“No,” said Pen, “I feel as wakeful as you are.”
“I say, look at that now! Of course we can’t go to sleep. Well, we might have a walk up and down outside in the dark. No one could see us, and it would make us sleepy again.”
“Very well; only we mustn’t go out of sight of the door, in case the captain should come.”
“Yah! He won’t come,” grumbled Punch; and he descended to the lower room, scraped the faintly glowing wood-ashes together, and then went to the door, peered out, and listened, and afterwards, followed by his comrade, he began to tramp up and down the shelf-like ledge upon which the priest’s cottage was built.
It was very dark, for the sky was so overcast that not a star was visible; and, as if feeling depressed by the silence, neither was disposed for talk, and the consequence was that at the end of about half an hour Pen caught his companion by the arm and stopped short. His reason was plain enough, for Punch uttered a faint “Hist!” and led the way to the cottage door, where they both stopped and listened to a sound which had grown plainer—that of steps coming swiftly towards them. They hardly had time to softly close the door and climb up to the loft before the door was thrown open, there was a quick step below, and a soft whistle which they well knew now was uttered at the foot of the steps.
Pen replied in the way he had learned, and directly after came the question, “Where’s the father?”
“He went out an hour ago,” Pen replied.
“Which way?”
“By the upper pass,” replied Pen.
There was a sharp ejaculation, expressive of impatience, the steps crossed the room again, the door creaked as it was shut to, and then the steps died away.