"It's a bad job, comrade," he said cheerily; "but it might have been worse if the Frenchies could shoot. There's no bones broke, and you are not going to grumble; but I'd have given anything if it hadn't been your turn now. Hurt much."

"Quite enough, Punch," said Pen with a rather piteous smile. "It's quite right; my turn now; but don't stop. You've stopped the bleeding, so get on."

"What say?"

"Go on now," said Pen, "while there's a chance to escape. Those fellows will be sure to come back this way, and you will lose your opportunity if you wait."

"Poor chap!" said Punch, as if speaking to himself, and he laid a hand on Pen's wet forehead. "Look at that now! I have made a nasty mark; but I couldn't help it, for there was no water here for a wash. But, poor chap, he won't know. He's worse than I thought, though; talking like that--quite off his head."

"I am not, Punch, but you will send me off it if you go on like that.

Do as I tell you, boy. Escape while there's a chance."

"He's quite queer," said Punch, "and getting worse; but I suppose I can't do anything more."

"No; you can do no more, so don't waste your chance of escape. It will be horrible for you to be made prisoner again, so off with you while the coast's clear. Do you hear me?"

"Hear you! Yes, you needn't shout and tell the Johnnies that we are hiding here."

"No, no, of course not; it was very foolish, but the pain of the wound and your obstinacy made me excited. Now then, shake hands, and, there's a good fellow, go."

"Likely!" said Punch, wiping the pain-drops from Pen's face.

"What do you mean by that?" said Pen angrily.

"What do I mean by what? You are a bit cracked like, or else you wouldn't talk like this."

"Not tell you to run while there's a chance?"

"Not tell me to run like this when there's a chance!" replied Punch.

"Jigger the chance! So you just hold your tongue and lie quiet.

Sha'n't go! There."

"But, Punch, don't be foolish, there's a good fellow."

"No, I won't; and don't you be foolish. Pst! Hear that? They are coming back."

"There's time still," said Pen, lowering his voice.

"Oh, is there? You just look here. Here they are, coming nearer and nearer. Do you want them to come and take us both?"

"No, no, no," whispered Pen.

"Then just you hold your tongue," said Punch, nestling down close to his comrade's side, for the rustle and tramp of many feet began to grow nearer again; and as Punch lay upon his back with his eyes turned in the direction of the approaching sound he soon after caught a glimpse or two of sunlight flashed from the barrels of muskets far down the forest aisles, as their bearers seemed to be coming right for where they lay.

"Look here," said Punch softly, "they look as if they are coming straight here; but there's a chance for us yet, so let's take it, and if they don't find us--Mind, I didn't want you to be hit; but as you are, and I suppose was to be, I am jolly glad of it, for it gives a fellow a chance. And what's the good of me talking?" said the boy to himself now. "He's gone right off, swoonded, as they call it. Poor old chap!

It does seem queer. But it might have been worse, as I said before.

Wanted me to run away, did you? Likely, wasn't it? Why, if I had run it would have served me jolly well right if somebody had shot me down again. Not likely, comrade! I mayn't be a man, but my father was a British soldier, and that's what's the matter with me."

Punch lay talking to himself, but not loudly enough to startle a bird which came flitting from tree to tree in advance of the approaching soldiers, and checked its flight in one of the low branches of a great overhanging chestnut, and then kept on changing its position as it peered down at the two rec.u.mbent figures, its movements startling the bugler, who now began in a whisper to address the bird.

"Here," he said, "what game do you call that? You don't mean to say you have come here like this to show the Johnny c.r.a.pauds where we are, so that they may take us prisoners? No, I thought not. It wouldn't be fair, and I don't suppose they have even seen you; but it did look like it. Here they come, though, and in another minute they will see us, and--Oh, poor Gray! It will be bad for him, poor chap; and--No, they don't. They are wheeling off to the left; but if they look this way they must see us, and if they had been English lads that's just what they would have done. Why, they couldn't help seeing us--a set of bat-eyed bull-frogs; that's what I call them. Yah! Go on home! I don't think much of you. Now then, they are not coming here, and I don't care where they go as long as they don't find us. Now, what's next to be done? What I want is another goat-herd's hut, so as I can carry my poor old comrade into shelter. Now, where is it to be found?

I don't know, but it's got to be done; and ain't it rum that my poor old mate here should have his dose, and me have to play the nurse twice over!"

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

"UNLUCKY BEGGARS."

"If one wasn't in such trouble," said Punch to himself, as he lay in the growing darkness beneath the great chestnut-tree, "one would have time to think what a beautiful country this is. But of all the unlucky beggars that ever lived, Private Pen Gray and Bugler Bob Punchard is about the two worst. Only think of it: we had just got out of all that trouble with my wound and Gray's fever, then he gets. .h.i.t and I got to nurse him all over again. Well, that's all clear enough.--How are you now, comrade?" he said aloud, as after cautiously gazing round in search of danger, he raised his head and bent over his wounded companion.

