Then, with a slight laugh, the old priest laid his book upon the table and took up the smoky oil-lamp. As he did so, Punch could see his face plainly, for it was lit up by the lamp, and the boy could perceive the mocking mirth in his eyes as he raised it above his head with his left hand, and walked slowly towards the door which covered the ladder-like staircase; and then as Punch felt that all was over, the old man slowly passed the light across and moved to the rough fireplace, and so on all round the room, before raising the light above his head once more, and with a comprehensive movement waving his right hand slowly round the place as if to say, “You see there are no prisoners here.”
“Bah!” ejaculated the French officer, and, turning angrily, he marched out through the open doorway.
Punch was beginning to breathe again, but to his horror the officer marched back into the room, for he had recollected himself. He was the French gentleman still.
“Pardon, mon père!” he said sharply, keeping now to his own tongue. “Bon soir!”
Then, marching out again, he gave a short command, and, from where Punch’s eye was still glued to the opening, he saw the soldiers turn rightabout face, disappear through the open doorway, and then, beat, beat, beat, the sound of marching began again, this time to die slowly away, and he looked and listened till the pressure of Pen’s hand upon his arm grew almost painful. But he did not wince, till a movement on the part of the priest drew his attention to what was passing beneath; and he saw him set down the lamp and cross to the door, which he closed and barred, and then dropped upon his knees, as his head sank down upon his clasped-together hands.
Chapter Twenty Six.
Contrabandistas.
“Think they have gone, comrade?” whispered Punch, after they had listened for some minutes, and the tramp of the French soldiers had quite died away.