said Pen.

"Quite," said Punch. "He gets all the fun, going out for his walks, a-roving up and down amongst the trees with his book in his hand. Here, if he don't volunteer to take us for a walk—something more than a bit of a tramp up and down in the darkness—I shall vote that we run away. There, if you don't talk to him I shall."

"Don't, Punch."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want us to seem ungrateful."

"Oh, all right then.—I say, here he comes!" cried Punch the next minute; and the old man trudged up to the door with the basket he had taken away empty evidently well-filled again.

The priest looked tired as he came in, and according to his custom looked questioningly at the boys, who could only respond with a shake of the head; and this made the old man sigh.

"Paz!" he said sadly; and, smiling cheerfully, he displayed the contents of his basket, stored the provisions he had brought in, and then according to his wont proceeded to set out the evening meal up in the loft.

This meal seemed to have lost its zest to the weary fugitives, and quite late in the evening, when the lads, after sitting talking together in whispers so as not to awaken the priest, who, evidently tired out by his afternoon expedition, had lain down upon the pallet and was sleeping heavily, were about to follow his example for want of something better to do, he suddenly sprang up, ascended to the loft, and told Punch that he was going out again on the watch to see if the friends expected were coming along the pass, and ended by telling them that they had better lie down to rest.

"That's settled it for me," said Punch, as the old man went out and closed the door. "I can't sleep now. I want to follow him and stretch my legs."

"But you can't do that, Punch."

"Ho! Couldn't I? Why, I could set off and run like I haven't done since I was shot down."

"But you can't, Punch," said Pen gravely. "It's quite possible that the captain may come and ask where the father is. I think we ought to stay."

"Oh, very well, then, we will stop; but I don't call this half living. I want to go and attack somebody or have them attack us. Why, it's like being dead, going on this round—yes, dead, and just as if they had forgot to bury us because they've got too much to do. Are you going to lie down to sleep?"

"No," said Pen, "I feel as wakeful as you are."

"I say, look at that now! Of course we can't go to sleep. Well, we might have a walk up and down outside in the dark. No one could see us, and it would make us sleepy again."

"Very well; only we mustn't go out of sight of the door, in case the captain should come."

"Yah! He won't come," grumbled Punch; and he descended to the lower room, scraped the faintly glowing wood-ashes together, and then went to the door, peered out, and listened, and afterwards, followed by his comrade, he began to tramp up and down the shelf-like ledge upon which the priest's cottage was built.

It was very dark, for the sky was so overcast that not a star was visible; and, as if feeling depressed by the silence, neither was disposed for talk, and the consequence was that at the end of about half an hour Pen caught his companion by the arm and stopped short. His reason was plain enough, for Punch uttered a faint "Hist!" and led the way to the cottage door, where they both stopped and listened to a sound which had grown plainer—that of steps coming swiftly towards them. They hardly had time to softly close the door and climb up to the loft before the door was thrown open, there was a quick step below, and a soft whistle which they well knew now was uttered at the foot of the steps.

Pen replied in the way he had learned, and directly after came the question, "Where's the father?"

"He went out an hour ago," Pen replied.

"Which way?"

"By the upper pass," replied Pen.

There was a sharp ejaculation, expressive of impatience, the steps crossed the room again, the door creaked as it was shut to, and then the steps died away.

"There, Punch, you see I was right," said Pen.

"Who's to see anybody's right when it's as black as your hat?" replied the boy impatiently.

"Well, I think it's right if you don't. What shall we do—go to sleep now?"

"Go to sleep?" growled the boy irritably. "Go to wake you mean! I tell you what I am just fit for."

"Well, what?" said Pen good-humouredly.

"Sentry-go. No fear of anybody catching me asleep who came on his rounds. I used to think that was the very worst part of being a soldier, but I could just enjoy it now. 'Tis miserable work, though, isn't it?"

"No," replied Pen thoughtfully.

"But you get very sleepy over it, don't you?"

"I never did," said Pen gravely, as they both settled themselves upon the floor of the loft, and the bundles of straw and dried-fern litter which the priest had added for their comfort rustled loudly while they placed themselves in restful postures. "I used to find it a capital time to think, Punch."

