Perhaps the whiteness of the ray itself exaggerated it, but his face held a deathly pallor; his eyes were closed; and his hands and feet were twisted cruelly and tightly bound.
"Give me your knife—quick—Sparrow !" she called. "Then go and keep watch just outside."
The Sparrow handed her his knife, and hurried back to the door.
She worked in the darkness now. She could not use both hands and still hold the flashlight; and, besides, with the door partially open now where the Sparrow was on guard there was always the chance, if Danglar and those of the gang with him were already in the vicinity, of the light bringing them all the more quickly to the scene.
Again she spoke to the Adventurer, as she removed the gag—and a fear that made her sick at heart seized upon her. There was still no answer. And now, as she worked, cutting at the cords on his hands and feet, the love that she knew for the man, its restraint broken by the sense of dread and fear at his condition, rose dominant within her, and impulse that she could not hold in leash took possession of her, and in the darkness, since he would not know, and there was none to see, she bent her head, and, half crying, her lips pressed upon his forehead.
She drew back startled, a crimson in her face that the darkness hid. What had she done? Did he know? Had he returned to consciousness, if he really had been unconscious, in time to know? She could not see; but she knew his eyes had opened.
She worked frantically with the bonds. He was free now. She cast them off.
He spoke then—thickly, with great difficulty.
"It's you, the White Moll, isn't it?"
