"Can't you manage it, sir?" said Punch. "Here, let me try."

The little priest shook his head, but released one of Pen's hands and caught hold of Punch by the shoulder.

"Yes, I know, sir," cried Punch, and after waiting till their new friend was ready, the boy brought his strength to bear as well, and the little priest stood up, gave his load a hitch or two to balance it well upon his shoulders, and then looked sharply at Punch and then at his hat.

"Carry your hat, sir?" cried Punch excitedly, "of course I will. It will be all right."

The priest shook his head.

"What? Oh, you mean stick it on, sir? All right, sir; I understand.

What, is that wrong? Oh, t'other side first! There you are, then, sir.

Will that do?"

The priest shook his head, bent a little forward so as to well balance his load, and then, setting one hand at liberty, he put his hat on correctly, grasped both Pen's hands once more, and then began to march out of the forest.

"I'm blessed!" muttered Punch. "Didn't know they carried pickaback in Spain. The little chap's as strong as a horse--pony, I mean.--Does it hurt you much, comrade?"

"Not much, Punch. Don't talk to me, though; only, thank goodness that we have found a friend!" The little priest trudged st.u.r.dily on with his load, taking a direction along the edge of the forest, which Punch noted was different from any that he had traversed during his search, while at the same time it became plain to him that their new friend was finding his load rather hard work to carry, for first a little dew began to appear; this dew gradually grew into tiny beads, the tiny beads ran into drops, and the drops gathered together till they began to trickle and run.

At this point the little priest stopped short by the side of a rugged, gnarled tree, and, bending a little lower, rested his hands upon a horizontal branch.

"Look here, sir," said Punch, "let me have a try now. I ain't up to it much, but it would give you a rest."

The priest shook his head, drew a deep breath, and trudged on again, proving his strength to be greater than could have been imagined to exist in such a little, plump, almost dwarf-like form, for with an occasional rest he tramped on for the best part of an hour, till at last he paused just at the edge of a deep slope, and struck off a little way to his left to where a beaten track led to a good-sized cottage.

"Why couldn't I find all this?" thought Punch, as he gazed down into a valley dotted with huts, evidently a village fairly well inhabited.

"Why, it was as easy as easy, only I didn't know the way."

"Ah!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the priest, as he thrust open the door, stepped into a very humbly furnished room, crossed at once to a rough pallet, and gently lowered his burden upon the simple bed. "The saints be praised!"

he said in Latin; and the words and the new position had such a reviving effect upon the wounded rifleman that he caught at one of the priest's hands and held to it firmly.

"G.o.d bless you for this!" he said, for unconsciously the priest's words had been the opening of the door of communication between him and those he had brought to his home; for though the words possessed a p.r.o.nunciation that was unfamiliar, the old Latin tongue recalled to Pen years of study in the past, and he s.n.a.t.c.hed at the opportunity of saying a few words that the old man could understand.

A pleasant smile beamed on the utterly wearied out old fellow's countenance as he bent over Pen and patted him gently on the shoulder.

"Good, good!" he said in Latin; and he set himself about the task of supplying them with food.

This was simple enough, consisting as it did of bread and herbs--just such a repast as might have been expected from some ascetic holy man dwelling in the mountains; but the herbs in this case were silvery-brown skinned Spanish onions with salt.

Then taking up a small earthen jar, he pa.s.sed out of the dark room into the sunshine; and as soon as the boys were alone Punch turned eagerly to his companion.

"Not worse, are you, comrade?" he said anxiously.

"No, Punch, not worse. But has he gone to fetch water?"

"Yes, I think so. But just you tell me: does your leg hurt you much?"

"Quite enough," replied Pen, breaking off a portion of the bread and placing a few fragments between his lips. "But don't talk to me now. I am starving."

"Yes, I know that," cried Punch; "and call this 'ere bread! It's all solid crust, when it ought to be crumb for a chap like you. Look here, you could eat one of these onions, couldn't you?"

"No, no; not now. Go on; never mind me."

"But I do mind you," cried the boy. "And how can I go on eating without you? I say, though, what a chap you are! What was that you said to him?"

"Bless you for this!"

"Yes, I guessed that was it; but how did you say it so as to make him understand? I talked to him enough, but he couldn't make out a word of what I said. Was that there Spanish?"

"No, Punch; Latin."

"Ah, you seem to know everything."

At that moment a shadow fell athwart the door, and the speaker made a dash at one of the muskets he had stood up against the wall on entering the priest's cottage.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, sir!" he cried hastily. "I didn't know it was you."

The old man smiled, and entered with the dripping jar which he had just filled from a neighbouring spring, and held it towards the boy.

"Me drink, sir? Thank ye, sir," cried Punch; and, taking the jar, he was raising it towards his parched mouth, but before it was half-way there he recollected himself, and carried it to the priest's pallet, where he went down on his knees and held it to Pen's lips, so that the poor fellow, who was burning with feverish pain, was able to drink long and deeply.

Pen was still drinking when Punch started and spilt a few drops of the water as he turned hastily to look up at their host, who had laid a soft brown hand upon his head, and was looking down at him with a pleasant smile.

"What did he do that for, comrade?"

"I don't know," said Pen, drawing a deep breath, as he withdrew his lips from the water. "Yes, I do," he added quickly. "He meant that he was pleased because you let me drink first."

"Course I did. I don't see anything to be pleased about in that. But have a drop more, comrade. Quick, look sharp, before I go mad and s.n.a.t.c.hes it away from you, for I never felt like this before."

"Go on then now, Punch."

"But--"

"Go on then now; I can wait."

"Ah, then!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the boy, with a deep sigh that was almost a groan; and with trembling hands he held the jar to his lips and drank, and recovered his breath and drank again as if it was impossible to satisfy his burning thirst.

Then recovering himself, he held the jar against Pen's lips.

"Talk about wine," he said; "why, it ain't in it! I don't wonder that he looks so fat and happy, though he is dressed up like an old scarecrow. Fancy living here with a pump of water like this close at hand!--Had enough now?--That's right. Now you go on breaking off bits of that bread and dipping it in the water while I cuts up one of these."

He took his knife from his pocket and began to peel one of the onions, when their host placed the little vessel of salt close to his hand.

"Thank you, sir," cried Punch. "You are a real gentleman."

The priest smiled and nodded, and watched the two lads as Pen took an earthenware bowl that their host placed close to his hand after half-filling it with water so that he could steep the bread, while Punch deftly peeled one of the onions, not scrupling about littering the floor, and then proceeded to quarter it and then divide the segments again, dipping one in the salt and placing it between his wounded companion's lips.

"Good! good!" said the priest again, smiling with satisfaction, and laying his hand once more upon Punch's head. "_Bonum! bonum_!"