He started back as if the bullet that had been fired from a musket had cut the leaves above his head and stood listening to the roll of echoes which followed the shot. Then there was another, and another, followed by scores, telling him that a sharp skirmish had begun; and after a while he could just make out a faint cloud of smoke above the trees, where the dim vapour was slowly rising.

"Yes," he said, "that's where I thought the mule-path must be. But what a height it is up! And what does it mean? Are our fellows coming back and driving the enemy before them, or is it the other way on?"

There was no telling; but when, about an hour later, the firing had grown nearer and then slowly become more and more distant till it died away, Pen had learned one thing, and that was the necessity for keeping carefully in hiding, for the enemy must be somewhere near.

He stepped back into the hut after silence once more reigned in the false scene of peace, and found that the peppering of the musketry had had no effect upon the sleeper, who did not stir when he leant over him and laid his hand upon the poor fellow's forehead, which was cool and moist.

"Ha!" sighed Pen, "he's not going to die; but he will be as weak as weak for a month to come, and I ought to have been with our fellows instead of hiding here, for I have no business to be doing ambulance work, and so they would tell me. Ah!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, as he started to the door again, for from somewhere much farther away there came the deep roll of a platoon of musketry, which was repeated again and again, but always more distant, though growing, while still more faintly, into the sounds of a sharp engagement, till it died quite away.

"I never thought of that. That first firing I heard must have been the enemy. I wonder I didn't think so before. I am sure now. There wasn't a single shot that I could have said was from a rifle. But it is impossible to say for certain which side is holding the valley. At any rate our fellows were not there."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE KING'S SHILLING.

"Ha, ha, ha, ha!" A bright, ringing specimen of a youth's laugh, given out by one who is healthy, strong, and fairly content, allowing for drawbacks, with the utterer's position in life.

"Whatcher laughing at?" followed in the querulous tones of one who was to a great extent at the opposite pole of life.

"You, Punch."

"I don't see nothing to laugh at, sick and weak as I am."

"Yes, you are weak enough, and don't know the difference as I do."

"Difference! There ain't no difference. I'm a regular invalid, as they calls them, and just as bad as some of our poor chaps who go back to live on the top of a wooden leg all the rest of their lives."

"Stuff and nonsense, Punch! You are getting better and stronger every day."

"I ain't. Look at that arm; it's as thin as a mop-stick."

"Well, it is thin, certainly; but a chap of your age, growing fast, generally is thin."

"Ya! Growing! How can a fellow grow with a hole in his back?"

"You haven't got a hole in your back. It's healing up fast."

"'Taint."

"Yes, it is. You haven't seen it, and I have every day. I say it's healing beautifully."

"Ah, you'll say next that I ain't weak."

"No, I shan't."

"Well, that's because you are always trying to make me think that I am better than I am."

"Well, what of that? I don't want to put you out of heart."

"No, but you needn't gammon me. I know I ain't as weak as a rat, because I am ten times weaker. I have got no wind at all; and I do wish you wouldn't be always wallacking me down to that big waterfall. I'm always pumped out before I get half-way there, and quite done up before I get back. What's the good of going there?"

"Beautiful place, Punchy, and the mountain air seems to come down with the water and fill you full of strength."

"Does you perhaps, but it don't do me no good. Beautiful place indeed!

Ugly great hole!"

"'Tisn't; it's lovely. I don't believe we shall ever see a more beautiful spot in our lives."

"It makes me horrible. I feel sometimes as if I could jump in and put myself out of my misery. Just two steps, and a fellow would be washed away to nowhere."

"Why, you have regularly got the grumps to-day, Punch; just, too, when you were getting better than ever."

"I ain't, I tell you. I had a look at myself this morning while you were snoring, and I am as thin as a scarecrow. My poor old mother wouldn't know me again if ever I got back; and I sha'n't never see our old place no more."

"Yes, you will, Punch--grown up into a fine, manly-looking British rifleman, for you will be too big to blow your bugle then. You might believe me."

"Bugle! Yes, I didn't give it a rub yesterday. Just hand it off that peg."

Pen reached the bugle from where it hung by its green cord, and the lines in Punch's young forehead began to fade as he gave the instrument a touch with his sleeve, and then placed the mouthpiece to his lips, filled out his sadly pale, hollow cheeks, and looked as if he were going to blow with all his might, when he was checked by Pen clapping his hand over the glistening copper bell.

"Whatcher doing of?" cried the boy angrily.

"Stopping you. There, you see you are better. You couldn't have attempted that a while ago."

"Ya! Think I'm such a silly as to bring the enemy down upon us?"

"Well, I didn't know."

"Then you ought to. I should just like to give the call, though, to set our dear old lads going along the mountain-side there skirmishing and peppering the frog-eating warmints till they ran for their lives."

"Hurrah!" shouted Pen. "Who's trying to bring the enemy down upon us now, when we know there are some of them sneaking about in vedettes as they hold both ends of the valley. Now you say you are not better if you dare."

"Oh, I don't want to fall out," grumbled the invalid. "You think you know, but you ain't got a wound in your back to feel when a cold wind comes off the mountains. I think I ought to know best."

"But you don't, Punch. Those pains will die out in time, and you will go on growing, and keeping thin perhaps for a bit; but your muscles will fill out by-and-by, same as mine do in this beautiful air."

"Needn't be so precious proud of them," said the boy sourly.

"I'm not. There, have another fish."

"Sha'n't. I'm sick to death on them. They are only Spanish or Portuguee trout, and not half so good as roach and dace out of a good old English pond."

Pen laughed merrily again.

"Ah, grin away! I think I ought to know."

"Yes--better than to grumble when I have broiled the fish so nicely over the wood embers with sticks I cut for skewers. They were delicious, and I ate till I felt ashamed."