d."

For now that the little gorge before them lay open the _contrabandista_
joined them, to begin addressing his words of eulogy to Pen.

"Tell your comrade too," he continued, "how proud I am of the way in
which you are holding the enemy in check. I have just come from the
King, and he sends a message to you--a message, he says, to the two
brave young Englishmen, and he wants to know how he can reward you for
all that you have done."

"Oh, we don't want rewarding," said Pen quietly. "But tell me, is there
any way by which the enemy can take us in the rear?"

"No," said the smuggler quietly. "But it would be bad for you--and us--
if they could climb up to the top there and throw pieces of rock down.
But they would want ladders to do that. I am afraid, though--no," he
added; "there's nothing to be afraid of--that they will be coming on
again, and you must keep up your firing till they are so sick of their
losses that they will not be able to get any more of their men to
advance."

"And what then?" said Pen.

"Why, then," said the smuggler, "we shall have to wait till it's dark
and see if we can't steal by them and thread our way through the lower
pass, leaving them to watch our empty _cache_."

Quite a quarter of an hour passed now, and it seemed as if the spirits
of the French chasseurs were too much damped for their officers to get
them to advance again.

Then there was another rush, with much the same result as before, and
again another and another, and this was kept up at intervals for hours,
till Pen grew faint and heart-sick, his comrade dull and stubborn; and
both were faint too, for the sun had been beating down with torrid
violence so that the heated rocks grew too hot to touch, and the burning
thirst caused by the want of air made the ravine seem to swim before
Pen's eyes.

But they kept on, and with terrible repetition the scenes of the morning
followed, until, as the two lads reloaded, they rested the hot
musket-barrels before them upon the heated rock and looked full in each
other's eyes.

"Well, Punch," said Pen hoarsely, "what are you thinking?"

The boy was silent for a few moments, and then in the horrible stillness
which was repeated between each attack he said slowly, "Just the same as
you are, comrade."

"That your old wound throbs and burns just the same as mine does?"

"Oh, it does," said Punch, "and has for ever so long; but I wasn't
thinking that."

"Then you were thinking,