“Ah!” said the old man, rising slowly; and Punch saw him look as if wonderingly at the rough peasant, who seemed to shrink back, half-startled, from the priest’s stern gaze.
There was a few moments’ silence, during which the two fugitives clutched each other’s hands so tightly that Punch’s nerves literally quivered as he listened for the sharp cracking of the boards, which he seemed to know must betray them to their pursuers.
But no sound came; and, as the perspiration stood out in big drops upon his face in the close heat of the little loft, both he and his companion could feel the horrible tickling sensation of the beads joining together and trickling down their necks.
Then after what seemed to be quite an interval, the old man’s voice arose in deep, stern tones, as he exclaimed, “What lie is this, my son, that you have uttered to these strangers?”
“I—I, father—” faltered the man, shrinking back a step and dropping the soft cap he was turning in his hands upon the beaten floor, and then stooping hastily to snatch it up again—“I—father—I—”
“I say, what lie is this you have told these strangers for the sake of gaining a few accursed pieces of silver? Go, before I— Ah!” For there was a quick movement on the part of the peasant, and he dashed out of the door.
“Halte!” yelled the French officer, following the peasant outside; and then, giving a sharp command, the scattered reports of some half-dozen muskets rang out on the night-air, the two fugitives starting as at each shot the flash of the musket lit up the loft where they lay. Then a short question or two, and their replies came through the open doorway, and it became evident to the listeners that the peasant had escaped.
“Bah!” ejaculated the officer, as Punch saw him stride through the doorway into the room again. “Look here, father,” he said in his bad Spanish, “I paid this scoundrel to guide me to the place where he said two Englishmen were in hiding; but he did not tell me it was with his priest. As he has brought us here I must search.”
“For the escaped prisoners?” the old man said, drawing himself up with dignity. “I do not speak your language, sir, but I think that is what you mean. Can you repeat your words in Latin? You might make your wishes more plain.”
“Latin? No, I have forgotten all that,” said the officer impatiently in more clumsy Spanish than before. “The English prisoners—my men must search,” And the fugitives, unable though they were to comprehend the words, naturally grasped their meaning and held their breath till they felt they must draw it again with a sound that would betray their presence.