The long columns of mist and vapor seemed so near that John felt as if he could reach out his hand and touch them.
His day's exertions began to tell now, and the chill of the night deepened.

He sought his chosen shelter within the old temple, and lying down on the stone floor wrapped in his blankets, sank fast into sleep.
Morning dawned, sharp and clear, and the red sun came out of Asia, turning the huge pile of Zillenstein once more into a scarlet glow, a vast blood-red splotch in the side of the mountain.
He drank at the little stream, then bathed his face, ate breakfast, and, knapsack on back, returned to the road that led down the far side of the mountain.

His courage was still high.

The crusader of the day before was none the less the crusader this morning, and he whistled soft and happy airs as he descended.

He knew that it was a trick that he had caught from General Vaugirard and he wondered where that fat old hero might be now.
But as he walked along he formed his plan.