ed the key which he had selected in the lock of
one of the farther doors. It slid in, turned, and the door swung open.
A single glance sufficed to assure Phil that the door was that of a
cell, and that the cell was unoccupied, whereupon he beckoned Dick, who
hoisted the unconscious jailer upon his shoulders, bore him to the cell,
and flung him unceremoniously upon the heap of straw which was
apparently intended to serve as a bed.

"Now, the belt, quick," whispered Phil, who had followed, gently closing
the door behind him; and, rolling the still insensible body over on its
face, the pair bent over it and with deft fingers contrived to fasten
the ankles and wrists of their victim together in such a fashion, that
the more the man struggled the tighter would he draw the ligature. Then
using the formidable-looking knife which the man had worn suspended from
his belt, they formed a gag by cutting strips from their skin clothing
and wrapping it round the largest key of the bunch, which they detached
from the chain and inserted in their victim's mouth, thus rendering it
as impossible for him to cry out as it was for him to move. Having
disposed of the jailer in such a fashion that he would not be likely to
give trouble for the next hour or two, the pair left the cell, closed
and locked the door behind them, and stood listening intently to
ascertain whether the sounds of the recent struggle had attracted
attention.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

WHAT HAPPENED IN THE INQUISITION AT CUZCO.

For perhaps half a minute the pair stood outside the cell door,
listening with all their ears, but not the slightest sound broke the
silence which seemed to pervade the whole of the vast building. Then,
from somewhere in the far distance, there came the sound of a door being
closed, and almost at the same instant a quavering cry, rising to a
long-drawn shriek of agony, again pealed forth from behind that awful
door a few paces along the corridor.

"For mercy's sake, what is it?" whispered Dick, with ashen lips.
"Surely such sounds can never be human?"

"They are, though!" replied Phil in a low, tense whisper. "They are the
cries of some poor soul under the torture--`being put to the question'
as these fiends of Inquisitors express it. Oh! if I could but lay my
hands upon one of them, I would--but come along, lad; we must not dally
here. If we are again taken after what we have done our fate will be--
well, something that won't bear think