"Don't think so," he said. "They have tried it twice. I heard what was being done. Our people were driven back, and--"

He said no more, but turned to the door; and Punch strained his eyes in the same direction, as from away to the right, beyond a group of cottages, came a bugle-call, shrill, piercing, then again and again, while Punch started upright with a cry, catching Pen's arm.

"I say, hear that? That's our charge. Don't you hear? They are coming on again!"

The effort Punch had made caused a pain so intense that he fell back with a groan.

"You can leave me, Pen, old chap," he said.

"Don't mind me; don't look. But--but it's the English charge. Go to them. They are coming--they are, I tell you. Don't look like that, and--and--There, listen!"

The two lads were not the only ones in that hut to listen then and to note that the conflict was drawing nearer and nearer.

Punch, indeed, was right, and a short time after Pen crouched down closer to his companion, for now, quite close at hand, came volley after volley, the _zip, zip_ of the ricochetting bullets seeming to clear the way for the charge.

Then more volleys.

The dust was ploughed up, and Punch started as a bullet came with a soft _plug_ in the hut-wall, and Pen's heart felt ready to stop beating as there was a hoa.r.s.e command outside, and half-a-dozen French infantry dashed into the building, to fill the doorway, two lying down and their comrades kneeling and standing.

"Don't speak," whispered Pen, for the boy had wrenched himself round and was gazing intently at the backs of the soldiers. "Don't speak."

Silence, before a grim happening. Then a roar from outside, exultant and fierce, and in the wide-open s.p.a.ce beyond the hut-door the two lads saw a large body of the enemy in retreat before the serried ranks of British infantry who came on at the double, their bayonets flashing in the sun's rays, and cheering as they swept onward.

The muskets in the doorway flashed, and the hut was filled with smoke.

"Pen, I must whisper it--Hooroar!"

There was a long interval then, with distant shouting and scattered firing, and it was long ere the cloud of smoke was dissipated sufficiently for the two lads to make out that now the doorway was untenanted except by a French cha.s.seur who lay athwart the threshold on his back, his hand still clutching at the sling of his piece.

"Think we have won?" whispered Punch, looking away.

"Don't know," muttered Pen; but the knowledge that was wanted came soon enough, for an hour later it became evident that the gallant attempt of the British commander to take the village had been foiled.

The British cheer they had heard still echoed in their ears, but it was not repeated, and it was speedily apparent that the fight had swept away to their left; and from sc.r.a.ps of information dropped by the members of the bearer-party who brought more wounded into the already crowded hut, and took away the silent figure lying p.r.o.ne in the entrance, Pen made out that the French had made a stand and had finally succeeded in driving back their foes.

In obedience to an order from the grim-featured surgeon, he left Punch's side again soon after, and it was dark ere he returned, to find the boy fast asleep. He sank down and listened, feeling now but little fatigue, starting up, however, once more, every sense on the alert, as there came a series of sharp commands at the hut-door, and he realised that he must have dropped off, for it was late in the evening, and outside the soft moonlight was making the scene look weird and strange.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

ANOTHER BREAKDOWN.

Punch heard the voices too, and he reached out and felt for his comrade's hand.

"What is it?" he whispered. "Have they won? Not going to shoot me, are they?"

"No, no," said Pen, "but"--and he dropped his voice--"I think we are all going on."

He was quite right, and all through that night the slow business of setting a division on the march was under way, and the long, long train of baggage wagons drawn by the little wiry mules of the country began to move.

The ambulance train followed, with its terrible burden heavily increased with the results of the late engagement, while as before--thanks to the service he had been able to render--Pen was able to accompany the heavily laden wagon in which Punch lay.

"So we were beaten," said the boy sadly--as the wheels of the lumbering vehicle creaked loudly, for the route was rough and stony--and Pen nodded.

"Beaten. Yes," And his voice was graver than before at the thought of what he had seen since they had been prisoners.

On, on, on, through the dark hours, with Punch falling off every now and again into a fitful sleep--a sleep broken by sudden intervals of half-consciousness, when Pen's heart was wrung by the broken words uttered by his companion: "Not going to shoot me, are they? Don't let them do that, comrade." While, as the weary procession continued its way on to the next village, where they were about to halt, Pen had another distraction, for as he trudged painfully on by the side of the creaking wagon a hand was suddenly placed on his arm.

He turned sharply.

"Eh, what?" he cried.

"Well?" said a half-familiar voice, and in the dim light he recognised the features of the young French captain who had listened to his appeal to save the bugler's life.

"Rough work, sir," said Pen.

"Yes. Your fellows played a bold game in trying to dislodge us. Nearly succeeded, _ma foi_! But we drove them back."

"Yes," said Pen.

"How's your friend?" asked the captain.

"Better."

"That's well. And now tell me, where did you learn to speak French so well?"

"From my tutor," answered Pen.

"Your tutor! And you a simple soldier! Well, well! You English are full of surprises."

Pen laughed.

"I suppose so," he said; "but we are not alone in that."

The French captain chatted a little longer, and then once more Pen was alone--alone but for the strange accompaniment of sounds incident to the night march: the neighing of horses, the sc.r.a.ps of quick talking which fell on his ear, along with that never-ceasing creak, rumble, and jolt of the wagons, a creaking and jolting which seemed to the tired brain as though they would go on for ever and ever.

He was aroused out of a strange waking dream, in which the past and the present were weirdly blended, by a voice which called him by name, and he tried to shake himself free from the tangle of confused thought which hemmed him in.

"Aren't you there?" came the voice again.

"Yes, Punch, yes. What is it?"

"Ah, that's all right! I wanted to tell you that I feel such a lot better."

"Glad to hear it, Punch."

"Yes, I feel as if I could get out of this now."