CHAPTER XVIITHE THREAD, THE KEY, AND THE DAGGERWhen John Bedford rose the next morning he was several years younger. He held himself erect, as became his youth, a little color had crept into the pallid face, and his heart was still full of hope. He had seen the light that Catarina had promised. Surely the world was making a great change for him, and he reasoned again that, his present state being so low, any possible change must be for the better.But the day passed and nothing happened. Diego, the slouching soldier, brought him his food, and, bearing in mind the vague words of Catarina, he noticed it carefully while he ate. There was nothing unusual. It was the same at his supper. The rosy cloud in which his hopes swam faded somewhat, but he was still hopeful. No light had been promised for the second night, but he watched for long hours, nevertheless, and he could not restrain a sense of disappointment when he turned away.A second day passed without event, and a third, and then a fourth. John Bedford was overcome by a terrible depression. Catarina was old and foolish, or perhaps she, too, had shown at last the cunning and trickery that he began to ascribe to all these people. He would stay in that cell all his life, fairly buried alive. A fierce, unreasoning anger took hold of him. He would have flared out at stolid Diego who brought the food, but he did not want those heavy chains put back on his ankles. His head was now healed enough for the removal of the bandage, but a red streak would remain for some time under the hair. Doubtless the hair had saved him from a fracture of the skull. Every time he put his hand to the wound, which was often, his anger against de Armijo rose. It was that cold, silent anger which is the most terrible and lasting of all.Although he was back in the depths, John felt that the brief spell of hope had been of help to him. His wound had healed more rapidly, and he was sure that he was physically stronger. Yet the black depression remained. It was even painful for him to look through the slit at his piece of the slope, which he sometimes called his mountain garden. He avoided it, as a place of hope that had failed. On the sixth day, Diego brought him his dinner a little after the dinner hour. He was sitting on the edge of his cot and he bit into a tamale. His teeth encountered something tough and fibrous, and he was about to throw it down in disgust. Then the words of Catarina, those words which he had begun to despise, came suddenly back to him. He put the tamale down and began to eat a tortilla, keeping his eye on Diego, who slouched by the wall in the attitude of a Mexican of the lower classes, that lazy, dreaming attitude that they can maintain, for hours.Presently Diego glanced at the loophole, and in an instant John whipped the tamale off the plate and thrust it under the cover of the cot. Then he went on calmly with his eating, and drank the usual amount of bad coffee. Diego, who had noticed nothing, took the empty tray and went out, carefully locking the heavy door behind him. Then John Bedford did something that showed his wonderful power of self-restraint. He did not rush to the bed, eager to read what the tamale might contain, but strolled to the loophole and looked out for at least a quarter of an hour. He did not wish any trick to be played upon him by a sudden return of Diego. Yet he was quivering in every nerve with impatience.When he felt that he was safe, he returned to the cot and took out the tamale. He carefully pulled it open, and in the middle he found the tough, fibrous substance that his teeth had met. He had half expected a paper of some kind, rolled closely together, that the writing might not perish, and what he really did find caused a disappointment so keen that he uttered a low cry of pain.He held it up in his hand. It was nothing more than a small package of thread, such as might have been put in a thimble. What could it mean? Of what possible use was a coil of fifty yards or so of thread that would not sustain the weight of half a pound? Was he to escape through the loophole on that as a rope? He looked at the loophole four inches broad, and then at the tiny thread, and it seemed to him such a pitiful joke that he sat down on the cot and laughed, not at the joke itself, but at any one who was foolish enough to perpetrate such a thing.He tested the thread. It was stronger than he had thought. Then he put it on his knee, took his head in his two hands, and sat staring at the thread for a long time, concentrating his thoughts and trying to evolve something from this riddle. It did mean something. No one would go to so much trouble to play a miserable joke on a helpless captive like himself. Catarina certainly would not do it, and she had given him the hint about the food, a hint that had come true. He kept his mind upon the one point so steadily and with so much force that his brain grew hot, and the wound, so nearly cured, began to ache again. Yet he kept at it, studying out every possible twist and turn of the riddle. At last he tested the thread again. It was undeniably strong, and then he looked at the loophole. Only one guess savored of possibility. He must hang the thread out of the loophole.He ate the rest of the tamale, hid the little package under his clothing, and at night, after supper, when the darkness was heavy, he threw the end of the thread through the long slot, a cast in which he did not succeed until about the twelfth attempt. Then he let the thread drop down. He knew about how many feet it was to the pavement below, and he let out enough with three or four yards for good count. Then he found that he had several yards left, which he tied around one of the iron bars at the edge of the loophole. It was a black thread, and, although some one might see it by daylight, there was not one chance in a thousand that any one would see it at night."Fishing," he said to himself, as he lay down on his cot, intending to sleep awhile, but to draw in the thread before the day came. It might be an idle guess, he could not even know that the thread was not clinging to the stone wall, instead of reaching the ground, but there was relief in action, in trying something. He fell asleep finally, and when he awoke he sprang in an instant to the floor. The fear came with his waking senses that he might have slept too long, and that it was broad daylight. The fear was false. It was still night, with only the moon shining at the loophole. But he judged that most of the night had passed, and his impatience told him that if anything was going to happen it had happened already. He went to the window. His thread was there, tied to the bar and, like a fisherman, he began to pull it in. He felt this simile himself. "Drawing in the line," he murmured. "Now I wonder if I have got a bite."Although he spoke lightly to himself, as if a calm man would soothe an excitable one, he felt the cold chill that runs down one's spine in moments of intense excitement. The moonlight was good, and he watched the black thread come in, inch by inch, while the hand that drew it trembled. But he soon saw that there was no weight at the other end, and down his heart went again into the blackest depths of black despair. Nevertheless, he continued to pull on the thread, and, as it emerged from the darkness into the far end of the loophole, he thought he saw something tied on the end, although he was not sure, it looked so small and dim. Here he paused and leaned against the wall, because he suddenly felt weak in both mind and body. These alternations between hope and despair were shattering to one who had been confined so long between four walls. The very strength of his desire for it might make him see something at the end of the thread when nothing was really there.He recovered himself and pulled in the thread, and now hope surged up in a full tide. Something was on the end of the thread. It was a little piece of paper not more than an inch long, rolled closely and tied tightly around the center with the thread. He drew up his stool and sat down on it by the loophole, where the moonlight fell. Then he carefully picked loose the knot and unrolled the paper. The light was good enough, and he read these amazing words:"Don't give up hope.Your brother is here.He received your letter.Put out the threadAgain to-morrow night.Read and destroy this."John leaned against the wall. His surprise and joy were so great that he was overpowered. He realized now that his hope had merely been a forlorn one, an effort of the will against spontaneous despair. And yet the miracle had been wrought. His letter, in some mysterious manner, had got through to Phil, and Phil had come. He must have friends, too, because the letter had not been written by Phil. It was in a strange handwriting. But this could be no joke of fate. It was too powerful, too convincing. Everything fitted too well together. It must have started somehow with Catarina, because all her presages had come true. She was the cook, she had put the thread in the tamale. How had the others reached her?But it was true. His letter had gone through, and the brave young boy whom he had left behind had come. He was somewhere about the Castle of Montevideo, and since such wonders had been achieved already, others could be done. From that moment John Bedford never despaired. After reading the letter many times, he tore it into minute fragments, and, lest they should be seen below and create suspicion, he ate them all and with a good appetite. Then he rolled up the thread, put it next to his body, and, for the first time in many nights, slept so soundly that he did not awake until Diego brought him his breakfast. Then he ate with a remarkable appetite, and after Diego had gone he began to walk up and down the cell with vigorous steps. He also did many other things which an observer, had one been possible, would have thought strange.John not only walked back and forth in his cell, but he went through as many exercises as his lack of gymnastic equipment permitted, and he continued his work at least an hour. He wished to get back his strength as much as possible for some great test that he felt sure was coming. If he were to escape with the help of Phil and unknown others, he must be strong and active. A weakling would have a poor chance, no matter how numerous his friends. He had maintained this form of exercise for a long period after his imprisonment, but lately he had become so much depressed that he had discontinued it.He felt so good that he chaffed Diego when he came back with his food at dinner and supper. Diego had long been a source of wonder to John. It was evident that he breathed and walked, because John had seen him do both, and he could speak, because at rare intervals John had heard him utter a word or two, but this power of speech seemed to be merely spasmodic. Now, while John bantered him, he was as stolid as any wooden image of Aztecs or Toltecs, although John spoke in Spanish, which, bad as it was, Diego could understand.He devoted the last hours of the afternoon to watching his distant garden. It had always been a pleasant landscape to him, but now it was friendlier than ever. That was a fine cactus, and it was a noble forest of dwarf pine or cedar--he wished he did know which. An hour after the dark had fully come he let the thread out again."This beats any other fishing I ever did," he murmured. "Well, it ought to. It's fishing for one's life."He was calmer than on the night before, and fell asleep earlier, but he had fixed his mind so resolutely on a waking time at least an hour before daylight that he awoke almost at the appointed minute. Then he tiptoed across the cold floor to the thread. Nobody could have heard him through those solid walls, but the desire for secrecy was so strong that he unconsciously tiptoed, nevertheless. He pulled the thread, and he felt at once that something heavy had been fastened to the other end. Then he pulled more slowly. The thread was very slender, and the weight seemed great for so slight a line. If it were to break, the tragedy would be genuinely terrible. He had heard of the sword suspended by a single hair, and it seemed to him that he was in some such case. But the thread was stronger than John realized--it had been chosen so on purpose--and it did not break.As the far end of the thread approached the loophole, he was conscious of a slight metallic ring against the stone wall. His interest grew in intensity. Phil and these unknown friends of his were sending him something more than a note. He