It was far longer than Pen anticipated, for the darkness grew deeper, the forest sounds fainter and fainter, and there were times when the watcher went out to listen and returned again and again to find Punch sleeping more restfully, while the very fact that the boy seemed so calm appeared to affect his comrade with a strange sense of drowsiness, out of which he kept on rousing himself, muttering the while with annoyance, “I can’t have her come and find me asleep. It’s so stupid. She must be here soon.”
And after a trot up and down in the direction in which he had seen the girl pass, and back, he felt better.
“Sleep is queer,” he said to himself. “I felt a few minutes ago as if I couldn’t possibly keep awake.”
He softly touched Punch’s temples again, to find them now quite cool, and seating himself at the foot of the rough pallet he began to think hopefully of the future, and then with his back propped against the rough woodwork he stared wonderingly at the glowing orange disc of the sun, which was peering over the mountains and sending its level rays right through the open doorway of the hut.
Pen gazed at the soft, warm glow wonderingly, for everything seemed strange and incomprehensible.
There was the sun, and here was he lying back with his shoulders against the woodwork of the rough bed. But what did it all mean?
Then came the self-evolved answer, “Why, I have been asleep!”
Springing from the bed, he just glanced at his softly breathing companion as he ran out to look once more in the direction taken by the girl.
Then he stepped back again in the hope that she might have returned during the night and brought some bread; but all was still, and not a sign of anybody having been there.
Pen’s heart sank.