“What? Oh, you mean stick it on, sir? All right, sir; I understand. What, is that wrong? Oh, t’other side first! There you are, then, sir. Will that do?”
The priest shook his head, bent a little forward so as to well balance his load, and then, setting one hand at liberty, he put his hat on correctly, grasped both Pen’s hands once more, and then began to march out of the forest.
“I’m blessed!” muttered Punch. “Didn’t know they carried pickaback in Spain. The little chap’s as strong as a horse—pony, I mean.—Does it hurt you much, comrade?”
“Not much, Punch. Don’t talk to me, though; only, thank goodness that we have found a friend!” The little priest trudged sturdily on with his load, taking a direction along the edge of the forest, which Punch noted was different from any that he had traversed during his search, while at the same time it became plain to him that their new friend was finding his load rather hard work to carry, for first a little dew began to appear; this dew gradually grew into tiny beads, the tiny beads ran into drops, and the drops gathered together till they began to trickle and run.
At this point the little priest stopped short by the side of a rugged, gnarled tree, and, bending a little lower, rested his hands upon a horizontal branch.
“Look here, sir,” said Punch, “let me have a try now. I ain’t up to it much, but it would give you a rest.”
The priest shook his head, drew a deep breath, and trudged on again, proving his strength to be greater than could have been imagined to exist in such a little, plump, almost dwarf-like form, for with an occasional rest he tramped on for the best part of an hour, till at last he paused just at the edge of a deep slope, and struck off a little way to his left to where a beaten track led to a good-sized cottage.
“Why couldn’t I find all this?” thought Punch, as he gazed down into a valley dotted with huts, evidently a village fairly well inhabited. “Why, it was as easy as easy, only I didn’t know the way.”
“Ah!” ejaculated the priest, as he thrust open the door, stepped into a very humbly furnished room, crossed at once to a rough pallet, and gently lowered his burden upon the simple bed. “The saints be praised!” he said in Latin; and the words and the new position had such a reviving effect upon the wounded rifleman that he caught at one of the priest’s hands and held to it firmly.
“God bless you for this!” he said, for unconsciously the priest’s words had been the opening of the door of communication between him and those he had brought to his home; for though the words possessed a pronunciation that was unfamiliar, the old Latin tongue recalled to Pen years of study in the past, and he snatched at the opportunity of saying a few words that the old man could understand.