He pointed to a tiny spring oozing from beneath the roots of a large oak, flowing perhaps thirty yards and then losing itself beneath the roots of another large oak. It looked clear and fresh, and Phil, kneeling down and drinking, found it cold and delightful. Bill Breakstone did the same, with results equally happy. "Yes, this was made for us," he said, confirming Phil’s words. "There are not many such springs that I ever heard of in the Cross Timbers, and our luck holds good." They called the others, who drank, and after them the horses. It was an ideal place for a camp, and they felt so secure that they lighted a fire and cooked food, venison, and steaks of antelope and deer that they had shot by the way. "It might be a good idea," said Breakstone, "to rest here in the shade a part of to-morrow. All of us have been riding pretty hard, and you know, Hans, old man, that if you go too fast you are not strong enough to do what you must do when you get there." It was Arenberg whose feelings were now consulted most, and, when they looked at him for an answer, he nodded assent. Hence they took some of their supplies from the pack horses, and made themselves more comfortable on the grass about the little spring. Lengthy scouting, done by Arenberg and Breakstone, showed that there was no danger from Comanche, Lipan, or any other Indian tribes, and they could take their rest without apprehension. They also dared to build a fire for the cooking, a luxury which they enjoyed much, but which was usually dangerous in the Indian country. Fallen and dry timber was abundant, and when they had cooked a plentiful supply of venison and buffalo strips they fell to and ate with the appetite which only life under the stars can give. By and by Bill Breakstone gazed at John in admiration. But John took no notice. He ate steadily on, varying the course with an occasional tin cup of water. "Sir John Falstaff," said Bill Breakstone, "I’ve read a lot about you in Shakespeare, and on two or three memorable occasions I have played you. You have been renowned two hundred and fifty years for your appetite, and I want to tell you right now that your fame isn’t up to the real thing by half. Say, Sir John, they didn’t give you much to eat in that Castle of Montevideo, did they?" "Tortillas, frijoles, tamales, tortillas, frijoles, tamales," replied John in a muffled voice, as he reached for another delicate piece of fried deer. "Go right on," said Bill Breakstone, "I’ve no wish to stop you. Make up for all the three years that you lost." John, taking his advice, stuck to his task. Although imprisonment had greatly wasted him, it had never impaired his powerful and healthy constitution. Now he could fairly feel his muscles and sinews growing and the new life pouring into heart and lungs.