“Why, it’s a night attack,” thought Pen excitedly, and unconsciously he began to breathe hard as he listened intently, while he fully grasped the fact that there were men of the French brigade dotted about in all directions.
“And there was I thinking that we were quite alone!” he said to himself.
Then by degrees his short experience of a few months of the British occupation on the borders of Portugal and Spain taught him that he had been listening to a night alarm, for from out of the darkness came the low buzz of voices, another bugle was sounded, distant orders rang out, and then by degrees the low murmur of voices died away, and once more all was still.
“I was in hopes,” thought Gray, “that our fellows were making a night attack, giving the enemy a surprise. Why, there must be hundreds within reach. That puts an end to my going hunting about for help as soon as the day breaks, unless I mean us to be taken prisoners. Why, if I moved from here I should be seen.—Asleep, Punch?” he said softly.
There was no reply, and the speaker shuddered as he stretched out his hand to feel for his companion’s forehead; but at the first touch there was an impatient movement, and a feeling of relief shot through the lad’s breast, for imagination had been busy, and was ready to suggest that something horrible might have happened in the night.
“Oh, I do wish I wasn’t such a coward,” he muttered. “He’s all right, only a bit feverish. What shall I do? Try and go to sleep till morning? What’s the good of talking? I am sure I couldn’t, even if I did try.”
Then the weary hours slowly crept along, the watcher trying hard to settle in his own mind which was the east, but failing dismally, for the windings of the valley had been such that he could only guess at the direction where the dawn might appear.
There were no more of the dismal bowlings of the wolves, though, the scattered firing having effectually driven them away; but there were moments when it seemed to the young watcher that the night was being indefinitely prolonged, and he sighed again and again as he strained his eyes to pierce the darkness, and went on trying to form some plan as to his next movement.
“I wonder how long we could lie in hiding here,” he said to himself, “without food. Poor Punch in his state wouldn’t miss his ration; but by-and-by, if the French don’t find us, this bitter cold will have passed away, and we shall be lying here in the scorching sunshine—for it can be hot in these stuffy valleys—and the poor boy will be raving for water—yes, water. Who was that chap who was tortured by having it close to him and not being able to reach it? Tantalus, of course! I am forgetting all my classics. Well, soldiers don’t want cock-and-bull stories out of Lempriere. I wonder, though, whether I could crawl down among the bushes to the edge of the torrent and fill our water-bottles, and get back up here again without being seen. But perhaps, when the day comes, and if they don’t see us, the French will move off, and then I need only wait patiently and try and find some cottage.—Yes, what is it?”
He raised himself upon his arm again, for Punch had begun to mutter; but there was no reply.