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.