"Bone 'em!" said Punch. "Why, he give it to me!"

"He means it was good, Punch," said Pen, smiling.

"Good! Yes," cried the boy, crunching up one of the savoury pieces of vegetable. "That's what he means, is it? Thought he meant I had stolen it.--_Bonum_, eh, sir? I should just think it is! Wants a bit more salt; but my word, it's fine! Have a bit more, comrade. You eat while there's a chance. Never mind me. I can keep both of us going. Talk about a dinner or a supper; I could keep on till dark! Only wish, though, I'd got one of their Spanish shillings to pay for it; but those French beggars took care of them for me. I can give him my knife, though; and I will too, as soon as I have done with it. How do you feel now, comrade?"

"Better, Punch, better," replied Pen. "Thank you," he continued, as his companion broke off more bread for him and then began to peel another onion. "But you are paying more attention to me than you are to yourself."

"Course I am, comrade. Didn't you pay more attention to me when I was wounded?"

Then turning to the priest, he pointed to the bread with his knife, and then tapped the onion he had begun to quarter with the blade.

"Splendid, sir," he said, smiling. "_Bonum! bonum_!"

The priest nodded, and then rose from where he had been seated watching the boys and walked through the open door, to stand just outside sweeping the scattered houses of the little village with his eyes, and remaining there, so as to leave his two guests to themselves.

"You are beginning to get a bit better, comrade?" asked Punch anxiously.

"Yes, Punch, yes," was the reply.

"So am I. Feel as if I am growing as strong as a horse again. Why, comrade, it was worth getting as hungry, thirsty, and tired as that, so as to enjoy such a meal. I don't mean speaking for you, because I know you must be feeling that gnaw, gnaw, grinding pain in your wound. But do go on eating, and when you have had enough you shut-up shop and go off to sleep. Then I will ask that old chap to give me a bit of rag and let me wash and tie up your wound. I say, comrade, I hope he didn't see me laugh at him. Did you?"

"See you laugh at him? No. Did you?"

"Yes; couldn't help it, when he was carrying you, bent down like he was, with that queer shako of his. When I was behind he looked something like a bear, and I couldn't help having a good grin. Mum, though; here he comes."

The old priest now came slowly in and stood watching the two lads, who hurriedly finished their meal.

"Stand up, Punch," said Pen.

"What for? I was just going to clear away."

"Stand up, I tell you!"

"All right;" and the boy rose immediately, staring hard at his companion, as Pen, with a quiver of emotion in his utterance, laid his hand over the remains of the black-bread, and said, gazing hard at the old priest the while, "_Benedictus, benedicat_. Amen."

"Ah!" said the priest, with a long-drawn breath of satisfaction; "_Benedictus, benedicat_ Amen."

Then, taking a step towards them, he laid his hand upon the heads of his two guests in turn and said a few words in an undertone. Next, pointing to the rough pallet-bed, he signed to Punch that he should lie down beside his companion.

"What, take a snooze there, sir?" said Punch. "Thank you, sir. But not yet.--You tell him in your Latin stuff, comrade, that I want to do a bit of doctoring first."

"I'll try," said Pen wearily, already half-asleep; when, to the surprise of both, the old man went outside and returned with a little wooden tub of water which he brought to the bedside, and then, in spite of a half-hearted protestation on the part of Punch, he proceeded to carefully attend to the wound.

"Well, it's very good of you, sir," said the boy at last, after doing his best to help, "and I wish I could make you understand what I say.

But you have done it a deal better than I could have done, and I am sure if my comrade could have kept himself awake he would be ready enough to say something in Latin that would mean you are a trump, and he's very much obliged. But, you see, all I know, sir, about Latin--"

"Latin!" said the old priest, beaming upon him with wondering eyes.

"Yes, sir--Latin, sir, as I learnt of him;" and then, pointing to the carefully bandaged limb, "_bonum_, sir; _bonum_!"

The priest nodded, as he pointed to the pallet, where there was room for Punch to lie down by his sleeping companion; but the boy shook his head.

"No, sir," he said, "that's your roost; I do know that," And, before his host could interfere, the boy placed one musket within reach of Pen's hand, the other beside the door, across which he stretched himself.

It was now nearly dark, and after placing his little home in something like order, the old man turned to where Punch had been resting upon one arm a few minutes before, watching his movements, but was now p.r.o.ne upon the beaten-earth floor fast asleep, with a look of restfulness upon his young, sunburnt countenance.

The old man stepped carefully across him, to stand outside peering through the evening gloom down into the silent village before, satisfied and content, he turned back into the hut, closing the door carefully after him, placing across it a heavy oaken bar, before stepping back across Punch, to stand in the middle of the floor deep in thought.

Then his hand began to move, from force of habit, searching for and bringing out from beneath his gown a little, worn snuff-box, which squeaked faintly as he turned the lid and refreshed himself with two pinches of its brown contents.

This was done very slowly and deliberately in the semi-darkness, and finally the box was replaced and a few grains of the dust flicked away.

"Ah!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the old man with a long-drawn sigh, as he looked from one to the other of his guests. "English," he muttered. "Soldiers, but friends and defenders against the French. English--heretics! But," he added softly, as if recalling something that had pa.s.sed, "_Benedictus, benedicat_. Amen!"

Then, crossing softly to one corner of the room, he drew open what seemed to be the door of a cupboard; but it was too dark to show that in place of staircase there was a broad step-ladder.

This the old man ascended, and directly after the ill-fitting boards which formed the ceiling of his humble living-room creaked as he stepped upon them, and then there was a faint rustling as if he were removing leaves and stems of the Indian corn that was laid in company with other stores in what was undoubtedly a little loft, whose air was heavy with various odours suggesting the presence of vegetables and fruit.

The oaken boards creaked once more as if the old man was stretching himself upon them with a sigh of weariness and satisfaction.

"Amen!" he said softly, and directly after a ray of light shot across the place, coming through the wooden bars in the gable of the sloping roof, for the moon had just risen over the shoulder of the mountain to light up the valley beneath, where the priest's hut clung to its rocky wall; to light up, too, the little loft and its contents, and, above all, the features of the sleeping man, gentle-looking in their repose.

And could the lads he had befriended have gazed upon him then they would have seen nothing that appeared grotesque.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

THROUGH A KNOT-HOLE.

"Yes, what is it?" cried Pen, starting up on the bed at a touch from his companion, who had laid his hand gently on the sleeping lad's forehead, and then sinking back again with a faint e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n of pain.

"Don't be scared, comrade; it's only me. Does it hurt you?"

"Yes, my leg's horribly stiff and painful."

"Poor chap! Never mind. I will bathe it and dress it by-and-by if that old priest don't do it. When you jumped up like that I thought you fancied it was the French coming."

"I did, Punch," said Pen with a faint smile. "I seem to have been dreaming all night that they were after us, and I could not get away because my leg hurt me so."

"Then lie down again," said Punch. "Things ain't so bad as that. But, I say, comrade, I can't help it; I am as bad as ever again."

"Bad! Your wound?"

"No, no; that's getting all right. But that old chap seems to have shut us up here and gone. Didn't happen to see, did you, where he put the bread and onions? I am quite hollow inside."

"No, Punch. I fell asleep, and I can't recollect how or when."

"That's a pity, 'cause I know we should be welcome, and I can't make out where he put the forage when he cleared away."