pulled with exceeding slowness and care now, lest the metallic object hook against the far edge of the loophole. But it came in safely, slid across the stone, and reached his hand. It was a large iron key, with a small piece of paper tied around it. He tore off the paper, and read, in a handwriting the same as that on the first one:"This is the key to your cell, No. 37, but do not use it. Do not even put it in the lock until the fourth night from to-night. Then at midnight, as nearly as you can judge, unlock and go out. Let out the thread for the last time to-morrow night."John looked at the key and glanced longingly at the lock. He had no doubt that it would fit. But he obeyed orders and did not try it. Instead he thrust it into the old ragged mattress of his cot. He resumed his physical exercises the next day, giving an hour to them in the morning and another hour in the afternoon. They helped, but the breath of hope was doing more for him, both mind and body, than anything else. He felt so strong and active that he did not chaff Diego any more lest the Mexican, stolid and wooden though he was, might suspect something.He let out the thread according to orders, and, at the usual time, drew in a dagger, slender and very light, but long and keen as a razor. He read readily the purpose of this. There would be much danger when he opened the door to go out, and he must have a weapon. He ran his finger along the keen edge and saw that it would be truly formidable at close quarters. Then he hid it in his mattress with the key, wound up the thread, and put it in the same place. All had now come to pass as promised, and he felt that the remainder would depend greatly upon himself. So he settled down as best he could to three days and nights of almost intolerable waiting. Dull and heavy as the time was, and surely every second was a minute, many fears also came with it. They might take it into their heads to change that ragged old mattress of his, and then the knife, the thread, and the key would be found. He would dismiss such apprehensions with the power of reason, but the power of fear would bring them back again. Too much now depended upon his freedom from examination and search to allow of a calm mind.Yet time passed, no matter how slow, and he was helped greatly by his physical exercises, which gave him occupation, besides preparing him for an expected ordeal. Hope, too, was doing its great work. He could fairly feel the strength flowing back into his veins, and his nerves becoming tougher and more supple. Every night he looked out at the mountain slope and itemized his little garden there that he had never touched, shrub by shrub, stone by stone, not forgetting the great cactus. He told himself that he did not expect to see any light there again, because the unknown sender of messages had not spoken of another, but, deep down at the bottom of his heart, he was hoping to behold the torch once more, and he felt disappointment when it did not appear.He tried to imagine how Phil looked. He knew that he must be a great, strong boy, as big as a man. He knew that his spirit was bold and enterprising, yet he must have had uncommon skill and fortune to have penetrated so deep into Mexico, and to preserve a hiding-place so near to the great Castle of Montevideo. And the friends with him must be molded of the finest steel. Who were they? He recalled daring and adventurous spirits among his own comrades in the fatal expedition, but as he ran over every one in his mind he shook his head. It could not be.It is the truth that, during all this period, inflicting such a tremendous strain upon the captive, John never once tried the key in the door. It was the supreme test of his character, of his restraint, of his power of will, and he passed it successfully. The thread, the dagger, and the key lay together untouched in the bottom of the old mattress, and he waited in all the outward seeming of patience.The first night was very clear, on the second it rained for six or seven hours. The entire mountainside was veiled in sheets of water or vapor, and John saw nothing beyond his window but the black blur. The third night was clear, but when the morning of the fourth day dawned, John thought, from the clouds that were floating along the mountain slope, it would be rainy again. He hoped that the promise would come true. Darkness and rain favor an escaping prisoner.The last day was the most terrible of all. Now and then he found his heart pounding as if it would rack itself to pieces. It was difficult to go through with the exercises, and it was still more difficult to preserve calmness of manner in the presence of Diego. Yet he did both. Moreover, his natural steadiness seemed to come back to him as the hour drew near. His was one of those rare and fortunate natures which may be nervous and apprehensive some time before the event, but which become hard and firm when it is at hand. Now John found himself singularly calm. The eternity of waiting had passed, and he was strong and ready.Diego brought him his supper early, and then, through his loophole, he watched the twilight deepen into the night. And with the night came the rain that the morning and afternoon clouds had predicted. It was a cold rain, driven by a wind that shrieked down the valley, and drops of it, hurled like shot the full width of the slit, struck John in the face. But he liked the cool sharp touch, and he felt sure that the rain would continue all through the night. So much the better.John's clothing was old and ragged, and he wore a pair of heelless Mexican shoes. He had no hat or cap. But a prisoner of three lonely years seeking to escape was not likely to think of such things.He waited patiently through these last hours. He was compelled to judge for himself when midnight had come, but he believed that he had made a close calculation. Then he took a final look through the loophole. The wind, with a mighty groaning and shrieking, was still driving the rain down the slopes, and nothing was visible. Then, with a firm hand, he took from the bed the thread, the knife, and the key. It was not likely that he would have any further use for the thread, but for the sake of precaution he put it in his pocket. He also slipped the dagger into the back of his coat at the neck, after a southwestern fashion which allowed a man to draw and strike with a single motion.Then, key in hand, he boldly approached the door. Some throbbings of doubt appeared, but he sternly repressed them. Giving himself no time for hesitation, he put the key in the lock and turned his hand toward the right. The key, without any creaking or scraping, turned with it. His heart gave a great leap. He did not know until now that he had really doubted. His joy at the fact showed it. But the miracles were coming true, one after another.He turned the key around the proper distance, and he heard the heavy bolt slide back. He knew that he would have nothing to do now but pull on the door, yet he paused a few moments as one lingers over a great pleasure, in order to make it greater. He pulled, and the door came back with the same familiar slight creak that he had heard it make so often when Diego entered or left. With an involuntary gesture of one hand, he bade farewell to his cell and stepped into the long, dark corridor upon which the row of cells opened. But for the sake of precaution he locked the cell door again and put the key in his pocket.Then he drew the slender dagger, clutched it firmly in his right hand, and stepped softly back against the wall, which was in heavy shadow, no light entering it from the narrow barred window at either end. John's heart beat painfully, but he did not believe that the miracles which were being done in his behalf had yet ended. With his back still toward the wall, and his hand on the hilt of the dagger, he slipped soundlessly along for a few feet. His eyes, growing used to the darkness, made out the posts at the head of a stairway.Evidently this was the way he should go, and he paused again. Then his blood slowly chilled within him. A human figure was standing beside one of the posts. He saw it distinctly. It was the figure of a tall man in a long black serape, with a dark handkerchief tied around mouth and chin after the frequent Mexican fashion, and a great sombrero which nearly met the handkerchief. He could see nothing but the narrowest strip of dark face, and in the dusk the man rose to the size of a giant. He was truly a formidable figure to one who had been three years a captive, to one who was armed only with a slender knife.But the crisis in John Bedford's life was so great that he advanced straight toward the ominous presence in his path. The man said nothing, but John felt as he approached that the stranger was regarding him steadily. Moreover, he made no motion to draw a weapon. John saw now that one of his hands rested on the post at the stairhead, and the other hung straight down by his side. Surely this was not the attitude of a foe! Perhaps here was merely another in the chain of miracles that had begun to work in his behalf. He advanced a step or two nearer, and the stranger was yet motionless. Another step, and the man spoke in a sharp whisper:"You are John Bedford?""I am," replied John."I've been waiting for you. Come. But first take this."He drew a double-barreled pistol from his pocket and handed it to John, who did as he was told. The stranger then produced from under his capacious serape another serape and a Mexican hat, which John, acting under his instructions, also put on."Now," said the man, "follow me, and do what I do or what I tell you."It is the midnight hour,They wait us at the gate.May Heaven its favors pour,Then easy is our fate.You seem to be a brave fellow like your brother; then now is the time to show your courage, and remember, also, that I can do all the talking for both of us. Talking is my great specialty."It seemed to John that the stranger spoke in an odd manner, but he liked the sound of his voice, which was at once strong and kind. Why should he not like a man who had come through every imaginable danger to save him from a living death!"My brother?" whispered John in his eagerness. "Is he still near?""I told you I was to do all the talking," replied the man. "You just follow and step as lightly as you can."John obeyed, and, after a descent of a few steps, they came to one of the heavy wooden doors, twelve feet high, but the stranger unlocked it with a key taken from the folds of that invaluable Mexican garment, the serape."You didn't think I'd come on such a trip as this without making full preparations?" said the man with a slight humorous inflection. Then he added: "You're just a plain, common Mexican, some servant or other, employed about the castle, and you continue to slouch along behind me, who may be an officer for all one knows in this darkness. But first push with me on this door. Push hard and push slowly."The heavy door moved back a foot or two, but that was all the stranger wanted. He slipped through the opening, and John came after him. Then the man closed and locked the door again."A wise burglar leaves no trail behind him," he said, "and, although it is too dark for me to see you very well, I want to tell you, Sir John of the Cell, that your figure and walk remind me a great deal of your brother, Sir Philip of the Mountain, the River, and the Plain, as gallant a lad as one may meet in many a long day."A question, a half dozen of them leaped to John's lips, but, remembering his orders, he checked them all there."Ah, I see," said the stranger. "That would certainly tempt any man to ask questions, but, remembering what I told you, you did not ask them. You are of the true metal."Though in prison he lay,His spirit was strong,He sought a better day,And now it's come along.At least it's a better night, which, for the uses of poetry, is the same as day. This stairway, John, leads into the great inner court, and then our troubles begin, although we ought to return thanks all the rest of our days for the rain and the heavy darkness. The Mexican officers will see no reason why they shouldn't remain under shelter, and the Mexican soldiers, in this case, will be glad enough to do as their officers do."John now followed his guide with absolute faith. The man spoke more queerly than anybody else that he had ever heard, but everything that he did or said inspired confidence.They came to the bottom of the stairway and reached the great paved central court, with the buildings of the officers scattered here and there. They