The lad stopped and listened eagerly, for there was a distant shout that suggested the hailing of a French soldier who had lost his way in the forest. Then it was repeated, “Ahoy-y-hoy-hoy-y-y!” and answered from far away, and it brought up a suggestion of watchful enemies searching for others in the darkened woods.
Then came another shout, and an ejaculation of impatience from the listener.
“I ought to have known it was an owl. Hallo! What’s that? Has she come back by some other way?”
For the sound of a voice came to him from inside the rough hut, making him hurry over the short distance that separated him from the door, where he stood for a moment or two listening, and he heard distinctly, “Not me! I mean to make a big fight for it out of spite. Shoot me down—a boy—for obeying orders! Cowards! How would they like it themselves?”
“Why, Punch, lad,” said Pen, stepping to the bedside and leaning over his comrade, “what’s the matter? Talking in your sleep?”
There was no reply, but the muttering voice ceased, and Pen laid his hand upon the boy’s forehead, as he said to himself, “Poor fellow! A good mess of bread-and-milk would save his life. I wonder how long she will be!”