“I can’t, Punch. I can’t bear it.”
“I’m afraid you will have to, comrade—both on us—like Englishmen. But if we are to be shot for furriners I should like it to have been as soldiers, and by soldiers who know how to use their guns, and not by Spanish what-do-you-call-’ems—robbers and thieves—with little short blunderbusters.”
There was a few moments’ pause, during which hurried talking went on. Then a couple more fierce-looking Spaniards came in, saluted the priest, lit cigarettes at the lamp, and propped the short carbines they carried against the cottage-wall before joining in the conversation.
“What are they doing now, Punch?”
“Talking about shooting or something,” whispered the boy, “and that old ruffian’s laughing and pointing up at the ceiling to tell them he has got us safe. Oh, murder in Irish!” continued the boy. “He’s took up the lamp and he’s showing them the way. Here, Private Gray, try and pull yourself together and let’s make a fight for it, if we only have a shot apiece. They are coming up to fetch us now.”
Pen stretched out his hand in the dim loft to seize his musket, but he could not reach it, while in his excitement the boy did not notice his comrade’s helplessness, but seized his own weapon and stood up ready as the light and shadows danced in the gloomy loft, and prepared to give the armed strangers a warm reception.
And now the door at the foot of the ladder creaked and the light of the lamp struck up as the old man began to ascend the few steps till he could reach up, thrusting the lamp he carried before him, and placing it upon the floor, pushing it farther along towards the two boys; and then, drawing himself up, he lifted the light and held it so that those who followed him could see their way.
At that moment he caught sight of Punch’s attitude, and a smile broke out across his face.
“No, no!” he said eagerly. “Amigos! Contrabandistas.”