Only Phil noticed the faint tone of sadness with which his words ended, and he glanced quickly at the German. But Arenberg’s face expressed nothing. Once more he was pulling calmly at his pipe. Bill Breakstone gave his words hearty indorsement. "You’re right," he said. "The Grand Duke of Germany speaks the truth. I’ve embodied that piece of wisdom in a little poem, which I will quote to you: "You may lead a horse to the water, But you cannot make him drink. You may stuff a man with knowledge, But you cannot make him think. "Part of that is borrowed, and part of it is original, but, combining the two parts, I think it is a little masterpiece." Arenberg took out his pipe again, and regarded Bill Breakstone with admiration. "It iss one great man, this Herr Bill Breakstone," he said. "He makes poetry and tells the truth at the same time." "Thanks, most puissant lord," said Breakstone, "and now, the lesson being over, Phil, I think we might all of us go to sleep and knit up a few raveled sleeves of care." "We might take to the wagon," said Middleton. "If I’m any judge of weather, Phil, the beautiful spell that we’ve had is coming to an end." "You’re right, Cap," said Breakstone. "I noticed that when the sun set to-day it looked redder than usual through a cloud of mist, and that means rain. Therefore, Orlando deserts his little Forest of Arden, and betakes himself to the shelter of the curved canvas." Phil deemed it wise to imitate him, and the four found places in the large wagon among their goods, where they had the shelter of the canvas roof, although the cover was open at either end to allow the clean sweep of the air. Phil, as usual, slept well. Five minutes was about all he needed for the preparatory stage, and to-night was no exception. But he awoke again in the middle of the night. Now he knew full well the cause. Low thunder was rumbling far off at the edge of the earth, and a stroke of lightning made him wink his sleepy eyes. Then came a rush of cold air, and after it the rain. The big drops rattled on the curving canvas roof, but they could not penetrate the thick cloth. Phil raised himself a little, and looked out at the open ends, but he saw only darkness. Meanwhile the rain increased and beat harder upon the roof, which shed it like shingles. Phil drew his blanket up to his chin, rested his head and shoulders a little more easily against a bag of meal, and never had a greater sense of luxury in his life. The beat of the rain on the canvas was like the patter of the rain on the roof of the old home, when he was a little boy and lay snug under the eaves. He had the same pleasant sense of warmth and shelter now. The storm might beat about him, but it could not touch him. He heard the even breathing of his comrades, who had not awakened. He heard the low thunder still grumbling far off in the south-west, and the lightning came again at intervals, but he sank gently back to slumber.