first acquaintance with a skin of rich Spanish wine.

"There, my friend," said the smuggler, taking up the half-filled cup,
"they say this is bad for fever, but I never knew it do harm to a man
whose lifeblood had been drained. Drink: it will put some spirit in you
before I perhaps put you to a good deal of pain." And the next moment
he was holding the wine-cup to the wounded lad's lips.

"There," said the smuggler at last, as he finished his self-imposed
task, "I think you have borne it bravely."

"Oh, nonsense," said Pen quietly. "Surely a soldier should be able to
bear a little pain."

"I suppose so," said his new surgeon; "but I am afraid that some of my
countrymen would have shouted aloud at what I have done to you. I know
some of my men have when I have tied them up after they have been
unlucky enough to get one of the French Guards' bullets in them. There
now, the best thing you can do is to go to sleep;" and, having
improvised a pillow for him with one of his follower's cloaks, the
Spaniard descended to the priest's room, where several of his men were
assembled; and after the priest had seen that Punch had been supplied
from the basket, he followed his friend to where the men were gathered,
leaving the boys in the semi-darkness, for he took down the lamp, whose
rays once more shone up through the knot-hole and between the
ill-fitting boards.

"Feel better, comrade?" asked Punch. But there was no reply. "I say,
you aren't gone to sleep already, are you?"

Still no answer, and, creeping closer, Punch passed his hand gently over
Pen's arm and touched his face; but this evoked no movement, only the
drawing and expiration of a deep breath which came warmly to the boy's
hand as he whispered:

"Well, he must be better or he wouldn't have gone to sleep like that.
Don't think I could. And, my word, that chap did serve him out!"

The low sound of voices from below now attracted the boy's attention;
and, turning to the knot-hole, he looked down into the priest's room to
see that it was nearly full of the dark, fierce-looking Spaniards, who
were listening to the old padre, whose face shone with animation, lit up
as it was by the lamp, while he talked earnestly to those who bent
forward to listen to his words.

It was a picturesque scene, for the moon was now shining brightly, its
rays striking in through the open door and throwing up the figures of
several of the _contrabandistas_ for whom there was no ro