untenanted except by a French chasseur who lay athwart the threshold on
his back, his hand still clutching at the sling of his piece.

"Think we have won?" whispered Punch, looking away.

"Don't know," muttered Pen; but the knowledge that was wanted came soon
enough, for an hour later it became evident that the gallant attempt of
the British commander to take the village had been foiled.

The British cheer they had heard still echoed in their ears, but it was
not repeated, and it was speedily apparent that the fight had swept away
to their left; and from scraps of information dropped by the members of
the bearer-party who brought more wounded into the already crowded hut,
and took away the silent figure lying prone in the entrance, Pen made
out that the French had made a stand and had finally succeeded in
driving back their foes.

In obedience to an order from the grim-featured surgeon, he left Punch's
side again soon after, and it was dark ere he returned, to find the boy
fast asleep. He sank down and listened, feeling now but little fatigue,
starting up, however, once more, every sense on the alert, as there came
a series of sharp commands at the hut-door, and he realised that he must
have dropped off, for it was late in the evening, and outside the soft
moonlight was making the scene look weird and strange.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

ANOTHER BREAKDOWN.

Punch heard the voices too, and he reached out and felt for his
comrade's hand.

"What is it?" he whispered. "Have they won? Not going to shoot me, are
they?"

"No, no," said Pen, "but"--and he dropped his voice--"I think we are all
going on."

He was quite right, and all through that night the slow business of
setting a division on the march was under way, and the long, long train
of baggage wagons drawn by the little wiry mules of the country began to
move.

The ambulance train followed, with its terrible burden heavily increased
with the results of the late engagement, while as before--thanks to the
service he had been able to render--Pen was able to accompany the
heavily laden wagon in which Punch lay.

"So we were beaten," said the boy sadly--as the wheels of the lumbering
vehicle creaked loudly, for the route was rough and stony--and Pen
nodded.

"Beaten. Yes," And his voice was graver than before at the thought of
what he had seen since they had been prisoners.

On, on, on, through the dark hours, with Punch falling off every now and
again