It was far longer than Pen anticipated, for the darkness grew deeper,
the forest sounds fainter and fainter, and there were times when the
watcher went out to listen and returned again and again to find Punch
sleeping more restfully, while the very fact that the boy seemed so calm
appeared to affect his comrade with a strange sense of drowsiness, out
of which he kept on rousing himself, muttering the while with annoyance,
"I can't have her come and find me asleep. It's so stupid. She must be
here soon."
And after a trot up and down in the direction in which he had seen the
girl pass, and back, he felt better.
"Sleep is queer," he said to himself. "I felt a few minutes ago as if I
couldn't possibly keep awake."
He softly touched Punch's temples again, to find them now quite cool,
and seating himself at the foot of the rough pallet he began to think
hopefully of the future, and then with his back propped against the
rough woodwork he stared wonderingly at the glowing orange disc of the
sun, which was peering over the mountains and sending its level rays
right through the open doorway of the hut.
Pen gazed at the soft, warm glow wonderingly, for everything seemed
strange and incomprehensible.
There was the sun, and here was he lying back with his shoulders against
the woodwork of the rough bed. But what did it all mean?