It was the sunrise of a bright morning, and the sounds of bleating goats came plainly to the listeners' ears as the nimble animals were making their way up the valley-side to their pasture.

Then all at once came the sharp creak of a board, and Punch dashed at his musket, caught it up, c.o.c.ked it, and stood ready to use it in defence of his companion.

There was another creak or two, evidently from overhead, and as Punch stood there on the alert, his brows knit and teeth clenched, Pen softly stole his hand in the direction of his own musket and raised himself up on the bed ready to help.

Again there came a creak or two, a rustling in the corner of the room as of some one descending from above, and, though invisible, the muzzles of the two pieces were slowly lowered in the direction of the noise, till with a crack the door in the corner was thrust inward and the little old priest stood looking wonderingly from one to the other as he raised his hand.

It was as if this were a signal to disarm, when the two muskets were hurriedly replaced, and Punch advanced towards the corner of the room, offering to shake hands.

The priest smiled, took the boy's fingers, and then, thrusting to the door, he crossed to the bed, felt Pen's forehead, and afterwards pointed to the wounded leg.

The next minute he went to the door, removed the great bar, and admitted the bright light and fresh air of the morning in company with the louder bleating of the goats, which animals evidently came trotting up to the old man as he stepped back to look searchingly round. Then, after speaking kindly to them, he drove them away, returned into the room directly after with water, and proceeded to busily attend to Pen's wound.

"That's good of him," said Punch petulantly, "and I am glad to see him do it, comrade; but I wish he'd thought to attend to my wound too--I mean, give me the chance to dress it myself with bread and onion poultice. I don't know when I felt so hollow inside."

But he had not long to wait, for, evidently well satisfied with the state of Pen's injury, the priest finished attending to him as tenderly as if his touch were that of a woman, and then Punch was at rest, for the old man placed the last night's simple fare before them, signed to them to eat, and, leaving them to themselves, went outside again, to sweep the valley below with a long and scrutinising gaze.

Twice over during the next two days Pen made an effort to rise, telling his companion when they were alone that if he had a stick he thought he could manage to limp along a short distance at a time, for it was very evident that the old man, their host, was uneasy in his own mind about their presence.

"He evidently wants to get rid of us, Punch."

"Think so?" said the boy.

"Yes. See how he keeps fidgeting in and out to go on looking round to see if anybody's coming."

"Yes, I have noticed that," said Punch. "He thinks the French are coming after us, and that he will get into trouble for keeping us here."

"Yes; it's plain enough, so let's go."

"But you can't, comrade."

"Yes, I can."

"Not without making your wound worse. That's what you would have said to me."

"Then I must make it worse," said Pen angrily. "Next time he comes in I'll try to make him explain which way we ought to go to find some of our people."

"Well, we can only try," replied Punch, "for 'tain't nice living on anybody when you can't pay, and I do feel ashamed to eat as I do without being able to find money for it. 'Tain't as if he was an enemy. I'd let him see then."

"Go and open the door, Punch, and let the fresh air in. The sun does make this place so hot!"

"Can't, comrade."

"Why not?"

"I did try while you was asleep; but he's locked us in."

"Nonsense! He fastens the door with that big bar, and there it is standing up by the side."

"Yes, but there's another one outside somewhere, for I tried, and the door won't move. I think he's gone to tell somebody we are here, and he has shut us up so that we sha'n't get away while he's gone."

"No, no," said Pen impatiently. "The old man means well to us; I am sure of that."

"That's what I keep thinking, comrade; but then I keep thinking, too, that he's going to get something given him for taking two prisoners to give up to the French."

"Nonsense! It is cowardly and ungenerous to think so."

"Then what's he been gone such a long time for? It's hours since he went away and shut us in."

"Hours?"

"Yes; you don't know, because you sleep so much."

"Well, I don't believe he'd betray us. The old man's too good and generous for that."

"Then, why has he made prisoners of us?" said Punch sourly. "Why has he shut us up?"

"To keep anybody else from coming in," said Pen decisively. "What time can it be now?"

"Getting on towards sunset. Pst! Here he comes--or somebody else."

All doubts as to who it was were put an end to the next minute, for the familiar step of the old priest approached the door. They plainly heard what seemed to be another bar removed, and the old man stood before them with a big basket on his arm, and remained looking back as if to see whether he had been followed.

Then, apparently satisfied, he came in, closed the door, and smilingly placed the contents of the basket before them.

He had evidently been some distance, and looked hot and weary; but he was quite ready to listen to Pen's lame efforts to make known his desires that they should now say good-bye, and, with his help as to direction, continue their journey.

The little man stood up smiling before Pen, listening patiently to the lad's blundering Latin, probably not understanding half, and only replying with a word or two from time to time, these words from their p.r.o.nunciation puzzling Pen in turn; but it was evident to Punch, the listener, that on the whole a mutual understanding was arrived at, for all at once the priest offered Pen his arm, and as the lad took it he helped him to walk across the room and back to the pallet, where he pressed him back so that he sat down in spite of himself, when the old man patted him on the shoulder, smiling gently, and then going down on one knee pa.s.sed his hand softly over the wound, and, looking up, shook his head sadly.

"What does he mean by that, Punch?" said Pen excitedly, as he sat, looking pinched of face and half-wild with excitement.

"It means, comrade, that you ain't fit to go on the march. That's what he means; I can make him out. He is saying as you must give it up, and I don't think now as he means any harm.--I say, you don't, do you, old chap?" he continued, turning sharply on the priest.

It seemed as if their host comprehended the boy's words, for he patted Punch on the shoulder, smiling, and pointed to the basket, which he opened and displayed its contents.

Punch only caught a glimpse thereof; but he saw that there were bread and onions and goat's-milk cheese before he turned sharply round, startled by a quick tapping at the closed door.

It was not only he who was startled, for the priest turned sharply and hurried to the door.

"Oh, comrade," cried Punch in an excited whisper, "don't say that he's against us after all!"

But with the st.u.r.dy boy it was a word and a blow, for he made for his loaded musket and caught it up.

"Hist!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the priest, turning upon him and raising one hand.

"Oh, I don't care for that," whispered Punch, "and I don't mind what you are. If you sold us to the enemy you shall have the first shot."

The priest shook his hand at him as if to bid him be silent; and then, placing his lips close to the door, he said something in Spanish, and listened to a reply that came in a hurried voice.