stepped into the court, and John fairly shrank within himself when the cold rain lashed into his face. He did not know until then how three years within massive walls had softened and weakened him. But he held himself erect and tautened his nerves, resolved that his comrade should not see that he had shivered.They saw lights shining from the windows of some of the low buildings, but no human being was visible within the square."They've all sought cover," said his rescuer, "and now is our best chance to get through one of the gates. After that there are other walls and ditches to be passed, but, Sir John of the Night, the Wall, the Rain, and the Moat, we'll pass them. This little plan of ours has been too well laid to go astray. Just the same, you keep that pistol handy."John drew the serape about his thin body. It was useful for other things than disguise. Without it the cold would have struck him to the bone. His rescuer led the way across the court until they came to one of the great gates in the wall. The sentinel then was pacing back and forth, his musket on his shoulder, and at intervals he called: "Sentinela alerte!" that his comrades at other gates might hear, and out of the wind and rain came at intervals, though faintly, the responding cry, "Sentinela alerte!" John and the stranger were almost upon this man when the cry "Sentinela alerte!" came from the next gate. He turned quickly as the two dark figures emerged from the darker gloom, but the stranger, with extraordinary dexterity, threw his serape over his face, checking any cry, while his powerful hands choked him into insensibility. At the same time the stranger uttered the answering cry, "Sentinela alerte!""You haven't killed him?" exclaimed John, aghast, as his rescuer let the Mexican slide to the wet earth."Not at all," replied this resourceful man. "The cold rain will bring him back to his senses in five minutes and in ten minutes he will be as well as ever, but in ten minutes we should play our hand, if we ever play it."He drew an enormous key from the pocket of the Mexican, unlocked the gate, and, after they had passed out, locked it behind them. Then they stood on the edge of the great moat, two hundred feet wide, twenty feet deep and bank full. The man dropped the key into the water."Now, Sir John of the Escape," he said, "the drawbridge is up, and if it were down it would be too well guarded for us to pass. We must swim. I don't know how strong you are after a long life in prison, but swim you must. Life is dear, and I think you'll swim. We'll take off most of our clothes and tie them with our weapons on our heads. What a wild night! But how good it is for us!"Crouching in the shadow of the wall they took off most of their clothes, and then each tied them in a package containing his weapons, also, on his head. They were secured with strips torn from John's rags. Meanwhile, the night was increasing in wildness. John would have viewed it with awe, had not his escape absorbed every thought. The wind groaned through the gorges of the great Sierra, and the cold rain lashed like a whip. The rumblings of thunder came from far and deep valleys between the ridges."Now," said the man, "we'll drop into the moat together. But let yourself down by your hands as gently as you can, and make no splash when you strike. Now, over we go!"The two dropped into the water, taking care not to go under, and then began to swim toward the far edge of the moat. John had been a good swimmer, but the water was very cold to his thin body. Nevertheless, he swam with a fairly steady stroke, until they were about half-way across, when he felt cramps creeping over him. But the stranger, who kept close by his side, had been watching, and he put one hand under John's body. In water the light support became a strong one, and now John swam easily.They reached the far edge and climbed up on the wall. Here John lay a little while, gasping, while the stranger, who now seemed a very god to him, rubbed his cold body to bring back the warmth. From a point down the bank came the cry "Sentinela alerte!" and from a point in the other direction came the answering cry, "Sentinela alerte!""Lie flat," whispered his rescuer to John, "and we'll wriggle across fifty feet of ground here until we come to a wooden wall. We're lost if we stand up, because I think lightning is coming with that thunder."He spoke with knowledge, as the thunder suddenly grew louder and the air around them was tinted with phosphorescent light. It was not a flare of lightning, merely its distant reflection, but it was enough to have disclosed them, if they had been standing, to any one ten paces distant. The danger itself gave them new strength, and they quickly crossed the ground to thechevaux de frise, where they crouched against the tall cedar posts. They lay almost flat upon the ground, and they were very glad of the shelter, because the lightning was coming nearer. Now, when the lightning flashed along the mountain slopes, they saw not far away the dim figure of a soldier, and they heard distinctly his cry: "Sentinela alerte!""Wait until he goes back," whispered the stranger. "Then we must climb the wall and climb it quickly. It's fastened with cross timbers which will give us hold for both hand and foot."The lightning tinted the sky once more with its phosphorescent gleam, and they did not see the soldier."Now for it!" said the man in a sharp, commanding whisper. "Up with you and over the wall!"John seized the crosspiece, and in another instant was on the top of a wall of cedar posts twelve feet high. He did not know until afterward that the strong hand of his rescuer had helped him up. In another instant the man was beside him, and then the lightning flared brightly, showing vividly the huge castle, the stone ramparts, the moats and the two figures, naked to the waist, sitting on top of the cedar wall."Sentinela alerte!" was shouted far louder than usual, and "Sentinela alerte!" came the reply in the same tone. Two musket shots were fired, and the two figures, one with a red stain on his side, sprang outward from the cedar fence into the second and smaller moat, which was only fourteen feet wide, although its outer wall was an earthwork rising very high above the water. Two or three strong strokes carried them across, and with desperate efforts they climbed up the high bank. They heard shouts, and they knew that when the lightning flared again more shots would be fired at them. It was then that John noticed the red stain on the side of his comrade, and all the reserves of mental strength that made him so much like his brother, Philip, came to his aid. He snatched the package from his head, tore it apart, threw the serape around his body and stood up, erect and defiant, pistol in hand. He would do something for this man who had done so much for him.The lightning flared again, a long quivering stroke, and the heads of half a dozen men appeared at the crest of thechevaux de frise, not twenty feet away. But John Bedford looked at only one of them. He saw the swarthy, angry face of de Armijo. He seemed to be beckoning with his sword to his men, but a flash like that of the lightning seared John's whole brain. He remembered how this man had struck him down, when he was chained and helpless, and he fired point blank at the angry face. De Armijo fell back with a terrible cry. He was not dead, but the bullet had plowed full length across his cheek, and he would bear there a terrible red weal all the rest of his life.The lightning passed, and they were in complete darkness, but John felt a hand on his arm."Come," whispered his rescuer. "You did that well. Prison hasn't taken any of the manhood from you. We're outside everything now, and the others are waiting for us."They fled away together in the darkness.CHAPTER XVIIITHE HUT IN THE COVEJohn Bedford forgot everything in those moments of wild exultation save the fact that he was free. The miracles had begun, and the whole chain was now complete. After three years in one cell he had left behind him forever, as he believed, the Castle of Montevideo, and he was going straight to his brother and powerful friends. He cast back only a single look, and then he saw the huge dim bulk of the castle showing through the mists and the rain. But presently the woods shut it from view, and he could not have seen it had he looked again. John's exultation, the vast rebound, grew. He had escaped, and he had struck down the enemy who had struck him. He felt equal to anything, and he forgot for the moment that the man who had rescued him in such an extraordinary way was wounded. But the man himself stopped soon."We'll wait here, Sir John of the Fleet Foot," he said. "Our friends who are frolicking in this thorny Forest of Arden were to come if they heard the sound of firing, and we must not go far away lest we miss them. Truly that was a fine and timely shot of yours, Sir John of the Bold Escape, and I judged by the look of your face that you had no love for the man at whom you fired.""I did not," replied John. "He beat me, when I was in chains."The other man uttered a low whistle."That was a nasty thing to do, but you are even. If he's still alive he'll have a face that will scare a dog."Whate'er you doUnto another,Some day that otherWill do unto you."Bear that in mind, young sir. In the hour of triumph do not rejoice too much in the fall of the man who has failed, because when he achieves his triumph and you have failed, which is likely to come to pass some time or other, he may make some moments exceedingly bitter unto thee. And now I shall dress myself, as I think I hear the footsteps of visitors."John remembered that he, too, was clad lightly, and hastily put on his upper garments, while his friend did likewise. He now heard the steps, also, and they were rapidly coming nearer."Shouldn't we move?" he whispered. "Those must be Mexicans.""No, we shouldn't move, because those are not the footsteps of Mexicans. Those sounds are made by the hardy feet of just two persons. One of them is a large brave German man, whose tread I would know a mile away, and the other, the lighter tread of whom is drowned in the volume of sound made by his comrade, is a boy, a strong, healthy boy who comes from a little town in Kentucky, which has the same name as a big town in France."John began to tremble all over. He knew what these words meant. His friend uttered a low whistle, and quickly a low whistle in reply came from a point not twenty feet away. There was a moment of silence, then the approaching footsteps were resumed, the bushes were parted, and, as the lightning flared once more across the sky, John Bedford and Philip Bedford looked into the faces of each other.They wrung hands in the darkness that followed the lightning flash, and, after the Anglo-Saxon fashion, said brief, inconsequential words. Yet the hearts of the two were full, and both Bill Breakstone, who had done the last miracle, and Hans Arenberg were moved deeply."Your letter came, John," said Phil simply, "and we are here. These are the best friends I ever had or that anybody ever could have. The man who brought you out of the castle was Bill Breakstone, and the one with me is Hans Arenberg. Without them I never could have reached you in the castle.""You talk too much, young sir," said Bill Breakstone.Then John suddenly remembered."Mr. Breakstone is wounded," he exclaimed. "We took off most of our clothes to swim the moat and I remember seeing a red spot on his side.""Like your brother, you talk too much," said Bill Breakstone. "It seems to be a family failing with the Bedfords. It's a mere scratch.""No harm iss done where none iss meant," said Arenberg sententiously. "It iss also well for us soon to be away from where we now are.""That is true," said Breakstone. "The Mexicans undoubtedly will make some sort of a search and pursuit, though I don't think they'll carry it far on such a night. Come on boys, I'll lead, and the reunited family will bring up the rear. But no talking is best. You can't tell what we might stir up."He led the way, and the others followed in silence. They crossed a valley, reached a mountain slope and began to climb. Up they went for at least two hours, pausing at times for John to take breath and rest. Meanwhile the storm continued, with cold rain, an alternate groaning and whistling of the wind through the valley, deep rumblings of thunder, and now and then a bright flare of lightning. John caught only one other glimpse of the huge, ominous bulk of the Castle of Montevideo, but it was far below