At last, feeling ahead, he came to the crumbled edge. And now, cautiously swinging about, he prepared to slide over feet first. If this was the right spot, he would land outside after a slide of only about ten feet. But how to tell? There wasn’t any way. It might be that this was not the right place at all, and he would drop straight down more than ten feet and break a leg. Still, he was bound to try. So he backed like a crab, farther and farther, exploring with his toes; he was over the edge, he was clinging with his knees and hands and barking his shins――and on a sudden the edge gave under his fingers and down he slithered, fast and faster, all in the darkness, with clatter and rasp and scrape, until――thump! No, it had not been the exact spot. Maybe by daylight he wouldn’t have risked such a long slide, on his stomach. But his clothes could not be hurt――a few more rags made no difference, and he was all right. He had landed on his back in the dry moat or ditch which skirted the bottom of the wall. Under his feet there was a heap of mortar from the wall, and a stiff bush had almost skewered him. He picked himself up, to claw out. In a moment the wind struck him full, again――sent him reeling and sprawling, and stung his cheek with sand and pebbles. Somewhere before him there lay the dunes and the American camp; but he could not see a thing, he had to cross the flat, brushy strip half a mile wide, and unless he kept his wits sharpened he would get all turned around. Well, the wind was his only guide; it hit him quartering, from the left or gulf side――came like a sheet of half-solid air, to flatten him. Leaning against it he bored on, trying to go in a straight line. Ouch! Cactus! And more cactus. Ouch! A large thorny bush. Ouch! A hollow into which he stepped with a grunt. The plain was a whirlpool of whistling wind and blinding sand that took his breath and blistered his cheek. The cactus stabbed him, the brush tripped him; every little while he had to sit down and rest. One lone boy seemed a small figure in the midst of that great storm, black with murk, especially when he wasn’t dead certain that he was heading right. That was a tremendously long half mile. Was he never going to get to the other edge? Perhaps he would be better off if he stayed in one spot and waited for morning. No; then he would be caught between two fires――might be shot by one side or the other, or else captured by prowling Mexican soldiers. After a while the wind slackened a little; the air cleared, and so did the sky. A moon peeped forth from the overhead scud. He thought that he could see the dunes, in a dim line, and he pushed on for them as fast as he could. He ought to be drawing near to them, by this time, for Vera Cruz lay hours behind him, according to the way his legs ached from his stumblings and zigzaggings.