"Ah!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the priest; and then he whispered again.

The next minute he was busy barring the closed door; and this done, he turned to the boys, to cross the room and open wide the cupboard-like door in the corner. Then, returning to Pen, he helped him to rise again, guided his halting steps, and half-carrying him to the step-like ladder urged him with a word or two to climb up.

"What does he mean, comrade?" whispered Punch.

"He means there's somebody coming, and we are to go upstairs."

"Let's stop here, comrade, and fight it out."

"No, he means well," replied Pen; and, making a brave effort, he began to climb the ladder, pulling himself up, but panting heavily the while and drawing his breath with pain.

As soon as the old man saw that he was being obeyed he turned to Punch, caught up Pen's musket, and signed to the boy to follow him.

"Well, you can't mean to give us up," said Punch excitedly, "or you wouldn't want me to keep my gun and his."

Disposition to resist pa.s.sed away the next moment, for the old man pressed the second musket into his hand and urged him towards the door.

"Can you get up, comrade?" whispered Punch, who was now all excited action.

"Yes," came in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, and a loud creak came from the ceiling.

"Ketch hold of these guns then. He wants me to bring the forage-basket.--Got 'em?" he continued, as he placed the two pieces together and held them up against the ladder.

"_Bonum_!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the priest, who stood close up, as the two muskets were drawn upwards and disappeared.

"Right, sir," said Punch in answer, and he took hold of the basket, raised it above his head, took a step or two, then whispered, "Basket!

Got it, comrade?"

"Yes," And it was drawn up after the muskets, the boards overhead creaking loudly the while.

"Anything else, master?--What, take this 'ere jar of water? Right! Of course! Here, comrade, you must look out now. Lean down and catch hold of the jar; and take care as you don't slop it over."

"_Presto_!" whispered the priest.

"Hi, presto!" muttered Punch. "That's what the conjuror said," he continued to himself, "and it means, 'Look sharp!' Got it, comrade?"

"Yes," came in Pen's eager whisper.

"Oh, I say," muttered Punch, "I don't want my face washed!"

"_Bonum! Presto_!" whispered the priest, as Punch shrank back with his face dripping; and, pressing the boy into the opening, he closed the door upon him and then hurried to the cottage entrance, took down the bar, throw the door wide, and then began slowly to strike a light, after placing a lamp upon the rough table.

By this time Punch had reached the little loft-like chamber, where Pen was lying beside the water-vessel.

"What game's this, comrade?" he whispered, breathless with his exertions.

"Hist! Hist!" came from below.

"It's all very fine," muttered Punch to himself; and he changed his position, with the result that the boards upon which he knelt creaked once more.

"Hist! Hist!" came again from below.

"Oh, all right then. I hear you," muttered the boy; and he cautiously drew himself to where he could place his eye to a large hole from which a knot in the plank had fallen out, so that he could now see what was going on below.

"Here, this caps me," he said to himself. "I don't want to think he's a bad un, but he's took down the bar and shoved the door wide-open. It don't mean, do it, that he's sent for some one to come and take us? No, or he wouldn't have given us our guns."

_Nick, nick, nick, nick_, went the flint against the steel; and the boy watched the sparks flying till one of them seemed to settle lightly in the priest's tinder-box, and the next minute that single spark began to glow as the old man deliberately breathed upon it till the tinder grew plain before the watcher's eyes, and the shape of the old man's bald head, with its roll of fat across the back of the neck, stood out like a silhouette.

Then there was a rustling sound, and the boy saw the point of a match applied, and marked that that point was formed of pale yellow brimstone, which began to turn of a lambent blue as it melted and quivered, and anon grew a flame-colour as the burning mineral fired the match.

A deep, heavy breath as of relief rose now through the floor as the old man applied the burning match to the wick of his oil-lamp, and Punch drew back from the knot-hole, for the loft was dimly lit up by the rays which came through the cracks of the badly laid floor, so that it seemed to him as if this could be no hiding-place, for any one in the room below must for certain be aware of the presence of any one in the loft.

In spite of himself, Punch started and extended his hand to catch at his comrade's arm, for he could see him plainly, though dimly, lying with the muskets on one side, the basket and jar of water upon the other, while half-behind him, where he himself lay, there was the black trap-like opening through which he had climbed.

The boy's was a very slight movement, but it was sufficient to make a board creak, and a warning "Hist!" came once more from below; while, as he looked downward, the boy found that he could see what the old man was doing, as he drew his lamp across the rough table and bent over a little open book, while he began muttering softly, half-aloud, as he read from his Book of Hours.

Punch softly pressed his comrade's arm, and then there was a slight movement and the pressure was returned.

"Wonder whether he can see too," thought Punch; and then in spite of himself he started, and his breath seemed to come thick and short, for plainly from a short distance off came the unmistakable tramp of marching men.

"Then he has sold us after all," thought the boy, and by slow degrees he strained himself over so that he could look through the knot-hole again.

To his great surprise the priest had not stirred, but was bending over his book, and his muttered words rose softly to the boy's ear, while the old man seemed to be in profound ignorance of the approaching steps.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

IN THE NIGHT.

Nearer and nearer came the sound of marching, and it was all Punch could do to keep from rising to his knees and changing his position; but he mastered himself into a state of content by sending and receiving signals with his companion, each giving and taking a long, firm pressure, as at last the invisible body of approaching men reached the cottage door, and an authoritative voice uttered the sharp command, "_Halte_!"

Punch's eye was now glued to the hole. He felt that if anybody looked up he would be sure to see it glittering in the lamplight; but the fascination to learn what was to be their fate was too strong to be resisted.

From his coign of vantage he could command the doorway and the legs of a small detachment of men, two of whom separated themselves and came full into sight, one being an officer, from the sword he bore, the other a rough, clumsy-looking peasant. And now for the first time the little priest appeared to be aware of the presence of strangers, for he slowly lowered the hand which held the book, raised his head, and seemed to be looking wonderingly at his visitors.

"Ah!" he said, as if just awakened from his studies; and he uttered some words, which sounded like a question, to the peasant, who made a rough obeisance and replied in apologetic tones, as if making an excuse for his presence there.

And now the officer uttered an impatient e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n and took another step into the room, saying in French, "I am sorry to interrupt your devotions, father; but this fellow tells me that he saw a couple of our English prisoners take refuge here."

"I do not speak French, my son," replied the old man calmly.

"Bah! I forgot," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the officer; and then in a halting way he stumbled through the same sentence in a very bad translation as he rendered it into Spanish.

"Ah!" said the old man, rising slowly; and Punch saw him look as if wonderingly at the rough peasant, who seemed to shrink back, half-startled, from the priest's stern gaze.

There was a few moments' silence, during which the two fugitives clutched each other's hands so tightly that Punch's nerves literally quivered as he listened for the sharp cracking of the boards, which he seemed to know must betray them to their pursuers.

But no sound came; and, as the perspiration stood out in big drops upon his face in the close heat of the little loft, both he and his companion could feel the horrible tickling sensation of the beads joining together and trickling down their necks.