The impulse came strongly upon him to rise and flee—captivity was so dreadful, liberty so sweet—and it might be that, though so strangely spared up to this time, torture and death were yet to be his portion if he remained.
He started up, but only to fall back again in utter exhaustion. He could do nothing to save himself, and there was no earthly helper near; but sweetly to his mind came the opening verses of the forty-sixth psalm, "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will we not fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea," and silently committing himself and loved ones—all, alas, so far distant—to the care of that almighty Friend, he fell asleep again.
He was quite alone when next he woke, and it was broad daylight, for a bright sunbeam had found its way through the opening in the roof, and laid bare to his view the whole interior of the wigwam, with all its filth and lack of the comforts of civilized life.
All was silence within, but from without came the merry shouts and laughter of the Indian children at play. Presently one pushed aside the curtain of skins answering for a door, and a pair of wild black eyes stared Rupert in the face for a moment; then the curtain fell, and soft, swift-retreating footfalls came faintly to his ear.
Not many minutes had passed when it was again drawn aside, and Juanita, the Mexican girl he had seen the day before, stepped within, dropping it behind her.
Her sweet though melancholy smile seemed to light up the forlorn hut as she bade Rupert good-morning in her liquid tones, using the Spanish tongue as before, and asked if he could eat the morsel she had brought. Alas, not such a breakfast as would have been served him in his own far-away home.
It was a broiled fish, hot from the coals, laid upon a bit of bark covered with green oak-leaves in lieu of a napkin. He thanked her gratefully, and asked if she could give him some water with which to wash his face and hands before eating.
Setting his breakfast on the ground beside him, she went out, and presently returned with a gourd filled with cold, clear water from a little stream that ran sparkling and dancing down the mountain-side but a few yards away.
He first took a long deep draught, for he was suffering with feverish thirst, then laved face and hands, she handing him his own pocket-handkerchief, which had been washed in the stream and dried in the sun, to use in place of a towel.
He recognized it; then glancing down at his person, saw that he was attired in the clothes he had on when taken, and that, as they were free from blood-stains, they too must have been washed by some kindly hand and replaced upon him after their cleansing.