him now. He knew, too, that it was impossible for anybody to follow a mountain trail in such darkness and storm. But, despite his great joy, he was feeling an exceeding weariness of the body. The long confinement had told heavily, but he would utter no complaint.A half hour more, and they turned into a deep cove which led three or four hundred yards into the Sierra. At its end stood a small cabin, built of logs and almost hidden under the overhang of the cliff."Welcome to our home, Sir John," said Bill Breakstone, "we have no title to it, and it probably belonged to some Mexican sheep herder or hunter, but since our arrival none has appeared to claim it."He threw open the door, and all went inside into the dry dark. John heard the door close behind him, a bar fell into place, and then the striking of a match came to his ear. A little blue flame appeared and grew. Arenberg, who had struck the match, lighted a pine torch, which he stuck at an angle in a hole in the wall, and a fine red flame lighted up the whole interior of the little cabin. Cabin! It was no cabin to John Bedford. It was a gorgeous palace, the finest that he had ever seen, and he was surrounded by the most devoted and daring friends that man ever had. Had they not just proved it?The little torch disclosed a hard earthen floor, upon which the skins of wild animals had been spread, log walls with wooden hooks and pins inserted here and there, evidently within recent days, a strong board roof, rafters from which skins and some tools hung, a fireplace with a stone hearth, and four narrow skin couches, three of which had been often occupied, the fourth never. Outside, the wind still wailed, and the cold rain still beat upon the logs, but here it was warm, dry, and light. The greatness of it all suddenly overwhelmed John, and he sank forward in a faint.Phil instantly seized his brother and raised him up, but Breakstone and Arenberg told him not to be alarmed, that it was merely the collapse of a weakened frame after tremendous tension, both physical and mental. Breakstone brought water in a gourd from a pail that stood in the corner, and soon John sat up again, very much ashamed of himself, and offering many apologies, at all of which the others laughed."Considering all you've been through to-night," said Bill Breakstone, "it's a wonder that you held out so long. I wouldn't have believed that you could do it, if I hadn't known your brother so well. Good thing I learned to be an actor. I was always strong in those Spanish parts. Wide hat brim, big black cloak coming up to meet the hat brim, terrible sword at my thigh, and terrible frown behind the cloak and the hat brim. Now, Hans, I think you can light the fire on the hearth there. No chance that anybody will see the smoke on a night like this, and there's no reason why we shouldn't dry our clothes and have a gay party. We've carried through our great adventure, and we'll just royster over it awhile."Arenberg, without another word, took down the pine torch from its hole in the wall and ignited the heap of dry pine boughs that lay in the fireplace. They caught at once, crackled, and blazed pleasantly. Warm red shadows were soon cast across the floor, and a generous heat reached them all. They basked in it, and turned about and about, drying all their clothing and driving the last sign of chill from their bones. Arenberg also made coffee over the coals, and cooked venison, which they had in abundance. When John ate and drank in plenty, he felt that life did not have much more to offer. He sat on one of the skins, leaned comfortably against the wall, and contemplated his younger brother."You have grown a lot, Phil," he said."You didn't expect him to stand still, just because you were away locked up in a castle?" asked Bill Breakstone. "He had to grow up, so he could come and rescue you. Such tasks are too big for little children."John Bedford smiled indulgently."It was certainly a big job," he said. "I am the one who ought to appreciate most its size and danger. It was a big thing to get through Texas even. Of course I learned while I was a prisoner in the castle that the Mexicans had retaken it. It made me feel mighty bad for a long time."Phil and Bill Breakstone looked at each other. Arenberg pushed one of the pine-knots back into the fire. For a little while there was silence. Then Breakstone said:"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 Pass 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. "Nobody 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 passed 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 gods 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 pass 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 space, gazing out.The curiosity of the others deepened. What was passing 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."Phil was willing. He was so full of the story himself that he was anxious John should hear it all. He recounted how the letter had reached him at Paris in Kentucky, his journey to New Orleans, and his successive meetings there with Arenberg, Middleton, and Bill Breakstone; how they had joined the Santa Fé train and their encounter with the Comanches, led by Santana and Black Panther, the deeds of de Armijo, their long trail southward to join Taylor's army, and a description, as far as he saw it amid the flame and smoke, of the great battle of Buena Vista. He told of the sharp lava, the pass, and of the woman at the well who had given the cup of water to the weary prisoner who was but a boy."I remember her, I remember her well," said John, a thrill of gratitude showing in his tone. "I believe I'd have died if it hadn't been for that water, the finest that anybody ever tasted. I knew from the voice that it was a woman.""We felt sure then," continued Phil, "that we were on the right trail, and we believed that, with patience and method, we'd be sure to find you if you were living. We knew that the letter had been brought to the Texas frontier by Antonio Vaquez, a driver who had received it in turn from one Porfirio, a vaquero, and we knew from your letter that you were confined in some great stone prison or castle. We learned of Montevideo, which is perhaps the greatest castle in Mexico, and everything pointed to it as the place."The Mexican army retreated in great haste southward after Buena Vista, in order to meet Scott, who was advancing on Mexico by the way of Vera Cruz. That left the country comparatively clear for us, and we came through the mountains, until we saw the Castle of Montevideo. When we saw it, we believed still more strongly that this was the place, but we knew that the biggest part of our work was before us. We would have to spy, and spy, and keep on spying before we could act. Any mule driver or sheepherder might carry news of us, and we must have a secure hiding-place as a basis. After a long search we found this cabin, which I don't think had been occupied for several years. We soon fixed it up so it was comfortable, as you can now see. There's a little spring at the west edge of the cove, and on the other side of the ridge there's a little valley with water and grass, but with walls so steep that a horse won't climb 'em unless he's led. Our horses are there now, having perhaps the best time of their lives."When we were located, good and snug, we began to spy. I believed after we met the woman at the well that fortune was favoring us. Arenberg here talked a lot about the spirits of the forest and the stream, some old heathen mythology of his, to which Bill and I didn't pay any attention. But anyway, we had luck. We scouted about the castle for weeks, but we didn't learn a thing, except that de Armijo was now governor there. We could find no more trace of you than if you had been on the moon."At last our lucky day came. We ran squarely upon a good-looking young Mexican, a vaquero. There wasn't time for us to get away or for him to get away. So we, being the more numerous, seized him. I suppose he thought he was going to be killed at once, as we were Americans, looking pretty tough from exposure and hardships, and so to make a play on our good feelings--Bill Breakstone could understand his Spanish--he said that once he'd tried to help a Gringo, a prisoner, in the great castle in the valley. He said he'd carried a letter from him, asking for help, and that the prisoner was not much more than a boy, taken in a raid from Texas three years ago."It flashed over us all at once that we had found the right man. Everything fitted too well together to permit of a mistake, and you can believe that we treated Porfirio, the vaquero, the finest we knew how, and made him feel that he had fallen into the hands of the best friends in the world. Were you still alive? We waited without drawing breath for the answer. You were still alive he answered, and well, so far as a prisoner could be. He knew that positively from his mother, Catarina, who was a cook at the castle, although he himself would not stay there, as, like a sensible man, he liked the mountains and the plains and the free life. He did not tell us of the blow that de Armijo had given you, perhaps because Catarina had said nothing of it to him, but we learned that he hated de Armijo, who had once struck him when he was at the castle, for some trifle or other--it seems that de Armijo had the striking habit--and after that we soon made our little plot. Catarina, of course, was the center of it, and her duties as a cook gave her the chance."It was Catarina who put the thread in the tamale. She might have put the letter there, but the writing on it would have been effaced, and even if it could have remained she did not dare. If the paper had been discovered by the Mexicans, she, of course, would have been declared guilty, but thread, even a package of it, might have found its way into the loose Mexican cooking, and if it had been discovered none of the sentinels or officers could have made anything out of such a slender thing. We trusted to your shrewdness that you would drop the thread out of the window, because there was nothing else to do with it, and you didn't fail us.""But who tied the note on it?" asked John."Catarina, again--that is, she was at the end of the chain, Porfirio was in the middle, and we were at the other or far end. He passed the letter in to her--he works about the castle at times--and she tied it on the end of the thread. The key and the dagger reached you by the same route. Then we knew that, although you might unlock the door of your cell, you could never go outside the castle without the aid of some one within. For that reason we told you the night on which to unlock it, and the very hour, in order that the right man might be waiting for you at the head of the stairway. Bill Breakstone had to be that man, because he can speak Spanish and the Mexican dialects, and because, lucky for you, he's been an actor; often to amuse others he has played parts like the one that he played last night in such deadly earnest."Catarina got the keys--there are duplicates to all the cells--so we sent that up early, and on the day before your escape she stole the one to the big gate that guards the stairway. It was easy enough to steal the clothes for Breakstone, take him in as a servant, and his nerve and yours did the rest. But we must never forget Catarina and her son Porfirio, the vaquero. Without them we could have done nothing.""I'm prouder of it than of any other thing in which I ever took part," said Bill Breakstone."It was not one miracle, it was a chain of them," said John Bedford."Whatever it was, here we all are," said Phil.
CHAPTER XVII
THE THREAD, THE KEY, AND THE DAGGER
When John Bedford rose the next morning he was several years younger. He held himself erect, as became his youth, a little color had crept into the pallid face, and his heart was still full of hope. He had seen the light that Catarina had promised. Surely the world was making a great change for him, and he reasoned again that, his present state being so low, any possible change must be for the better.
But the day passed and nothing happened. Diego, the slouching soldier, brought him his food, and, bearing in mind the vague words of Catarina, he noticed it carefully while he ate. There was nothing unusual. It was the same at his supper. The rosy cloud in which his hopes swam faded somewhat, but he was still hopeful. No light had been promised for the second night, but he watched for long hours, nevertheless, and he could not restrain a sense of disappointment when he turned away.
