The unconscious objects of his apostrophe having entered the room, seated themselves not far from him, chattering with each other. The subject of the conversation was uninteresting to their prisoner, who lay revolving in his mind what was best to be done.
The time for putting his plan into execution had at length arrived.
His sentinels had ceased conversing, and were with difficulty keeping themselves awake.
“Look hyar, red-skins,” he said, addressing them, “have ye sich a thing as a drop of water? I’m most chokin’ wi’ thirst, and I see its no use waiting till you axes me, so I’ll take the trouble off your hands, and axe you.”
One of the Indians good-naturedly went outside, returning with a gourd, which he handed to the prisoner.
Cris raised it to his lips, and drank; then paused, as if for breath.
“By the etarnal!” said he, “if I didn’t think I seed one of your comrades put his head in that thar door. What kin he want?”
The men looked in the direction of the door.
The contents of the phial were poured into the gourd.
When the Indians looked again at their captive, he was apparently enjoying another long draught of water.