"Ah!" he exclaimed, after his seemingly exhausting imbibation, and with the greatest difficulty suppressing a grimace, "there's nothing like water to refresh one. It a'most gives a dyin' man new lease o' his life. I wonder I never tried it afore. There's a smack o' freedom about it that's worth its weight in gold. Try it yourselves, and don't stand staring, as if you was agoin' to swallow me." The comical expression of their captive's face, more than the long speech he made to the two men, induced them to oblige him. Putting their lips to the gourd, each took a draught of the water. They did not seem to coincide with him in his opinion of its virtues. The old hunter laughed in his sleeve on perceiving their wry faces. "Don't like it, eh? Wal, you don't know what's good for ye. Poor benighted critters! how should ye?" As he made the remark he fell back upon his log bolster, and again seemed to compose himself to sleep. If the Indians had been somnolent before drinking the water, they were not rendered more wakeful by the indulgence, and it was almost ludicrous to see what useless efforts they made to battle against the potent narcotic. In vain they talked to each other, got up, and paced the room, and endeavoured to stand up without leaning up against the wall. This struggle between sleep and watchfulness at length came to a close. In less than ten minutes after taking the draught, both lay stretched along the floor in a deep death-like slumber. The backwoodsman lost no more time. With an agile motion, he planted his feet in the interstices of the logs, and reached the window. A slight wrenching of the bars showed the skill with which they had been sawn asunder. One after another gave way, and the whole framework was in his hands. He was on the point of dropping it gently, when outside, under the window, a human form appeared. It was that of an Indian! CHAPTER THIRTY NINE. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. On seeing the Indian, Cris Carrol felt himself in a dilemma. But he did not pause long before taking action. He saw that the man was not watching him, but seemed to have his eyes fixed upon the windows of the adjoining habitation. Quietly pulling in the iron framework which was beginning to feel heavy, Cris deposited it without noise in the interior of the room and again clambered up to the window. Before doing so, however, he stole his knife from one of the sleeping sentinels. The Indian outside had still maintained his attitude. When Cris looked forth again, he saw him with his eyes fixed on the same spot. What was to be done? The only thing that suggested itself to the hunter was precisely what he did do. He crept through the window. So quietly, that ere the individual below was aware of his presence, he had seized him by the throat and forced him to the ground.