A second day passed without event, and a third, and then a fourth. John Bedford was overcome by a terrible depression. Catarina was old and foolish, or perhaps she, too, had shown at last the cunning and trickery that he began to ascribe to all these people. He would stay in that cell all his life, fairly buried alive. A fierce, unreasoning anger took hold of him. He would have flared out at stolid Diego who brought the food, but he did not want those heavy chains put back on his ankles. His head was now healed enough for the removal of the bandage, but a red streak would remain for some time under the hair. Doubtless the hair had saved him from a fracture of the skull. Every time he put his hand to the wound, which was often, his anger against de Armijo rose. It was that cold, silent anger which is the most terrible and lasting of all.
Although he was back in the depths, John felt that the brief spell of hope had been of help to him. His wound had healed more rapidly, and he was sure that he was physically stronger. Yet the black depression remained. It was even painful for him to look through the slit at his piece of the slope, which he sometimes called his mountain garden. He avoided it, as a place of hope that had failed. On the sixth day, Diego brought him his dinner a little after the dinner hour. He was sitting on the edge of his cot and he bit into a tamale. His teeth encountered something tough and fibrous, and he was about to throw it down in disgust. Then the words of Catarina, those words which he had begun to despise, came suddenly back to him. He put the tamale down and began to eat a tortilla, keeping his eye on Diego, who slouched by the wall in the attitude of a Mexican of the lower classes, that lazy, dreaming attitude that they can maintain, for hours.
Presently Diego glanced at the loophole, and in an instant John whipped the tamale off the plate and thrust it under the cover of the cot. Then he went on calmly with his eating, and drank the usual amount of bad coffee. Diego, who had noticed nothing, took the empty tray and went out, carefully locking the heavy door behind him. Then John Bedford did something that showed his wonderful power of self-restraint. He did not rush to the bed, eager to read what the tamale might contain, but strolled to the loophole and looked out for at least a quarter of an hour. He did not wish any trick to be played upon him by a sudden return of Diego. Yet he was quivering in every nerve with impatience.
When he felt that he was safe, he returned to the cot and took out the tamale. He carefully pulled it open, and in the middle he found the tough, fibrous substance that his teeth had met. He had half expected a paper of some kind, rolled closely together, that the writing might not perish, and what he really did find caused a disappointment so keen that he uttered a low cry of pain.
He held it up in his hand. It was nothing more than a small package of thread, such as might have been put in a thimble. What could it mean? Of what possible use was a coil of fifty yards or so of thread that would not sustain the weight of half a pound? Was he to escape through the loophole on that as a rope? He looked at the loophole four inches broad, and then at the tiny thread, and it seemed to him such a pitiful joke that he sat down on the cot and laughed, not at the joke itself, but at any one who was foolish enough to perpetrate such a thing.
He tested the thread. It was stronger than he had thought. Then he put it on his knee, took his head in his two hands, and sat staring at the thread for a long time, concentrating his thoughts and trying to evolve something from this riddle. It did mean something. No one would go to so much trouble to play a miserable joke on a helpless captive like himself. Catarina certainly would not do it, and she had given him the hint about the food, a hint that had come true. He kept his mind upon the one point so steadily and with so much force that his brain grew hot, and the wound, so nearly cured, began to ache again. Yet he kept at it, studying out every possible twist and turn of the riddle. At last he tested the thread again. It was undeniably strong, and then he looked at the loophole. Only one guess savored of possibility. He must hang the thread out of the loophole.
He ate the rest of the tamale, hid the little package under his clothing, and at night, after supper, when the darkness was heavy, he threw the end of the thread through the long slot, a cast in which he did not succeed until about the twelfth attempt. Then he let the thread drop down. He knew about how many feet it was to the pavement below, and he let out enough with three or four yards for good count. Then he found that he had several yards left, which he tied around one of the iron bars at the edge of the loophole. It was a black thread, and, although some one might see it by daylight, there was not one chance in a thousand that any one would see it at night.
"Fishing," he said to himself, as he lay down on his cot, intending to sleep awhile, but to draw in the thread before the day came. It might be an idle guess, he could not even know that the thread was not clinging to the stone wall, instead of reaching the ground, but there was relief in action, in trying something. He fell asleep finally, and when he awoke he sprang in an instant to the floor. The fear came with his waking senses that he might have slept too long, and that it was broad daylight. The fear was false. It was still night, with only the moon shining at the loophole. But he judged that most of the night had passed, and his impatience told him that if anything was going to happen it had happened already. He went to the window. His thread was there, tied to the bar and, like a fisherman, he began to pull it in. He felt this simile himself. "Drawing in the line," he murmured. "Now I wonder if I have got a bite."
Although he spoke lightly to himself, as if a calm man would soothe an excitable one, he felt the cold chill that runs down one's spine in moments of intense excitement. The moonlight was good, and he watched the black thread come in, inch by inch, while the hand that drew it trembled. But he soon saw that there was no weight at the other end, and down his heart went again into the blackest depths of black despair. Nevertheless, he continued to pull on the thread, and, as it emerged from the darkness into the far end of the loophole, he thought he saw something tied on the end, although he was not sure, it looked so small and dim. Here he paused and leaned against the wall, because he suddenly felt weak in both mind and body. These alternations between hope and despair were shattering to one who had been confined so long between four walls. The very strength of his desire for it might make him see something at the end of the thread when nothing was really there.
He recovered himself and pulled in the thread, and now hope surged up in a full tide. Something was on the end of the thread. It was a little piece of paper not more than an inch long, rolled closely and tied tightly around the center with the thread. He drew up his stool and sat down on it by the loophole, where the moonlight fell. Then he carefully picked loose the knot and unrolled the paper. The light was good enough, and he read these amazing words:
"Don't give up hope.Your brother is here.He received your letter.Put out the threadAgain to-morrow night.Read and destroy this."
"Don't give up hope.Your brother is here.He received your letter.Put out the threadAgain to-morrow night.Read and destroy this."
"Don't give up hope.
Your brother is here.
He received your letter.
Put out the thread
Again to-morrow night.
Read and destroy this."
John leaned against the wall. His surprise and joy were so great that he was overpowered. He realized now that his hope had merely been a forlorn one, an effort of the will against spontaneous despair. And yet the miracle had been wrought. His letter, in some mysterious manner, had got through to Phil, and Phil had come. He must have friends, too, because the letter had not been written by Phil. It was in a strange handwriting. But this could be no joke of fate. It was too powerful, too convincing. Everything fitted too well together. It must have started somehow with Catarina, because all her presages had come true. She was the cook, she had put the thread in the tamale. How had the others reached her?
But it was true. His letter had gone through, and the brave young boy whom he had left behind had come. He was somewhere about the Castle of Montevideo, and since such wonders had been achieved already, others could be done. From that moment John Bedford never despaired. After reading the letter many times, he tore it into minute fragments, and, lest they should be seen below and create suspicion, he ate them all and with a good appetite. Then he rolled up the thread, put it next to his body, and, for the first time in many nights, slept so soundly that he did not awake until Diego brought him his breakfast. Then he ate with a remarkable appetite, and after Diego had gone he began to walk up and down the cell with vigorous steps. He also did many other things which an observer, had one been possible, would have thought strange.
John not only walked back and forth in his cell, but he went through as many exercises as his lack of gymnastic equipment permitted, and he continued his work at least an hour. He wished to get back his strength as much as possible for some great test that he felt sure was coming. If he were to escape with the help of Phil and unknown others, he must be strong and active. A weakling would have a poor chance, no matter how numerous his friends. He had maintained this form of exercise for a long period after his imprisonment, but lately he had become so much depressed that he had discontinued it.
He felt so good that he chaffed Diego when he came back with his food at dinner and supper. Diego had long been a source of wonder to John. It was evident that he breathed and walked, because John had seen him do both, and he could speak, because at rare intervals John had heard him utter a word or two, but this power of speech seemed to be merely spasmodic. Now, while John bantered him, he was as stolid as any wooden image of Aztecs or Toltecs, although John spoke in Spanish, which, bad as it was, Diego could understand.
He devoted the last hours of the afternoon to watching his distant garden. It had always been a pleasant landscape to him, but now it was friendlier than ever. That was a fine cactus, and it was a noble forest of dwarf pine or cedar--he wished he did know which. An hour after the dark had fully come he let the thread out again.
"This beats any other fishing I ever did," he murmured. "Well, it ought to. It's fishing for one's life."
He was calmer than on the night before, and fell asleep earlier, but he had fixed his mind so resolutely on a waking time at least an hour before daylight that he awoke almost at the appointed minute. Then he tiptoed across the cold floor to the thread. Nobody could have heard him through those solid walls, but the desire for secrecy was so strong that he unconsciously tiptoed, nevertheless. He pulled the thread, and he felt at once that something heavy had been fastened to the other end. Then he pulled more slowly. The thread was very slender, and the weight seemed great for so slight a line. If it were to break, the tragedy would be genuinely terrible. He had heard of the sword suspended by a single hair, and it seemed to him that he was in some such case. But the thread was stronger than John realized--it had been chosen so on purpose--and it did not break.
As the far end of the thread approached the loophole, he was conscious of a slight metallic ring against the stone wall. His interest grew in intensity. Phil and these unknown friends of his were sending him something more than a note. He pulled with exceeding slowness and care now, lest the metallic object hook against the far edge of the loophole. But it came in safely, slid across the stone, and reached his hand. It was a large iron key, with a small piece of paper tied around it. He tore off the paper, and read, in a handwriting the same as that on the first one:
"This is the key to your cell, No. 37, but do not use it. Do not even put it in the lock until the fourth night from to-night. Then at midnight, as nearly as you can judge, unlock and go out. Let out the thread for the last time to-morrow night."
