There was no answer to this logic. Moreover, what he said sounded like a challenge. So I set myself to thinking with more concentration than ever. There was another and longer interval of silence. I hoped that Whitestone or Adams would appear, but neither did so. After all, I had little right to expect either. We had left them far behind, and also we had changed our course. There was nothing to guide them. I addressed myself once more to Chudleigh’s reason. “Your errand is at an end,” I said. “Whether I take you now or not, you can not shake me off. You will never get through to Clinton. Besides, you are losing all your precious time here in the river.” But he preserved an obstinacy most strange and vexatious. He did not even reply to me, but kept on treading water. I perceived that I must use with him some other means than logic, however sound and unanswerable the latter might be. Sometimes it happens to me, as doubtless it does to other people, that after being long in a puzzle, the answer comes to me so suddenly and so easily that I wonder why I did not see it first glance. Without any preliminaries that would seem to warn Chudleigh, I dived out of sight. When I came up I was in such shallow water that I could wade. Near me was a huge bowlder protruding a good two feet above the water. I walked to it, climbed upon it, and taking a comfortable position above the water, looked at Chudleigh, who seemed to be much surprised and aggrieved at my sudden countermarch. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Nothing,” I replied, “except that I am tired of treading water. Come and join me; it’s very pleasant up here.” He declined my invitation, which I had worded most courteously. I remained silent for a while; then I said: “Better come. You can’t tread water forever. If you stay there much longer you’ll catch the cramp and drown.” I lolled on the bowlder and awaited the end with calmness and satisfaction. My signal advantage was apparent. “I’ll swim to the other shore,” said he presently. “You can’t,” I replied. “It’s too far; you haven’t strength enough left for it.” I could see that he was growing tired. He looked around him at either shore and up and down the river, but we were the only human beings within the circle of that horizon. “What terms of surrender do you propose?” he said at last, with a certain despair in his tone. “Unconditional.” “That is too hard.” “My advantage warrants the demand.” He was silent again for a few moments, and was rapidly growing weaker. I thought I would hasten matters. “I will not treat you badly,” I said. “All I want to do is to take you back to our army.” “Well, I suppose I must accept,” he said, “for I am growing devilish cold and tired.” “Pledge your honor,” I said, “that you will make no attempt to escape, with the understanding that the pledge does not forbid rescue.” “I give you my word,” he said. Whereupon he swam to shore, to the great relief of us both. CHAPTER XVI.