From there, the way to the steps at the gun-room entrance was clear and the old iron gates above and below were both wide, as he discovered by sense of touch. He set an ear to the panel beyond, to find out whether the gun-room was occupied, and heard only a long-drawn groan. That seemed to come from somewhere behind him. He descended the steps again, listening intently.
Another safety-match sputtered and broke into a blue light in his tremulous fingers. He saw that the bolt on the outside of the cell door at the foot of the steps was shot and judged that there must be some one within. For a moment, he hesitated; and then he pulled the bolt free.
"Who's there?" he asked of the darkness that gave him back only another low groan for answer.
The heavy hinges of the door creaked as he thrust it open and entered. His last match showed him a huddled white heap in one corner, two hands tied behind it, a grey-haired and bleeding head. He turned back and pushed up into the gun-room without more ado. It was empty.
He looked dazedly about him in the bright lamplight, and his eyes fell on a couple of candlesticks. He picked one up and found a full box of matches beside it. From the decanter on the table before the fire he partly filled a glass, and disappeared down the steps again with his candle to show him the way, drawing the panel back into place behind him.
Within the cell door he set down the glass he was carrying and, pulling out a pocket-knife, cut through the cord which secured the wrists of the prone figure in the corner. Its hands fell limply apart and lay palms upward. He did not at once release its ankles, but, stooping over it, pulled it round on to its back--and sprang away from it in such frantic haste that the candle jumped from its holder and left him in darkness again.
He all but brained himself as he rushed for the door, but he got outside and, stunned as he was, set his shoulder to it. It closed with a clang and, as he shot the bolt home, he sank to his knees, breathing brokenly, his forehead on its rusty iron. He righted himself with an effort, but stayed where he was, sitting huddled together against the rock wall, his face damp with cold perspiration. He was blind in the blackness about him and could hear nothing but the trip-hammer beat of his own strained heart.