John looked at the key and glanced longingly at the lock. He had no doubt that it would fit. But he obeyed orders and did not try it. Instead he thrust it into the old ragged mattress of his cot. He resumed his physical exercises the next day, giving an hour to them in the morning and another hour in the afternoon. They helped, but the breath of hope was doing more for him, both mind and body, than anything else. He felt so strong and active that he did not chaff Diego any more lest the Mexican, stolid and wooden though he was, might suspect something.
He let out the thread according to orders, and, at the usual time, drew in a dagger, slender and very light, but long and keen as a razor. He read readily the purpose of this. There would be much danger when he opened the door to go out, and he must have a weapon. He ran his finger along the keen edge and saw that it would be truly formidable at close quarters. Then he hid it in his mattress with the key, wound up the thread, and put it in the same place. All had now come to pass as promised, and he felt that the remainder would depend greatly upon himself. So he settled down as best he could to three days and nights of almost intolerable waiting. Dull and heavy as the time was, and surely every second was a minute, many fears also came with it. They might take it into their heads to change that ragged old mattress of his, and then the knife, the thread, and the key would be found. He would dismiss such apprehensions with the power of reason, but the power of fear would bring them back again. Too much now depended upon his freedom from examination and search to allow of a calm mind.
Yet time passed, no matter how slow, and he was helped greatly by his physical exercises, which gave him occupation, besides preparing him for an expected ordeal. Hope, too, was doing its great work. He could fairly feel the strength flowing back into his veins, and his nerves becoming tougher and more supple. Every night he looked out at the mountain slope and itemized his little garden there that he had never touched, shrub by shrub, stone by stone, not forgetting the great cactus. He told himself that he did not expect to see any light there again, because the unknown sender of messages had not spoken of another, but, deep down at the bottom of his heart, he was hoping to behold the torch once more, and he felt disappointment when it did not appear.
He tried to imagine how Phil looked. He knew that he must be a great, strong boy, as big as a man. He knew that his spirit was bold and enterprising, yet he must have had uncommon skill and fortune to have penetrated so deep into Mexico, and to preserve a hiding-place so near to the great Castle of Montevideo. And the friends with him must be molded of the finest steel. Who were they? He recalled daring and adventurous spirits among his own comrades in the fatal expedition, but as he ran over every one in his mind he shook his head. It could not be.
It is the truth that, during all this period, inflicting such a tremendous strain upon the captive, John never once tried the key in the door. It was the supreme test of his character, of his restraint, of his power of will, and he passed it successfully. The thread, the dagger, and the key lay together untouched in the bottom of the old mattress, and he waited in all the outward seeming of patience.
The first night was very clear, on the second it rained for six or seven hours. The entire mountainside was veiled in sheets of water or vapor, and John saw nothing beyond his window but the black blur. The third night was clear, but when the morning of the fourth day dawned, John thought, from the clouds that were floating along the mountain slope, it would be rainy again. He hoped that the promise would come true. Darkness and rain favor an escaping prisoner.
The last day was the most terrible of all. Now and then he found his heart pounding as if it would rack itself to pieces. It was difficult to go through with the exercises, and it was still more difficult to preserve calmness of manner in the presence of Diego. Yet he did both. Moreover, his natural steadiness seemed to come back to him as the hour drew near. His was one of those rare and fortunate natures which may be nervous and apprehensive some time before the event, but which become hard and firm when it is at hand. Now John found himself singularly calm. The eternity of waiting had passed, and he was strong and ready.
Diego brought him his supper early, and then, through his loophole, he watched the twilight deepen into the night. And with the night came the rain that the morning and afternoon clouds had predicted. It was a cold rain, driven by a wind that shrieked down the valley, and drops of it, hurled like shot the full width of the slit, struck John in the face. But he liked the cool sharp touch, and he felt sure that the rain would continue all through the night. So much the better.
John's clothing was old and ragged, and he wore a pair of heelless Mexican shoes. He had no hat or cap. But a prisoner of three lonely years seeking to escape was not likely to think of such things.
He waited patiently through these last hours. He was compelled to judge for himself when midnight had come, but he believed that he had made a close calculation. Then he took a final look through the loophole. The wind, with a mighty groaning and shrieking, was still driving the rain down the slopes, and nothing was visible. Then, with a firm hand, he took from the bed the thread, the knife, and the key. It was not likely that he would have any further use for the thread, but for the sake of precaution he put it in his pocket. He also slipped the dagger into the back of his coat at the neck, after a southwestern fashion which allowed a man to draw and strike with a single motion.
Then, key in hand, he boldly approached the door. Some throbbings of doubt appeared, but he sternly repressed them. Giving himself no time for hesitation, he put the key in the lock and turned his hand toward the right. The key, without any creaking or scraping, turned with it. His heart gave a great leap. He did not know until now that he had really doubted. His joy at the fact showed it. But the miracles were coming true, one after another.
He turned the key around the proper distance, and he heard the heavy bolt slide back. He knew that he would have nothing to do now but pull on the door, yet he paused a few moments as one lingers over a great pleasure, in order to make it greater. He pulled, and the door came back with the same familiar slight creak that he had heard it make so often when Diego entered or left. With an involuntary gesture of one hand, he bade farewell to his cell and stepped into the long, dark corridor upon which the row of cells opened. But for the sake of precaution he locked the cell door again and put the key in his pocket.
Then he drew the slender dagger, clutched it firmly in his right hand, and stepped softly back against the wall, which was in heavy shadow, no light entering it from the narrow barred window at either end. John's heart beat painfully, but he did not believe that the miracles which were being done in his behalf had yet ended. With his back still toward the wall, and his hand on the hilt of the dagger, he slipped soundlessly along for a few feet. His eyes, growing used to the darkness, made out the posts at the head of a stairway.
Evidently this was the way he should go, and he paused again. Then his blood slowly chilled within him. A human figure was standing beside one of the posts. He saw it distinctly. It was the figure of a tall man in a long black serape, with a dark handkerchief tied around mouth and chin after the frequent Mexican fashion, and a great sombrero which nearly met the handkerchief. He could see nothing but the narrowest strip of dark face, and in the dusk the man rose to the size of a giant. He was truly a formidable figure to one who had been three years a captive, to one who was armed only with a slender knife.
But the crisis in John Bedford's life was so great that he advanced straight toward the ominous presence in his path. The man said nothing, but John felt as he approached that the stranger was regarding him steadily. Moreover, he made no motion to draw a weapon. John saw now that one of his hands rested on the post at the stairhead, and the other hung straight down by his side. Surely this was not the attitude of a foe! Perhaps here was merely another in the chain of miracles that had begun to work in his behalf. He advanced a step or two nearer, and the stranger was yet motionless. Another step, and the man spoke in a sharp whisper:
"You are John Bedford?"
"I am," replied John.
"I've been waiting for you. Come. But first take this."
He drew a double-barreled pistol from his pocket and handed it to John, who did as he was told. The stranger then produced from under his capacious serape another serape and a Mexican hat, which John, acting under his instructions, also put on.
"Now," said the man, "follow me, and do what I do or what I tell you.
"It is the midnight hour,They wait us at the gate.May Heaven its favors pour,Then easy is our fate.
"It is the midnight hour,They wait us at the gate.May Heaven its favors pour,Then easy is our fate.
"It is the midnight hour,
They wait us at the gate.
They wait us at the gate.
May Heaven its favors pour,
Then easy is our fate.
Then easy is our fate.
You seem to be a brave fellow like your brother; then now is the time to show your courage, and remember, also, that I can do all the talking for both of us. Talking is my great specialty."
It seemed to John that the stranger spoke in an odd manner, but he liked the sound of his voice, which was at once strong and kind. Why should he not like a man who had come through every imaginable danger to save him from a living death!
"My brother?" whispered John in his eagerness. "Is he still near?"
"I told you I was to do all the talking," replied the man. "You just follow and step as lightly as you can."
John obeyed, and, after a descent of a few steps, they came to one of the heavy wooden doors, twelve feet high, but the stranger unlocked it with a key taken from the folds of that invaluable Mexican garment, the serape.
"You didn't think I'd come on such a trip as this without making full preparations?" said the man with a slight humorous inflection. Then he added: "You're just a plain, common Mexican, some servant or other, employed about the castle, and you continue to slouch along behind me, who may be an officer for all one knows in this darkness. But first push with me on this door. Push hard and push slowly."
The heavy door moved back a foot or two, but that was all the stranger wanted. He slipped through the opening, and John came after him. Then the man closed and locked the door again.
"A wise burglar leaves no trail behind him," he said, "and, although it is too dark for me to see you very well, I want to tell you, Sir John of the Cell, that your figure and walk remind me a great deal of your brother, Sir Philip of the Mountain, the River, and the Plain, as gallant a lad as one may meet in many a long day."
A question, a half dozen of them leaped to John's lips, but, remembering his orders, he checked them all there.
"Ah, I see," said the stranger. "That would certainly tempt any man to ask questions, but, remembering what I told you, you did not ask them. You are of the true metal.
"Though in prison he lay,His spirit was strong,He sought a better day,And now it's come along.
"Though in prison he lay,His spirit was strong,He sought a better day,And now it's come along.
"Though in prison he lay,
His spirit was strong,
His spirit was strong,
He sought a better day,
And now it's come along.
And now it's come along.
At least it's a better night, which, for the uses of poetry, is the same as day. This stairway, John, leads into the great inner court, and then our troubles begin, although we ought to return thanks all the rest of our days for the rain and the heavy darkness. The Mexican officers will see no reason why they shouldn't remain under shelter, and the Mexican soldiers, in this case, will be glad enough to do as their officers do."
John now followed his guide with absolute faith. The man spoke more queerly than anybody else that he had ever heard, but everything that he did or said inspired confidence.
