“That’s good of him,” said Punch petulantly, “and I am glad to see him do it, comrade; but I wish he’d thought to attend to my wound too—I mean, give me the chance to dress it myself with bread and onion poultice. I don’t know when I felt so hollow inside.”
But he had not long to wait, for, evidently well satisfied with the state of Pen’s injury, the priest finished attending to him as tenderly as if his touch were that of a woman, and then Punch was at rest, for the old man placed the last night’s simple fare before them, signed to them to eat, and, leaving them to themselves, went outside again, to sweep the valley below with a long and scrutinising gaze.
Twice over during the next two days Pen made an effort to rise, telling his companion when they were alone that if he had a stick he thought he could manage to limp along a short distance at a time, for it was very evident that the old man, their host, was uneasy in his own mind about their presence.
“He evidently wants to get rid of us, Punch.”
“Think so?” said the boy.
“Yes. See how he keeps fidgeting in and out to go on looking round to see if anybody’s coming.”
“Yes, I have noticed that,” said Punch. “He thinks the French are coming after us, and that he will get into trouble for keeping us here.”
“Yes; it’s plain enough, so let’s go.”
“But you can’t, comrade.”
“Yes, I can.”