They had evidently been on a more or less prolonged scouting trip. They could not know the story of his degradation. Nor could they be expected to credit so improbable a tale. He could not expect them to believe that Lieutenant-Colonel James Brinton--of whom they might or might not have heard--of General Taylor’s personal staff, was the scarecrow prisoner they had seized as a deserter. He tugged at his bunglingly tied wrist-bonds. But he could not loosen them. Almost he could draw one hand out from the leather strap. But he could not quite release it. Supper over, a trooper, at the lieutenant’s command, brought a shallow little tin dish of water and a piece of hardtack to where Brinton lay and set it beside him. The sight of the water set the prisoner well-nigh insane. Yet, by an effort that called for all his strength of mind, he refrained from drinking it. Instead, he lay still, looking up at the big southern stars until sentries were posted for the first watch and the other troopers rolled into their blankets. Then, cautiously, he stretched forth his bound hands and laid his wrists in the shallow tin dish of water. The touch of the cool liquid brought on another mad craving to drink. But Brinton, after a second battle of will, conquered, and forebore to waste the precious water in the mere quenching of thirst. For ten minutes he let his wrists and their leathern thongs soak in the dish. Then he drew them out and exerted all his weak force to pulling his close-fastened wrists asunder. The leather, as he had foreseen, had softened and stretched from immersion. A desperate tug that scraped off most of the skin of one wrist--and his right hand was free. It was a simple matter to double over and to reach the bonds that tied his ankles. The knot was soon untied. And Brinton lay unbound and half fainting. For hours he lay thus. Then, at a change of sentries, he began to wriggle noiselessly away from the camp. Giving the drowsy sentry a wide berth, he crept on hands and knees through the darkness until the camp lay a furlong behind him and the sides of the farther and higher ridge loomed directly above him. An hour later, at first glimmer of dawn, Brinton gained the ridge’s summit and lay resting for a time on its crest. After which he rose and looked ahead. In front of him, far below, and a few miles beyond the ridge, something broad and silvery lay glittering in the dawn light. With a hoarse cry, Brinton recognized it. “The Rio Grande!” he croaked. “The Rio Grande! Yonder to the left is the ford we crossed! And--beyond, lies God’s country!” At noon, Brinton reached the river’s bank. Hope had replaced strength and had made the last stage of the journey possible. Waist deep he waded into the stream, crouching down and rolling over in the tepid water; sucking in pints of it as he assuaged his thirst.