looked, so beautiful before. How one seems to breathe in the sweet,
soft, dewy night-air! It's lovely. I don't think I ever felt so truly
happy. There, it's of no use for me to watch that patch of wood, for I
could not see our visitor unless she was coming with a lantern; and
perhaps she has had miles to go. Well, watching the spot is doing no
good, and if she's coming she will find her way, and she is more likely
not to lose heart if I'm in the hut, for I might scare her away. Here,
let's go in and see how poor old Punch is getting on! But I never
thought--I never could have imagined--when I was getting up my `lessons
for to-morrow morning' that the time would come when I should be waiting
and watching in a Spanish peasant's hut for some one to come and bring
me in for a wounded comrade a cake of black-bread to keep us both
alive."

Pen Gray walked softly in the direction of the dimly seen hut through
heathery brush, rustling at every step and seeming to have the effect of
making him walk on tiptoe for fear he should break the silence of the
soft southern evening.

The lad stopped and listened eagerly, for there was a distant shout that
suggested the hailing of a French soldier who had lost his way in the
forest. Then it was repeated, "Ahoy-y-hoy-hoy-y-y!" and answered from
far away, and it brought up a suggestion of watchful enemies searching
for others in the darkened woods.

Then came another shout, and an ejaculation of impatience from the
listener.

"I ought to have known it was an owl. Hallo! What's that? Has she
come back by some other way?"

For the sound of a voice came to him from inside the rough hut, making
him hurry over the short distance that separated him from the door,
where he stood for a moment or two listening, and he heard distinctly,
"Not me! I mean to make a big fight for it out of spite. Shoot me
down--a boy--for obeying orders! Cowards! How would they like it
themselves?"

"Why, Punch, lad," said Pen, stepping to the bedside and leaning over
his comrade, "what's the matter? Talking in your sleep?"

There was no reply, but the muttering voice ceased, and Pen laid his
hand upon the boy's forehead, as he said to himself, "Poor fellow! A
good mess of bread-and-milk would save his life. I wonder how long she
will be!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

PUNCH'S COMMISSARIAT.

It was far longer than Pen anticipated, for the darkness grew deeper,
the forest sounds fainter and faint