“I was more than half, Punch. But it was the same with them; they looked startled enough when we came upon them suddenly with our muskets and woke them out of sleep.”
“Yes; they thought we was Frenchies till you showed them we was friends.”
It was a rough but savoury meal, and wonderfully picturesque too, for the fire burned up briskly, shedding a bright light upon their hosts in their rough goatskin clothes, as they sat looking on as if pleased and amused at Punch’s voracity, while now the herd of goats that had scampered away into the darkness recovered from their panic and came slowly back one by one, to form a circle round the fire, where they stood, long-horned, shaggy, and full-bearded, looking in the half-light like so many satyrs of the classic times, blinking their eyes and watching the little feast as if awaiting their time to be invited to join in.
“I say,” said Pen suddenly, “that was very thoughtful and right of you, Punch, to cover over the muskets; but you had better put your jacket on again. These puffs of air that come down from the mountains blow very cold; when the fire flames up it seems to burn one cheek, while the wind blows on the other and feels quite icy. There’s no chance of any damp making the locks rusty. Put on your jacket, lad; put on your jacket.”
“That I don’t,” said the boy, in a half-whisper. “Who thought anything about dew or damp?”
“Why, you did.”
“Not likely, with the guns so close to the fire. Did you think I meant that?”
“Why, of course.”
“Nonsense! I didn’t want these Spaniels to take notice of them.”
“I don’t understand you, Punch.”