A pleasant smile beamed on the utterly wearied out old fellow’s countenance as he bent over Pen and patted him gently on the shoulder.
“Good, good!” he said in Latin; and he set himself about the task of supplying them with food.
This was simple enough, consisting as it did of bread and herbs—just such a repast as might have been expected from some ascetic holy man dwelling in the mountains; but the herbs in this case were silvery-brown skinned Spanish onions with salt.
Then taking up a small earthen jar, he passed out of the dark room into the sunshine; and as soon as the boys were alone Punch turned eagerly to his companion.
“Not worse, are you, comrade?” he said anxiously.
“No, Punch, not worse. But has he gone to fetch water?”
“Yes, I think so. But just you tell me: does your leg hurt you much?”
“Quite enough,” replied Pen, breaking off a portion of the bread and placing a few fragments between his lips. “But don’t talk to me now. I am starving.”
“Yes, I know that,” cried Punch; “and call this ’ere bread! It’s all solid crust, when it ought to be crumb for a chap like you. Look here, you could eat one of these onions, couldn’t you?”
“No, no; not now. Go on; never mind me.”