The yellow water was all of these things to them, and they did as Bill bade while they drank. After that, they took more cups of it from time to time, and noted with satisfaction that, as they dipped the water out of the pit, more trickled back in again. Toward night they watered the horses a second time, and Arenberg suggested that they spend both the night and the day there, since the water seemed to be plentiful. In the day they could at least sit in the shadow of their horses, and, if pushed hard by the sun, they could sit in their well. As the suggestion came from Arenberg, who had the most reason for haste, it was adopted unanimously and quickly. In the night, when it was cool and work was easy, they deepened the well considerably, securing a much stronger and purer flow of water. They also gave a greater slope to the sides, and then they went to sleep, very well contented with themselves. The next day, either in reality or imagination, was hotter than any of the others, and they felt devoutly thankful for the well, by which they could stay as long as they chose. When the sun was at its hottest they literally took refuge in it, sheltering themselves against the sandy bank and putting their hands in the water. "My hands must be conductors," said Bill Breakstone, "because, when I hold them in the water, I can feel the damp coolness running all through my system. Now, Sir John, you escaped convict, without the striped clothes, did you ever see such a fine well as this before?" John laughed. "I’d rather have this well and freedom," he said, "than my cell in the Castle of Montevideo and all the beautiful mountain springs about there." "Spoken like a man," said Bill Breakstone; "but this well is a beauty on its own account, and not merely by comparison. Look at the flowers all around its brink. Look at the beautiful white stone with which it is walled up. Look at the clearness of the water, like silver, in which my lily white hand now laves itself. "Our thirst rages; Water is found; Out of Hades At one bound. "Can you better that descriptive poem, Phil?" Phil shook his head. "No, Bill," he replied, "I can’t. We’re all of us poets at heart, but you’re the only one that can give his poetry expression. One poet is enough, another is too many."