“But I do mind you,” cried the boy. “And how can I go on eating without you? I say, though, what a chap you are! What was that you said to him?”
“Bless you for this!”
“Yes, I guessed that was it; but how did you say it so as to make him understand? I talked to him enough, but he couldn’t make out a word of what I said. Was that there Spanish?”
“No, Punch; Latin.”
“Ah, you seem to know everything.”
At that moment a shadow fell athwart the door, and the speaker made a dash at one of the muskets he had stood up against the wall on entering the priest’s cottage.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir!” he cried hastily. “I didn’t know it was you.”
The old man smiled, and entered with the dripping jar which he had just filled from a neighbouring spring, and held it towards the boy.
“Me drink, sir? Thank ye, sir,” cried Punch; and, taking the jar, he was raising it towards his parched mouth, but before it was half-way there he recollected himself, and carried it to the priest’s pallet, where he went down on his knees and held it to Pen’s lips, so that the poor fellow, who was burning with feverish pain, was able to drink long and deeply.
Pen was still drinking when Punch started and spilt a few drops of the water as he turned hastily to look up at their host, who had laid a soft brown hand upon his head, and was looking down at him with a pleasant smile.