The men were nothing loth.
The road they had traversed was steep and rugged, and it had perhaps told less upon the two boy prisoners than upon any of the party.
The brigands sat and refreshed.
They made a hearty meal of cold meat and coarse bread and herbs, and they drank of their wine from the skins until their swarthy faces flushed purple; and whilst they feasted and made merry, the captives were constrained to look on—in envy perhaps—but not to share the banquet.
Hunger fell upon them.
But the boys guessed that their sufferings would only give pleasure to their captors, and so they kept their troubles in this particular to themselves.
"Tighten your belt," said Harry Girdwood; "squeeze your stomach, Jack, and don't let these wolves see that we are peckish."
"Not me."
Taking the hint, Jack drew in a reef.
The two young comrades were, in reality, not much improved by this movement; but they thought they were, and imagination goes a great way.