Then turning sharply to one of his men, the young officer pointed at the Spaniard and gave an order in a low, imperious tone.
Two of his men advanced to the lit-up group, and one of them gave the lad a sharp clap on the shoulder which made him spring up angrily, while the other chasseur snatched the English rifle from his hand, the first chasseur seizing the cartridge-belt and case.
There was a brief struggle, but it was two to one, and the Spaniard, as Pen watched the encounter eagerly, was sent staggering back, catching his heel in a bush and falling heavily, but only to rebound on the instant, springing up knife now in hand and making at the nearest soldier.
“Ha!” gasped Punch excitedly, as he saw the gleam of the knife; and then he drew in his breath with a hiss, for it was almost momentary: one of the two French soldiers who had approached him to obey his officer’s orders and disarm the informer just raised his musket and made a drive with the butt at the knife-armed Spaniard, who received the metal plate of the stock full in his temple and rolled over, half-stunned, amongst the bushes.
Another order rang out from the officer, and before the young Spaniard could recover himself a couple more of the soldiers had pounced upon him, and a minute later he was firmly bound, as helpless a prisoner as the young rifleman who watched the scene.
“Say, comrade,” whispered Punch, “that’s done me good. But do you see that?”
“See it? Why, of course I saw it. That’s not what he bargained for when he led the Frenchmen here.”
“No, I don’t mean that,” whispered Punch impatiently. “I meant the gal.”
“The girl?” said Pen. “What about her?”
“Where is she?” whispered Punch.