“Lookye here,” he whispered; “they will be ready to march over us directly. How are we going to tell them to halt?”
“Be silent. Perhaps they will have the sense to see that they ought to stop. Most likely there are some amongst them who understand French.”
Pen proved to be right in his surmise, for directly after a portion of the following party were close to them, and the foremost asked a question in Spanish. “Halte!” said Pen sharply, and at a venture; but it proved sufficient. And as he stood in the dim, shadowy, overhung path the word was passed along to the rear, and the dull sound of footsteps died out. “Bravo!” whispered Punch. “They are beginning to understand English after all. I say, ain’t that our chaps coming back?”
Pen heard nothing for a few moments. Then there was the faint crack of a twig breaking beneath some one’s feet, and the smuggler who was acting as their guide rejoined them.
“Los Francéses,” said the man, in a whisper; and he dropped the carbine he carried with its butt upon the stony earth, rested his hands upon the muzzle, and stood in silence gazing right away, and evidently listening and keenly on the alert, for he turned sharply upon Punch, who could not keep his tongue quiet.
“Oh, bother! All right,” growled the boy. “Here, comrade,” he whispered to Pen; “aren’t these ’ere cork-trees?”
“Perhaps. I’m not sure,” whispered his companion impatiently. “Why do you ask? What does it matter now?”
“Lots. Just you cut one of them. Cut a good big bung off and stuff it into my mouth; for I can’t help it, I feel as if I must talk.”
“Urrrrrrr!” growled the guide; and then, “Hist! hist!” for there was a whispering behind, and directly after the contrabandista captain joined them, to ask a low question in Spanish.
“The enemy are in front. They are before us,” said the smuggler in French to Pen.