There was no reply, and Punch went on softly, "It's my turn now to say what you said to me. Sleepy, are you? Well, go on, and have plenty of it. It's the best thing for you. What did you say? Nature sets to work to mend you again? No, he didn't. I forget now, but that's what he meant. Now, I wonder whether it's safe for me to go away and leave him. No, of course it isn't, for I may tumble up against the French, who will make me a prisoner, and I sha'n't be able to make them understand that my comrade is lying wounded under this tree, and if I could I don't want to. That's one thing. Another is that if I start off and leave him here I sha'n't be able to find him again. Then, what am I going for? To try and find water, for my throat's like sand, and something to eat better than these chestnuts, for I don't believe they are anything like ripe. Oh dear! This is a rum start altogether. I don't know what to do. This is coming to the wars, and no mistake!

There never was really such unlucky chaps as we are. It will be dark before long. Then I shall seem to be quite alone. To be all alone here in a great wood like this is enough to make any fellow feel scared.

It's just the sort of place where the wolves will be. Well, if they do come, we have got two muskets, and if it isn't too dark I will have two wolves, and that will keep the others off as long as they have got the ones I shot to eat.--Did you speak, comrade?" he whispered, as he once more bent over Pen. "No, he's fast asleep. Wish I was, so as to forget all about it, for the sun's quite down now, and I don't know how I am to get through such a night as this. However, here goes to try. Ugh! How cold it is turning!"

The boy shivered as the wind that came down from the mountains seemed bitterly cold to one who had been drenched in perspiration by the exertion and excitement that he had pa.s.sed through.

"Poor old Private Gray!" he muttered. "He will be feeling it worse than me if he don't turn feverish."

The boy hesitated for a few moments, and then, stripping off his jacket, he crept as close to his wounded companion as he could, and then carefully spread the ragged uniform coat over their b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"Ought to have got his off too," he muttered, "but I mustn't. Must make the best of it and try and go to sleep, keeping him warm. But no fellow could go to sleep at a time like this."

It was a rash a.s.sertion, for many minutes had not pa.s.sed before the boy was sleeping soundly the sleep of utter weariness and exhaustion; and the next time he unclosed his eyes as he lay there upon his back, not having moved since he lay down, it was to gaze wonderingly at the beautiful play of morning light upon the long, glossy, dark-green leaves over his head; for the sun had just risen and was bronzing the leaves with ruddy gold.

The birds were singing somewhere at the edge of the forest, and all seemed so wonderful and strange that the boy muttered to himself as he asked the question, "Where am I?"

So deep had been his sleep that it seemed to be one great puzzle.

He knew it was cold, and he wondered at that, for now and then he felt a faint glow of warm sunshine. Then, like a flash, recollection came back, and he turned his head to gaze at his companion, but only to wrench himself away and roll over and over a yard or two, before sitting up quickly, trembling violently. For he was chilled with horror by the thought that his companion had pa.s.sed away during the night.

It was some minutes before he dared speak. "Pen!" he whispered, at last. "Gray!" He waited, with the horror deepening, for there his companion lay upon his back motionless, and though he strained his neck towards him he could detect no movement of his breath, while his own staring eyes began to grow dim, and the outstretched figure before him looked misty and strange.

"He's dead! He's dead!" groaned the poor fellow. "And me lying sleeping there, never taking any notice of him when he called for help-- for he must have called--and me pretending to be his comrade all the time! 'Tain't how he treated me. Oh, Pen! Pen Gray, old chap! Speak to me, if it's only just one word! Oh, if I had not laid down! I ought to have stood up and watched him; but I did think it was to keep him warm. No, you didn't!" he cried angrily, addressing himself. "You did it to warm yourself."

At last, recovering his nerve somewhat, the boy began to crawl on hands and knees towards the motionless figure, till he was near enough to lay his hand upon his companion's breast. Then twice over he stretched it out slowly and cautiously, but only to s.n.a.t.c.h it back, till a feeling of rage at his cowardice ran through him, and he softly lowered it down, let it rest there for a few moments, and then with a thrill of joy he exclaimed, "Why, it's all fancy! He is alive."

"Yes, what? Who spoke?"

"I did," cried Punch, springing to his feet. "Hooray, comrade! It's all right. I woke up, and began to think--Pst! pst!" he whispered, as he dropped down upon hands and knees again. For there was a rush of feet, and a patch of undergrowth a short distance beyond the spread of the great chestnut boughs was violently agitated.

"Why, it's only goats," muttered Punch angrily. "I scared them by jumping up. Wish I had got one of their young uns here."

"What is it? Who's that? You, Punch?"

"Yes, comrade; it's all right. But how are you? All right?"

"Yes--no. I have been asleep and dreaming. What does it all mean, Punch? What's the matter with my leg?"