“Well, my friend,” said the smuggler, turning to Punch, “have you made a good meal?”
Punch looked uncomfortable, gave his head a scratch, and frowned.
“Tell him, comrade, I can’t jabber French,” he said.
“He asks if you have made a good breakfast, Punch.”
“Tell him it’s splendid.”
The wounded lad interpreted between them; while the smuggler now addressed himself to his patient.
“And you?” he said. “I suppose I may tell the father that his breakfast was capital, and that you can make yourself happy here till you get better?”
“Yes; and tell him, please, that our only regret is that we cannot show our gratitude more.”
“Tut, tut! There is no need. The father has helped you because you are brave young Englishmen who are over here risking your lives for our countrymen in trying to drive out the French invaders who have come down like a swarm of locusts upon our land. You understand very well, I suppose,”—continued the Spaniard, rolling up a cigarette and offering it to Pen, who took it and waited while the smuggler rolled up another for Punch and again another for himself before turning and taking a smouldering brand of wood from the priest, who had fetched it from the hearth below—“you understand very well why the French are here?”
“Not very well,” said Pen. “I am an English soldier here with my people to fight against the French, who have placed a French king in your country.”