They came to the bottom of the stairway and reached the great paved central court, with the buildings of the officers scattered here and there. They stepped into the court, and John fairly shrank within himself when the cold rain lashed into his face. He did not know until then how three years within massive walls had softened and weakened him. But he held himself erect and tautened his nerves, resolved that his comrade should not see that he had shivered.
They saw lights shining from the windows of some of the low buildings, but no human being was visible within the square.
"They've all sought cover," said his rescuer, "and now is our best chance to get through one of the gates. After that there are other walls and ditches to be passed, but, Sir John of the Night, the Wall, the Rain, and the Moat, we'll pass them. This little plan of ours has been too well laid to go astray. Just the same, you keep that pistol handy."
John drew the serape about his thin body. It was useful for other things than disguise. Without it the cold would have struck him to the bone. His rescuer led the way across the court until they came to one of the great gates in the wall. The sentinel then was pacing back and forth, his musket on his shoulder, and at intervals he called: "Sentinela alerte!" that his comrades at other gates might hear, and out of the wind and rain came at intervals, though faintly, the responding cry, "Sentinela alerte!" John and the stranger were almost upon this man when the cry "Sentinela alerte!" came from the next gate. He turned quickly as the two dark figures emerged from the darker gloom, but the stranger, with extraordinary dexterity, threw his serape over his face, checking any cry, while his powerful hands choked him into insensibility. At the same time the stranger uttered the answering cry, "Sentinela alerte!"
"You haven't killed him?" exclaimed John, aghast, as his rescuer let the Mexican slide to the wet earth.
"Not at all," replied this resourceful man. "The cold rain will bring him back to his senses in five minutes and in ten minutes he will be as well as ever, but in ten minutes we should play our hand, if we ever play it."
He drew an enormous key from the pocket of the Mexican, unlocked the gate, and, after they had passed out, locked it behind them. Then they stood on the edge of the great moat, two hundred feet wide, twenty feet deep and bank full. The man dropped the key into the water.
"Now, Sir John of the Escape," he said, "the drawbridge is up, and if it were down it would be too well guarded for us to pass. We must swim. I don't know how strong you are after a long life in prison, but swim you must. Life is dear, and I think you'll swim. We'll take off most of our clothes and tie them with our weapons on our heads. What a wild night! But how good it is for us!"
Crouching in the shadow of the wall they took off most of their clothes, and then each tied them in a package containing his weapons, also, on his head. They were secured with strips torn from John's rags. Meanwhile, the night was increasing in wildness. John would have viewed it with awe, had not his escape absorbed every thought. The wind groaned through the gorges of the great Sierra, and the cold rain lashed like a whip. The rumblings of thunder came from far and deep valleys between the ridges.
"Now," said the man, "we'll drop into the moat together. But let yourself down by your hands as gently as you can, and make no splash when you strike. Now, over we go!"
The two dropped into the water, taking care not to go under, and then began to swim toward the far edge of the moat. John had been a good swimmer, but the water was very cold to his thin body. Nevertheless, he swam with a fairly steady stroke, until they were about half-way across, when he felt cramps creeping over him. But the stranger, who kept close by his side, had been watching, and he put one hand under John's body. In water the light support became a strong one, and now John swam easily.
They reached the far edge and climbed up on the wall. Here John lay a little while, gasping, while the stranger, who now seemed a very god to him, rubbed his cold body to bring back the warmth. From a point down the bank came the cry "Sentinela alerte!" and from a point in the other direction came the answering cry, "Sentinela alerte!"
"Lie flat," whispered his rescuer to John, "and we'll wriggle across fifty feet of ground here until we come to a wooden wall. We're lost if we stand up, because I think lightning is coming with that thunder."
He spoke with knowledge, as the thunder suddenly grew louder and the air around them was tinted with phosphorescent light. It was not a flare of lightning, merely its distant reflection, but it was enough to have disclosed them, if they had been standing, to any one ten paces distant. The danger itself gave them new strength, and they quickly crossed the ground to thechevaux de frise, where they crouched against the tall cedar posts. They lay almost flat upon the ground, and they were very glad of the shelter, because the lightning was coming nearer. Now, when the lightning flashed along the mountain slopes, they saw not far away the dim figure of a soldier, and they heard distinctly his cry: "Sentinela alerte!"
"Wait until he goes back," whispered the stranger. "Then we must climb the wall and climb it quickly. It's fastened with cross timbers which will give us hold for both hand and foot."
The lightning tinted the sky once more with its phosphorescent gleam, and they did not see the soldier.
"Now for it!" said the man in a sharp, commanding whisper. "Up with you and over the wall!"
John seized the crosspiece, and in another instant was on the top of a wall of cedar posts twelve feet high. He did not know until afterward that the strong hand of his rescuer had helped him up. In another instant the man was beside him, and then the lightning flared brightly, showing vividly the huge castle, the stone ramparts, the moats and the two figures, naked to the waist, sitting on top of the cedar wall.
"Sentinela alerte!" was shouted far louder than usual, and "Sentinela alerte!" came the reply in the same tone. Two musket shots were fired, and the two figures, one with a red stain on his side, sprang outward from the cedar fence into the second and smaller moat, which was only fourteen feet wide, although its outer wall was an earthwork rising very high above the water. Two or three strong strokes carried them across, and with desperate efforts they climbed up the high bank. They heard shouts, and they knew that when the lightning flared again more shots would be fired at them. It was then that John noticed the red stain on the side of his comrade, and all the reserves of mental strength that made him so much like his brother, Philip, came to his aid. He snatched the package from his head, tore it apart, threw the serape around his body and stood up, erect and defiant, pistol in hand. He would do something for this man who had done so much for him.
The lightning flared again, a long quivering stroke, and the heads of half a dozen men appeared at the crest of thechevaux de frise, not twenty feet away. But John Bedford looked at only one of them. He saw the swarthy, angry face of de Armijo. He seemed to be beckoning with his sword to his men, but a flash like that of the lightning seared John's whole brain. He remembered how this man had struck him down, when he was chained and helpless, and he fired point blank at the angry face. De Armijo fell back with a terrible cry. He was not dead, but the bullet had plowed full length across his cheek, and he would bear there a terrible red weal all the rest of his life.
The lightning passed, and they were in complete darkness, but John felt a hand on his arm.
"Come," whispered his rescuer. "You did that well. Prison hasn't taken any of the manhood from you. We're outside everything now, and the others are waiting for us."
They fled away together in the darkness.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE HUT IN THE COVE
John Bedford forgot everything in those moments of wild exultation save the fact that he was free. The miracles had begun, and the whole chain was now complete. After three years in one cell he had left behind him forever, as he believed, the Castle of Montevideo, and he was going straight to his brother and powerful friends. He cast back only a single look, and then he saw the huge dim bulk of the castle showing through the mists and the rain. But presently the woods shut it from view, and he could not have seen it had he looked again. John's exultation, the vast rebound, grew. He had escaped, and he had struck down the enemy who had struck him. He felt equal to anything, and he forgot for the moment that the man who had rescued him in such an extraordinary way was wounded. But the man himself stopped soon.
"We'll wait here, Sir John of the Fleet Foot," he said. "Our friends who are frolicking in this thorny Forest of Arden were to come if they heard the sound of firing, and we must not go far away lest we miss them. Truly that was a fine and timely shot of yours, Sir John of the Bold Escape, and I judged by the look of your face that you had no love for the man at whom you fired."
"I did not," replied John. "He beat me, when I was in chains."
The other man uttered a low whistle.
"That was a nasty thing to do, but you are even. If he's still alive he'll have a face that will scare a dog.
"Whate'er you doUnto another,Some day that otherWill do unto you.
"Whate'er you doUnto another,Some day that otherWill do unto you.
"Whate'er you do
Unto another,
Unto another,
Some day that other
Will do unto you.
Will do unto you.
"Bear that in mind, young sir. In the hour of triumph do not rejoice too much in the fall of the man who has failed, because when he achieves his triumph and you have failed, which is likely to come to pass some time or other, he may make some moments exceedingly bitter unto thee. And now I shall dress myself, as I think I hear the footsteps of visitors."
John remembered that he, too, was clad lightly, and hastily put on his upper garments, while his friend did likewise. He now heard the steps, also, and they were rapidly coming nearer.
"Shouldn't we move?" he whispered. "Those must be Mexicans."
"No, we shouldn't move, because those are not the footsteps of Mexicans. Those sounds are made by the hardy feet of just two persons. One of them is a large brave German man, whose tread I would know a mile away, and the other, the lighter tread of whom is drowned in the volume of sound made by his comrade, is a boy, a strong, healthy boy who comes from a little town in Kentucky, which has the same name as a big town in France."
John began to tremble all over. He knew what these words meant. His friend uttered a low whistle, and quickly a low whistle in reply came from a point not twenty feet away. There was a moment of silence, then the approaching footsteps were resumed, the bushes were parted, and, as the lightning flared once more across the sky, John Bedford and Philip Bedford looked into the faces of each other.
They wrung hands in the darkness that followed the lightning flash, and, after the Anglo-Saxon fashion, said brief, inconsequential words. Yet the hearts of the two were full, and both Bill Breakstone, who had done the last miracle, and Hans Arenberg were moved deeply.
"Your letter came, John," said Phil simply, "and we are here. These are the best friends I ever had or that anybody ever could have. The man who brought you out of the castle was Bill Breakstone, and the one with me is Hans Arenberg. Without them I never could have reached you in the castle."
"You talk too much, young sir," said Bill Breakstone.
Then John suddenly remembered.
"Mr. Breakstone is wounded," he exclaimed. "We took off most of our clothes to swim the moat and I remember seeing a red spot on his side."
"Like your brother, you talk too much," said Bill Breakstone. "It seems to be a family failing with the Bedfords. It's a mere scratch."
"No harm iss done where none iss meant," said Arenberg sententiously. "It iss also well for us soon to be away from where we now are."
