Chapter Twenty Five.
In the Night.
Nearer and nearer came the sound of marching, and it was all Punch could do to keep from rising to his knees and changing his position; but he mastered himself into a state of content by sending and receiving signals with his companion, each giving and taking a long, firm pressure, as at last the invisible body of approaching men reached the cottage door, and an authoritative voice uttered the sharp command, “Halte!”
Punch’s eye was now glued to the hole. He felt that if anybody looked up he would be sure to see it glittering in the lamplight; but the fascination to learn what was to be their fate was too strong to be resisted.
From his coign of vantage he could command the doorway and the legs of a small detachment of men, two of whom separated themselves and came full into sight, one being an officer, from the sword he bore, the other a rough, clumsy-looking peasant. And now for the first time the little priest appeared to be aware of the presence of strangers, for he slowly lowered the hand which held the book, raised his head, and seemed to be looking wonderingly at his visitors.
“Ah!” he said, as if just awakened from his studies; and he uttered some words, which sounded like a question, to the peasant, who made a rough obeisance and replied in apologetic tones, as if making an excuse for his presence there.
And now the officer uttered an impatient ejaculation and took another step into the room, saying in French, “I am sorry to interrupt your devotions, father; but this fellow tells me that he saw a couple of our English prisoners take refuge here.”
“I do not speak French, my son,” replied the old man calmly.
“Bah! I forgot,” ejaculated the officer; and then in a halting way he stumbled through the same sentence in a very bad translation as he rendered it into Spanish.