"What about?"

"The old days when I was a boy at school, and the troubles I had had. Then I used to question myself."

"How did you do that?"

"How did I do that? Why, I used to ask myself questions as to whether I hadn't done a very foolish thing in enlisting for a soldier."

"And then of course you used to say no," cried Punch. "Anybody could answer that question. Why didn't you ask yourself some good tough questions that you couldn't answer—regular puzzlers?"

"I always found that puzzle enough, Punch," said Pen gravely; "and I have never been able to answer it yet."

"Well, that's a rum un," said Punch, with a sort of laugh. "You have often called me a queer fellow. You do puzzle me. Why, of course you did right. You are not down-hearted because we have had a bit of a venture or two? It's all experience, and you like it as much as I do, even if I do grumble a bit sometimes because it's so dull. Something's sure to turn up before long, and—What did you do that for?"

"Pst!" whispered Pen; and Punch was silence itself, for he too caught the hurrying of many feet, and low voices in eager converse coming nearer and nearer; and the next minute there was the heavy thump as of a fist upon the door, which was thrust open so roughly that it banged against the wall.

And then midst the sounds of heavy breathing and the scuffling of feet as of men bearing in a heavy burden, the room below seemed to be rapidly filling up, and the door was closed and barred.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

THE ROYAL VISITOR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the darkness remained profound.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER THIRTY.

AN AWKWARD POSITION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, no, your Majesty! Not that!"

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

"No spies," cried the contrabandista. "Our and his Majesty's friends—wounded English soldiers who had been fighting upon our side."

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

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

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

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

"No, sire; they are very near."

"And your men—where are they?"

"Out yonder, sire, between you and your pursuers."

"Then are we to continue our flight to-night?"

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

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

"No, sire," replied the contrabandista bluntly. "Your Majesty's delay has upset all those."

The King made an angry gesticulation.

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

"Your Majesty trusts me, then, again?"

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

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

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

Pen pointed up to the loft.

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

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

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

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

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

"Can you walk?" he said.

Pen nodded.

"And can you fire a few shots on our behalf?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I say," whispered Punch, "how's your leg?"

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

"That's good, comrade. But, I say, all that set a fellow thinking."

"Yes; don't talk about it," replied Pen.

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

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

"Eh?" replied Punch. "It's no good, comrade; I can't understand a word."

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

"Here, don't do that!" cried Punch. "How do I know when you washed that last?"

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

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

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

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

"What's he up to now?" whispered Punch, with his lips close to his comrade's ear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

A DREAM OF A RAMROD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Punch!" exclaimed Pen, starting up.

"Punch it is. Are you awake now?"

"Awake? Yes. Have I been dreaming?"

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

"Bah! Nonsense!"

"That's what I thought, comrade. But steady! Here he is again."

"Ah, my young friend!" said the contrabandista, holding out his hand. "Better after your long sleep?"

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

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

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

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

"Will there be fighting?" asked Pen eagerly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Back to prison."

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

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

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

"Well, don't get into a tiff, Punch. This isn't a time to show your temper."

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

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

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

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

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

"Good."

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

"Only half," replied Pen.

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

"Oh no, that's quite near enough."

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



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

A CAVERNOUS BREAKFAST.

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

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

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

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

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

"How's that, Punch?"

"What he calls 'spoiling for a fight, me boy.'"

"Oh, you needn't feel like that, Punch," said Pen, smiling.

"Well, don't you?"

"No. I never do. I never want to kill anybody."

"You don't? That ain't being a good soldier."

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, yes," said Punch grudgingly. "But that's when there have been more of them."

"Not always, Punch."

"Why is it, then?"

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

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

"Well, I don't."

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

"Are you, Punch?" said Pen, smiling.

"Course I am! Why, you've only been about a year in the regiment."

"Yes, about a year."

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

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

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

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

"Lead my army like a man."

"Nonsense! What are the generals for?"

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

"Yes, I believe so," replied Pen.

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

"Perhaps not, Punch, for it's very doubtful whether our friends keep their provisions here."

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

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

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

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

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

"What's the matter?" said Pen anxiously. "You feel that dreadful pain again? Is it your wound?"

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

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