"That is true," said Breakstone. "The Mexicans undoubtedly will make some sort of a search and pursuit, though I don't think they'll carry it far on such a night. Come on boys, I'll lead, and the reunited family will bring up the rear. But no talking is best. You can't tell what we might stir up."
He led the way, and the others followed in silence. They crossed a valley, reached a mountain slope and began to climb. Up they went for at least two hours, pausing at times for John to take breath and rest. Meanwhile the storm continued, with cold rain, an alternate groaning and whistling of the wind through the valley, deep rumblings of thunder, and now and then a bright flare of lightning. John caught only one other glimpse of the huge, ominous bulk of the Castle of Montevideo, but it was far below him now. He knew, too, that it was impossible for anybody to follow a mountain trail in such darkness and storm. But, despite his great joy, he was feeling an exceeding weariness of the body. The long confinement had told heavily, but he would utter no complaint.
A half hour more, and they turned into a deep cove which led three or four hundred yards into the Sierra. At its end stood a small cabin, built of logs and almost hidden under the overhang of the cliff.
"Welcome to our home, Sir John," said Bill Breakstone, "we have no title to it, and it probably belonged to some Mexican sheep herder or hunter, but since our arrival none has appeared to claim it."
He threw open the door, and all went inside into the dry dark. John heard the door close behind him, a bar fell into place, and then the striking of a match came to his ear. A little blue flame appeared and grew. Arenberg, who had struck the match, lighted a pine torch, which he stuck at an angle in a hole in the wall, and a fine red flame lighted up the whole interior of the little cabin. Cabin! It was no cabin to John Bedford. It was a gorgeous palace, the finest that he had ever seen, and he was surrounded by the most devoted and daring friends that man ever had. Had they not just proved it?
The little torch disclosed a hard earthen floor, upon which the skins of wild animals had been spread, log walls with wooden hooks and pins inserted here and there, evidently within recent days, a strong board roof, rafters from which skins and some tools hung, a fireplace with a stone hearth, and four narrow skin couches, three of which had been often occupied, the fourth never. Outside, the wind still wailed, and the cold rain still beat upon the logs, but here it was warm, dry, and light. The greatness of it all suddenly overwhelmed John, and he sank forward in a faint.
Phil instantly seized his brother and raised him up, but Breakstone and Arenberg told him not to be alarmed, that it was merely the collapse of a weakened frame after tremendous tension, both physical and mental. Breakstone brought water in a gourd from a pail that stood in the corner, and soon John sat up again, very much ashamed of himself, and offering many apologies, at all of which the others laughed.
"Considering all you've been through to-night," said Bill Breakstone, "it's a wonder that you held out so long. I wouldn't have believed that you could do it, if I hadn't known your brother so well. Good thing I learned to be an actor. I was always strong in those Spanish parts. Wide hat brim, big black cloak coming up to meet the hat brim, terrible sword at my thigh, and terrible frown behind the cloak and the hat brim. Now, Hans, I think you can light the fire on the hearth there. No chance that anybody will see the smoke on a night like this, and there's no reason why we shouldn't dry our clothes and have a gay party. We've carried through our great adventure, and we'll just royster over it awhile."
Arenberg, without another word, took down the pine torch from its hole in the wall and ignited the heap of dry pine boughs that lay in the fireplace. They caught at once, crackled, and blazed pleasantly. Warm red shadows were soon cast across the floor, and a generous heat reached them all. They basked in it, and turned about and about, drying all their clothing and driving the last sign of chill from their bones. Arenberg also made coffee over the coals, and cooked venison, which they had in abundance. When John ate and drank in plenty, he felt that life did not have much more to offer. He sat on one of the skins, leaned comfortably against the wall, and contemplated his younger brother.
"You have grown a lot, Phil," he said.
"You didn't expect him to stand still, just because you were away locked up in a castle?" asked Bill Breakstone. "He had to grow up, so he could come and rescue you. Such tasks are too big for little children."
John Bedford smiled indulgently.
"It was certainly a big job," he said. "I am the one who ought to appreciate most its size and danger. It was a big thing to get through Texas even. Of course I learned while I was a prisoner in the castle that the Mexicans had retaken it. It made me feel mighty bad for a long time."
Phil and Bill Breakstone looked at each other. Arenberg pushed one of the pine-knots back into the fire. For a little while there was silence. Then Breakstone said:
"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 Pass 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.
"A blow--He'll rue it.A bullet--That pays it.
"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. "Nobody 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 passed 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 gods 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 pass 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 space, gazing out.
The curiosity of the others deepened. What was passing 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."
Phil was willing. He was so full of the story himself that he was anxious John should hear it all. He recounted how the letter had reached him at Paris in Kentucky, his journey to New Orleans, and his successive meetings there with Arenberg, Middleton, and Bill Breakstone; how they had joined the Santa Fé train and their encounter with the Comanches, led by Santana and Black Panther, the deeds of de Armijo, their long trail southward to join Taylor's army, and a description, as far as he saw it amid the flame and smoke, of the great battle of Buena Vista. He told of the sharp lava, the pass, and of the woman at the well who had given the cup of water to the weary prisoner who was but a boy.
"I remember her, I remember her well," said John, a thrill of gratitude showing in his tone. "I believe I'd have died if it hadn't been for that water, the finest that anybody ever tasted. I knew from the voice that it was a woman."
"We felt sure then," continued Phil, "that we were on the right trail, and we believed that, with patience and method, we'd be sure to find you if you were living. We knew that the letter had been brought to the Texas frontier by Antonio Vaquez, a driver who had received it in turn from one Porfirio, a vaquero, and we knew from your letter that you were confined in some great stone prison or castle. We learned of Montevideo, which is perhaps the greatest castle in Mexico, and everything pointed to it as the place.
"The Mexican army retreated in great haste southward after Buena Vista, in order to meet Scott, who was advancing on Mexico by the way of Vera Cruz. That left the country comparatively clear for us, and we came through the mountains, until we saw the Castle of Montevideo. When we saw it, we believed still more strongly that this was the place, but we knew that the biggest part of our work was before us. We would have to spy, and spy, and keep on spying before we could act. Any mule driver or sheepherder might carry news of us, and we must have a secure hiding-place as a basis. After a long search we found this cabin, which I don't think had been occupied for several years. We soon fixed it up so it was comfortable, as you can now see. There's a little spring at the west edge of the cove, and on the other side of the ridge there's a little valley with water and grass, but with walls so steep that a horse won't climb 'em unless he's led. Our horses are there now, having perhaps the best time of their lives.
"When we were located, good and snug, we began to spy. I believed after we met the woman at the well that fortune was favoring us. Arenberg here talked a lot about the spirits of the forest and the stream, some old heathen mythology of his, to which Bill and I didn't pay any attention. But anyway, we had luck. We scouted about the castle for weeks, but we didn't learn a thing, except that de Armijo was now governor there. We could find no more trace of you than if you had been on the moon.
"At last our lucky day came. We ran squarely upon a good-looking young Mexican, a vaquero. There wasn't time for us to get away or for him to get away. So we, being the more numerous, seized him. I suppose he thought he was going to be killed at once, as we were Americans, looking pretty tough from exposure and hardships, and so to make a play on our good feelings--Bill Breakstone could understand his Spanish--he said that once he'd tried to help a Gringo, a prisoner, in the great castle in the valley. He said he'd carried a letter from him, asking for help, and that the prisoner was not much more than a boy, taken in a raid from Texas three years ago.
"It flashed over us all at once that we had found the right man. Everything fitted too well together to permit of a mistake, and you can believe that we treated Porfirio, the vaquero, the finest we knew how, and made him feel that he had fallen into the hands of the best friends in the world. Were you still alive? We waited without drawing breath for the answer. You were still alive he answered, and well, so far as a prisoner could be. He knew that positively from his mother, Catarina, who was a cook at the castle, although he himself would not stay there, as, like a sensible man, he liked the mountains and the plains and the free life. He did not tell us of the blow that de Armijo had given you, perhaps because Catarina had said nothing of it to him, but we learned that he hated de Armijo, who had once struck him when he was at the castle, for some trifle or other--it seems that de Armijo had the striking habit--and after that we soon made our little plot. Catarina, of course, was the center of it, and her duties as a cook gave her the chance.
"It was Catarina who put the thread in the tamale. She might have put the letter there, but the writing on it would have been effaced, and even if it could have remained she did not dare. If the paper had been discovered by the Mexicans, she, of course, would have been declared guilty, but thread, even a package of it, might have found its way into the loose Mexican cooking, and if it had been discovered none of the sentinels or officers could have made anything out of such a slender thing. We trusted to your shrewdness that you would drop the thread out of the window, because there was nothing else to do with it, and you didn't fail us."
"But who tied the note on it?" asked John.
"Catarina, again--that is, she was at the end of the chain, Porfirio was in the middle, and we were at the other or far end. He passed the letter in to her--he works about the castle at times--and she tied it on the end of the thread. The key and the dagger reached you by the same route. Then we knew that, although you might unlock the door of your cell, you could never go outside the castle without the aid of some one within. For that reason we told you the night on which to unlock it, and the very hour, in order that the right man might be waiting for you at the head of the stairway. Bill Breakstone had to be that man, because he can speak Spanish and the Mexican dialects, and because, lucky for you, he's been an actor; often to amuse others he has played parts like the one that he played last night in such deadly earnest.
"Catarina got the keys--there are duplicates to all the cells--so we sent that up early, and on the day before your escape she stole the one to the big gate that guards the stairway. It was easy enough to steal the clothes for Breakstone, take him in as a servant, and his nerve and yours did the rest. But we must never forget Catarina and her son Porfirio, the vaquero. Without them we could have done nothing."
"I'm prouder of it than of any other thing in which I ever took part," said Bill Breakstone.
"It was not one miracle, it was a chain of them," said John Bedford.
"Whatever it was, here we all are," said Phil.