"You tell him, Phil."

John Bedford looked in wonder at the three, one by one. Their silence impressed him as ominous, and he, too, was silent.

"The Mexicans have not retaken Texas, John," said Philip Bedford. "They will never retake Texas. They could never beat the Texans alone, and the Texans are not alone. There has been war between the United States and Mexico for a year. An American army under General Taylor beat the Mexican army at Palo Alto, at Resaca de la Palma, and took the city of Monterey by storm. Then most of his army were drawn off to help General Scott, who is invading Mexico by the way of Vera Cruz. General Taylor, with the rest of his force, between four and five thousand men, nearly all volunteers, many from our own state, John, and some you knew, advanced to Saltillo and beyond. He was attacked in the Pa.s.s of Angostura by Santa Anna, the President of Mexico, with more than twenty thousand men, the best of the Mexican troops, but, John, he won the victory over odds of five to one. It was long and hard and desperate, and a half dozen times we were within an inch of losing the battle, but we won at last, John! We won at last! And we know, because we three were there, all through it! all day long! Bill Breakstone, Hans Arenberg, and I!"

John looked at them and gasped. It had all been poured upon him so suddenly that he was overpowered.

"War between Mexico and the United States!" he exclaimed, "and we've been winning battle after battle! Why, they never said a word to me about it in the castle. De Armijo made me think that the Mexicans had retaken Texas."

"I forgot to tell you," said Bill Breakstone to the others, "that de Armijo knocked John down, when he was chained, but John got back at him to-night when he plowed his face with a bullet. In fact, I think John has the better of the bargain:

"A blow-- He'll rue it.

A bullet-- That pays it.

"Now, I propose, as it's pretty near toward morning, and this is about the snuggest hotel I know of anywhere in the Sierras, that John and I, who have been through a lot, go to sleep. Phil, you and Arenberg can toss coins, or decide in any other way you choose, who's to keep watch.

There's your bed, John; it's been waiting for you quite awhile."

He pointed to the skin couch that had never been occupied, and John lay down upon it. Complete relaxation of both mind and body had now come.

The room was warm and dry, his friends were near, and, in two minutes, he was buried in a deep and dreamless sleep. Phil rose and looked at him. His neck and wrists were thin, his face was wasted wofully.

Arenberg watched Philip with sympathy.

"Much harm has been done to him," he said, "but he will overcome it all in a month. You have fared wonderfully well in your quest, Herr Philip, and I take it as an omen that we shall do as well in mine. I come next, you know, Philip."

"It is true," said Phil, with a great stirring of the heart. "n.o.body ever had such help as you and Breakstone have given to me, and now I will help you, and John, too, as soon as he is strong enough, to our utmost power in whatever task you may have."

He held out his hand, and Arenberg took it in a powerful grasp.

"Now you sleep! I will watch," he said. "No, I will not let you stay awake, because I wish to do so instead. I intend to think much with myself."

Phil saw that the German was in earnest, and he took his place on his own couch. Soon he was asleep. Arenberg sat on a piece of wood before the coals which were now almost dead. He clasped his knees in his hands, and his rifle, which was between his knees, projected above his shoulder. So long as the light from the coals endured he cast a black and almost shapeless shadow on the wall. But the last coal went out by and by, and he sat there in the darkness, never stirring. He watched automatically through the faculty of hearing, but his thoughts were not on that little cabin nor any of its occupants. In the darkness his chest heaved, and a big tear from either eye rolled down his cheek. But he did not move. After awhile he felt the dawn, and went to the single shuttered window, which he opened slightly.

The rain and wind had ceased, but drops of water, turned into a myriad of glittering beads by the rising sun, hung from trees and bushes. The air of the mountains at that early hour was crisp and cold, and it felt good to Arenberg's face. He glanced at his three comrades. They were still absorbed by that absolute sleep which is the mortal Nirvana. Then Arenberg took from the inside of his coat something small, which he looked at for a long time. Again a big tear from either eye rolled down his cheek and fell on the floor. But the face of Hans Arenberg, in that brilliant Mexican sun which now shone straight upon it, was curiously transformed. For the first time in many days it was illumined with hope.

"It's my turn now! It's my turn!" he murmured. "We have succeeded in everything so far, and we will succeed again. I feel it. All the omens are good."

There is something mystic in the German nature, a feeling derived, perhaps, from the unknown ages pa.s.sed by the Teutonic tribes in the dark forests of the Baltic. They were as prolific as the Greeks in seers and priestesses, and some of this feeling was in Arenberg now, as he gazed at the dripping forest and the blazing sun rising over a peak ten thousand feet high. Below him he knew lay the Castle of Montevideo, but before him the mountains were unrolled, peak after peak, and ridge after ridge. To his German mind came visions of Valhalla and the great G.o.ds that were.

Hans Arenberg yet felt the great uplift of the spirit. The premonition of success, of a triumphant end to his quest was very strong within him.

He kissed the little package and replaced it within the inside of his waistcoat. Then he looked again at his comrades. They were still in Valhalla.

The German was very kindly and very pitiful. He had noticed the wasted frame of John Bedford, and he knew how much he needed sleep. Bill Breakstone, too, had gone through a tremendous ordeal, and Phil Bedford was but a boy, who had waited, tense and strained, all through the night.

"Let them sleep," murmured Hans Arenberg. "I will still watch."

