as beyond these stacks of smuggled goods that their
_contrabandista_ friend signed to the lads to seat themselves. One of
the men brought them coffee and freshly fried ham and cake, which the
captain shared with them and joined heartily in the meal.

"I say, Pen," whispered Punch, "do tell him in `parlyvoo' that I say
he's a trump! Fight for him and the King! I should just think we will!
D'ye 'ear? Tell him."

"No," said Pen. "Let him know what we feel towards him by what we do,
Punch, not what we say."

"All right. Have it your own way," said the boy. "But, I say, I do
like this ham. I suppose it's made of some of them little pigs we see
running about in the woods. Talk about that goat's mutton! Why,
'tain't half so good as ours made of sheep, even though they do serve it
out and call it kid. Why, when we have had it sometimes for rations,
you couldn't get your teeth into it. Kid, indeed! Grandfather kid!
I'm sure of that. I say, pass the coffee, comrade. Only fancy! Milk
and sugar too! Oh no, go on; drink first. Age before honesty. I
wonder whether this was smuggled.--What's the matter now?"

For in answer to a shrill whistle that rang loudly in echoes from the
roof, every _contrabandista_ in the place sprang up and seized his
carbine, their captain setting the example.

"No, no," he said, turning to the two lads. "Finish your breakfast, and
eat well, boys. It may be a long time before you get another chance.
There's plenty of time before the firing begins, and I will come back
for you and station you where you can fight for Spain."

He walked quickly across to where the King's followers had started up
and stood sword in hand, their chief remaining seated upon an upturned
keg, looking calm and stern; but at the same time his eyes wandered
proudly over the roughly disguised devoted little band who were ready to
defend him to the last.

Pen watched the _contrabandista_ as he advanced and saluted the
dethroned monarch without a trace of anything servile; the Spanish
gentleman spoke as he addressed his sovereign in a low tone, but his
words were not audible to the young rifleman. Still the latter could
interpret them to himself by the Spaniard's gestures.

"What's he a-saying of?" whispered Punch; and as he spoke the boy
surreptitiously cut open a cake, turned it into a sandwich, and thrust
it into his haversack.

"I can't hear, Punch," replied Pen; "and if I could I shouldn't
understand,