"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!"