"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.