“The solution is,” Phil broke in sadly, “those men were volunteers, the Seventy-eighth Infantry, the colonel said; there probably wasn’t an old soldier among them. They fight like demons when they see the enemy, but are as helpless as children against a savage foe skilled in woodcraft. If that had been a battalion of regulars there’d have been a fight and we would now be free, or,” he added with an unconscious shiver, “dead there in the jungle, for the native guarding me would have been only too happy to stick his bolo into me.” O’Neil had already rolled himself in his blanket, apparently resigned to the tricks of fate, and the midshipmen, realizing, after their long day’s ride in spite of their troubled minds, that they were in need of rest, were soon comfortably settled on the bundles of dry grass given them to lie upon. As Phil dropped into a troubled sleep, he was conscious of the four native guards, pacing to and fro just outside of ear-shot. These four men were all that stood between them and liberty; for once they had escaped, he felt confident that O’Neil could be depended upon to follow the track of those half a thousand soldiers who had marched past so carelessly only a few hours before. After what seemed an incredibly short time, although he had slept for hours, he awakened with a start; sitting bolt upright, he gazed quickly about him. A faint streak of light in the eastern sky told him the night had nearly passed. His brain, keenly alive, grasped for a reason; what had stirred him to wakefulness? All was quiet about the camp. The guards were no longer on their feet, but he could see their shadowy forms squatting on the ground, their rifles in their hands. With a disappointed sigh, for what he did not know, he dropped back upon his bundle of straw, but he soon found he was too wide awake for more sleep. He finally arose, stretching himself as though just awakened, and by an impulse which he was powerless to disobey, walked slowly toward the guards. As he advanced he saw with surprise that they did not move. Stealthily he went on until he stood over the nearest one, squatting naturally, the butt of his rifle between his bare feet. The guard was sound asleep. Farther on he saw in the dim mysterious light of early dawn that the other three were also silently sleeping, their bodies propped up against the trunks of the dwarf pine-trees. Phil’s heart beat fast. Here was freedom within his grasp. He leaned forward, seizing the rifle barrel of an unconscious guard, drawing it slowly from his relaxed fingers. The butt still rested between his feet and as he slowly, steadily drew the rifle toward him, the sleeping native’s body settled itself inch by inch upon the ground. [Illustration: _HERE WAS FREEDOM WITHIN HIS GRASP_]