“He’s dead! He’s dead!” groaned the poor fellow. “And me lying sleeping there, never taking any notice of him when he called for help—for he must have called—and me pretending to be his comrade all the time! ’Tain’t how he treated me. Oh, Pen! Pen Gray, old chap! Speak to me, if it’s only just one word! Oh, if I had not laid down! I ought to have stood up and watched him; but I did think it was to keep him warm. No, you didn’t!” he cried angrily, addressing himself. “You did it to warm yourself.”
At last, recovering his nerve somewhat, the boy began to crawl on hands and knees towards the motionless figure, till he was near enough to lay his hand upon his companion’s breast. Then twice over he stretched it out slowly and cautiously, but only to snatch it back, till a feeling of rage at his cowardice ran through him, and he softly lowered it down, let it rest there for a few moments, and then with a thrill of joy he exclaimed, “Why, it’s all fancy! He is alive.”
“Yes, what? Who spoke?”
“I did,” cried Punch, springing to his feet. “Hooray, comrade! It’s all right. I woke up, and began to think— Pst! pst!” he whispered, as he dropped down upon hands and knees again. For there was a rush of feet, and a patch of undergrowth a short distance beyond the spread of the great chestnut boughs was violently agitated.
“Why, it’s only goats,” muttered Punch angrily. “I scared them by jumping up. Wish I had got one of their young uns here.”
“What is it? Who’s that? You, Punch?”
“Yes, comrade; it’s all right. But how are you? All right?”
“Yes—no. I have been asleep and dreaming. What does it all mean, Punch? What’s the matter with my leg?”
“Can’t you recollect, comrade?”
Pen was silent for a few moments, and then: “Yes,” he said softly, “I understand now. I was hurt. Why, it’s morning! I haven’t been to sleep all the night, have I?”