With trembling limbs he sank down upon a box near the fire, but just in view of the others.
“We are ordered to rescue you, Mr. Cobb,” added Rawolle; “and your weak condition demands immediate succor. Waste no time, we implore. It is the President’s order.”
“Whose order?” quickly exclaimed Cobb.
“President Craft’s.”
Weak as he was, Cobb sprang toward the opening through which Rawolle was speaking, and excitedly cried:
“Is it not 1887? Who is President Craft? I never heard of him. Tell me, what is the year? Are we in 1800 or 1900?”
“Neither, sir,” answered Rawolle. “It is A. D. 2000.”
“My God! Have I been asleep since 1887?” and he pressed his hands to his brow, clutching his hair as if endeavoring to tear aside the veil of the past, that a realization of the moment might be made plain to him. “Have I slept a hundred and thirteen years? Am I now alive? or is this some terrible nightmare? No! no! I heard your voices! I live! I live again! Thank God! I have not failed in my undertaking.” He looked around him in a dazed manner.
“But can we not help you?” broke in Rawolle; “you have no time to lose in your weak condition. Tell us at once what we are to do; it will take over an hour to enlarge this breach. Have you no door, or mode of entrance?”
“Yes; there was a door, but it was sealed up after I entered this place. Go to the other side of the pedestal, and I will try to open it.”