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."