After a long silence without, he heard the Comanches moving again through the grove, and the reflection from the flare of a torch struck high on the wall of the medicine lodge. They had come back for a second search! He felt for a few moments a great apprehension lest they invade the platforms themselves, but this thought was quickly succeeded by confidence in the invisibility of Breakstone and himself, and the superstition of the Indians. The tread of the Comanches and their occasional talk died away, the lights disappeared from the creek bed, and the regions, outside the medicine lodge and the other lodges, were left to the darkness and the rain. Phil felt deep satisfaction, but he yet remained motionless and silent. He longed to call to Breakstone, but he dreaded lest he might do something rash. Bill Breakstone was older than he, and had spent many years in the wilderness. It was for him to act first. Phil, despite an overwhelming desire to move and to speak, held himself rigid and voiceless. In a half hour came the soft, whispering question: "Phil, are you there?" It was Breakstone from the next tree, and never was sound more welcome. He raised himself a little, and drops of rain fell from his face. "Yes, I’m here, Bill, but I’m mighty anxious to move," he replied in the same low tone. "I’m tired of having my home in a graveyard, too," said Bill Breakstone, "though I’ll own that for the time and circumstances it was about the best home that could be found this wide world over. It won’t be more than an hour till day, Phil, and if we make the break at all we must make it now." "I’m with you," said Phil. "The sooner we start, the better it will please me." "Better stretch yourself first about twenty times," said Bill Breakstone. "Lying so long in one position with the rain coming down on top of you may stiffen you up quite a lot." Phil obeyed, flexing himself thoroughly. He sat up and gently touched the mummy on either side of him. He had no awe, no fear of these dead warriors. They had served him well. Then, swinging from a bough, he dropped lightly to the ground, and he heard the soft noise of some one alighting near him. The form of Bill Breakstone showed duskily. "Back from the tombs," came the cheerful whisper. "Phil, you’re the greatest boy that ever was, and you’ve done a job that the oldest and boldest scout might envy. "I was a captive, The Indians had me; Phil was adaptive, Now they’ve lost me. "I composed that rhyme while I was lying on the death platform up there. I certainly had plenty of time--and now which way did you come, Phil?" "Under the shelter of the creek bank. The woods run down to it, and it is high enough to hide a man." "Then that is the way we will go, and we will not linger in the going. Let the Comanches sing and dance if they will. They can enjoy themselves that way, but we can enjoy ourselves more by running down the dark bed of a creek."