“Eh?” replied Punch. “It’s no good, comrade; I can’t understand a word.”
The man growled again, and laid his hand sharply upon the boy’s lips.
“Here, don’t do that!” cried Punch. “How do I know when you washed that last?”
“Be quiet, Punch. The man means we may be nearing the enemy.”
“Why don’t he say so, then?” grumbled Punch; and their guide grunted as if satisfied with the effect of Pen’s words, and led on again in and out a rugged, winding path, sometimes ascending, sometimes descending, but never at fault in spite of the darkness.
Sometimes he stopped short to listen as if to find out how near the King’s party were behind, and when satisfied he led on again, giving the two lads a friendly tap or two upon the shoulder after finding that any attempt at other communication was in vain.
At last after what must have been about a couple of hours’ tramp along the extremely rugged path, made profoundly dark by the overhanging low, gnarled trees, he stopped short again and laid his hand in turn upon the lips of the boys, and then touched Pen’s musket, which he made him ground, took hold of his hands in turn and laid them on the muzzle, and then stood still.
“What’s he up to now?” whispered Punch, with his lips close to his comrade’s ear.
“I think he means we are to halt and keep guard.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” muttered Punch; and he stood fast, while the smuggler patted him on the shoulder and went off quickly, leaving the boys alone, with Punch muttering and fuming in his intense desire to speak. But he mastered himself and stood firm, listening as the steps of the party behind came nearer and nearer till they were close at hand. This was too much for Punch.