n-mouthed. Could he believe his ears? And if Martin
was so horribly scared, why did his eye glint in that peculiar way
between his fingers? He had seen this light in it before, no later
indeed than the last afternoon just as the soldiers tried to rush the
stair. He gave up the problem as insoluble, but from that moment he
watched very narrowly.

"Do you hear what this young lady says, Professor Baptiste?" said the
sergeant. "She says" (imitating Martin's whine) "that she'll tell all
she knows."

"Then the great cur might have saved me this trouble. Stop here with
him. I must go and inform the Governor; those are my orders. No, no,
you needn't give him clothes yet--that cloth is enough--one can never be
sure."

Then he walked to the door and began to unlock it, as he went striking
Martin in the face with the back of his hand, and saying,

"Take that, cur." Whereat, as Foy observed, the cowed prisoner perspired
more profusely than before, and shrank away towards the wall.

God in Heaven! What had happened? The door of the torture den was
opened, and suddenly, uttering the words, "_To me, Foy!_" Martin made
a movement more quick than he could follow. Something flew up and fell
with a fearful thud upon the executioner in the doorway. The guard
sprang forward, and a great bar of iron, hurled with awful force into
their faces, swept two of them broken to the ground. Another instant,
and one arm was about his middle, the next they were outside the door,
Martin standing straddle-legged over the body of the dead Professor
Baptiste.

They were outside the door, but it was not shut, for now, on the other
side of it six men were pushing with all their might and main. Martin
dropped Foy. "Take his dagger and look out for the porter," he gasped as
he hurled himself against the door.

In a second Foy had drawn the weapon out of the belt of the dead man,
and wheeled round. The porter from the wicket was running on them sword
in hand. Foy forgot that he was wounded--for the moment his leg
seemed sound again. He doubled himself up and sprang at the man like
a wild-cat, as one springs who has the rack behind him. There was no
fight, yet in that thrust the skill which Martin had taught him so
patiently served him well, for the sword of the Spaniard passed over
his head, whereas Foy's long dagger went through the porter's throat.
A glance showed Foy that from him there was nothing more to fear, so he
turned.

"Help if you can," g