The young Spaniard was seated aloof from the girl, whose back was half-turned from him as she sat there seeming to have lost all interest in the scene and those whom she had tried to warn of the danger they were in.
From time to time the Spanish lad spoke to her, but she only jerked her head away from him, looking more indifferent than ever.
“Are you in much pain, Punch?” asked Pen again; for the boy had not replied, and Pen leaned more towards him, to gaze in his face searchingly.
“Oh, pretty tidy,” replied the boy at last; “but it’s better now. You seemed to wake up my wound, but it’s going to sleep again. I say, though, I didn’t show nothing, did I?”
“No, you bore it bravely.”
“Did I? That’s right. I was afraid, though, that I should have to howl; but I am all right now. And I say, comrade, look here; some chaps miche—you know, sham bad—so as to get into hospital to be fed up and get off duty, and they do it too, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” said Pen, watching the lad anxiously. “But don’t talk so much.”
“Must; I want to tell you, I am going to miche—sham, you know—the other way on.”
“What do you mean?” said Pen.
“Why, make-believe I’m all right. Make these froggies think my wound’s only a scratch. Then perhaps they will march me off along with you as a prisoner. I don’t want them to—you know.”