The next minute the smuggler signed to them to join his follower who was waiting by the door, while he stepped to the King, spoke to him firmly for a few minutes, and then led the way out into the darkness, with the two English lads, who were conscious that they were being followed by the royal fugitive and his men, out along the shelf in the direction of the forest-path, which they had just gained when a distant shot rang out, to be repeated by the echoes and followed by another and another, ample indication that there was danger very near at hand.
The captain said a few words to his follower, and then turned to Pen.
“Keep with this man,” he said, “when I am not here. I must go back and see what is going on.”
The lads heard his steps for a minute amongst the crackling husks of the past year’s chestnuts and parched twigs. Then they were merged with those of the party following.
“I say,” whispered Punch, “how’s your leg?”
“I had almost forgotten it,” replied Pen in a whisper.
“That’s good, comrade. But, I say, all that set a fellow thinking.”
“Yes; don’t talk about it,” replied Pen.
“All right. But I say, isn’t this lovely—on the march again with a loaded gun over your shoulder? If I had got my bugle back, and one’s officer alongside, I should be just happy. Think we shall have a chance of a shot or two?”
The smuggler, who was leading the way, stopped short and turned upon Punch with a deep, low growl.