He left the window open a little so that the fresh air might come in, and resumed his seat. The other three slept on soundly. An hour or two later he opened the door softly and went out into the cove, which he scouted carefully. It was as silent and desolate as if man had never been there. At forty yards the cabin itself was invisible in the foliage and against the dark, volcanic cliff. The German was quite sure that no one would come, but, for precaution, he examined every bush and projection of rock. Then he climbed one of the cliffs, and, sheltering himself well, looked down the valley. There, far below, was the huge, honey-colored Castle of Montevideo, seeming singularly vivid and near in the intense sunlight. Arenberg thought that he could make out a figure or two on its walls, but he was not sure. He also examined the slopes, but he could not detect human life. Then he returned to the cabin and found his comrades still sound asleep. Arenberg smiled.

"Let them sleep on," he murmured, "until the sleep that is in them is exhausted." He opened the door a little in order that he might let in more fresh air, and also because it gave him a complete view down the valley. No one could approach the cabin without being seen by Hans Arenberg, who had uncommonly good eyes.

The German sat there all the morning and listened to the hours as they ticked themselves away. He listened literally, and he heard the ticking literally, because he carried a large silver watch in his waistcoat pocket, and in the dead silence, he could hear it very well. His comrades slept on, each on his couch. Once Arenberg rose and looked at John Bedford.

"A fine young man," he murmured. "He iss worthy of his brother."

It was fully an hour after noon when Bill Breakstone began to squirm about on his couch and yawn mightily.

Then he opened his eyes, sat up, and stared at Hans Arenberg, who sat placidly by the fireplace, looking down the valley.

"Hans!" said Bill Breakstone.

Arenberg looked at him and smiled.

"I'm thinking," said Bill Breakstone, "that we've overslept ourselves a bit. I guess from the looks of the light there at the door that the sun must be up at least an hour."

"It has been up seven hours," replied Arenberg.

"Then we're that much ahead," said Bill Breakstone calmly, "and at least one of those two has needed it badly."

He looked at the sleeping brothers.

"It iss so," said Arenberg. "The captive who iss a captive no longer iss, I take it, a good youth, like his brother."

"He surely is," said Breakstone with emphasis, "and I have given him the honor of knighthood, along with Phil. Besides, he's as smart as a steel trap. He read the meaning of the thread that we sent him, and he did everything else exactly as we wished. It's all the more wonderful because so long a time in prison is apt to make one dull and stupid in some ways. Anything happen on your long watch, Hans?"

"Nothing. I made a scout all the way up the cove. I am sure there iss no human being except ourselves on this mountain."

"I move that we boil a little coffee and fry a little venison for the youngsters. John, in particular, needs it, because he's got to be built up. I don't think there's any danger."

"Then we'll light the fire and let the cooking wake them up."

John Bedford, in a dream, as it were, felt a delicious aroma in his nostrils. It was singularly pleasant to a poor prisoner in a bleak stone cell in the Castle of Montevideo, and he did not wish to destroy the illusion. In the early morning the air that came through the loophole was very cold, and there was no reason why he should rise.

Perhaps he was really dreaming, and, since it was such a pleasant dream, he would let it run on. But that odor in his nostrils grew more and more powerful, and it was not like the odor of the frijoles and tortillas that Diego brought him. He also heard, or thought he heard, the voices of men, and not one of them bore any resemblance to the harsh Mexican tones of Diego. Then he remembered it all, and the truth came in such a sudden flood of delight that he sat up abruptly and looked around that wonderful cabin, the finest cabin in the world.

Arenberg had just brought the coffee to a boiling point, the strips of venison, under the deft handling of Bill Breakstone, were just becoming crisp. Phil was coming in with a canteen of fresh water, and at the wide-open door, through which he might pa.s.s as he pleased, the sunshine was entering like a golden shower.

"Morning, Sir John the Sleeper," said Bill Breakstone cheerily. "It's well along in the afternoon, but, if you were to ask me, I'd tell you that you hadn't slept a minute too long. Phil here has been up only five minutes before you, but, by running for the water, he's trying to make you believe that he's an early riser."

John said not a word, but rose to his feet--they had all lain down fully dressed--and looked at the open door with a gaze so fixed and concentrated that all stared curiously at him. Something was working in John's mind, something deep and vital. He walked in a perfectly straight line across the cabin floor until he came within a foot of the open door. Then he stood there for a little s.p.a.ce, gazing out.

The curiosity of the others deepened. What was pa.s.sing in his mind?

But John said never a word. Instead, he stepped out in the sunshine and crisp air, went two or three yards, and then came back again into the cabin. But he did not stay there. He went out once, came back once more, and repeated the round trip four more times. All the while he said never a word, and, at each successive trip, the look of pleasure on his face grew. At the sixth that look was complete, and he turned to the three who were staring at him open-eyed and open-mouthed.

"I'm not crazy, as you think, not the least bit of it," he said. "It's been three years since I could go out of a door and come in at it as I pleased. I wanted to prove to myself that it was no dream, and to enjoy it at the same time. I'll never have such an acute joy again in this world, I suppose. As you haven't been where I've been, you'll never know what it is to go in and come out when you like."

"We don't know, but we can guess," said Phil.

A little lump came into the throat of Bill Breakstone.

"I was never cooped up like that," he said, "but if I were, I guess I couldn't stand it. But the coffee and the venison are ready, and while we set to and keep at it, Phil, you tell your brother how it all came about."