Which will
you do?"
While she still hesitated, a voice from the subterranean regions at
the end of the shop fell upon her ear. Her heart gave a great jump at
the sound--it was Benito's. "Joe! Joe!" he was crying, in feeble
accents.
"It's take it or leave it. There are plenty of your sort about. Well,
what do you say?"
"I accept," said Mariquita, eagerly. "When shall I begin work?"
"Now, this minute. Come down and help me to get a batch of bread out
of the oven."
They passed down into the cellar by a short ladder, and Mariquita
found herself in a dimly-lighted cavernous den, hot and stifling, at
one end of which glowed the grate below the oven.
"Joe! Joe!" repeated Benito's voice, and Mariquita, with difficulty,
made out his figure lying on a heap of rags in a corner of the cellar.
"Well?" answered Joe, roughly, as soon as he had pointed out the
bread-trays and desired her to get them in order. "What's wrong with
you now? You are always groaning and calling out."
"Water!" asked Benito, piteously. "This place is like a furnace. I am
suffering torments from raging thirst and this cruel wound. Accursed
Englishman! may I live to repay him!"
"You will have to hurry and get well, or the Russians will save you
the trouble," remarked Joe.
"That is my only consolation.
Pages:
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327