‘Through the grating,’ she answered.
Both men shuddered. They felt she was speaking the truth. For the third time they went to the cellar door. In vain Racksole thrust himself against it; he could do no more than shake it.
‘Let’s try both together,’ said Prince Aribert. ‘Now!’ There was a crack.
‘Again,’ said Prince Aribert. There was another crack, and then the upper hinge gave way. The rest was easy. Over the wreck of the door they entered Prince Eugen’s prison.
The captive still sat on his chair. The terrific noise and bustle of breaking down the door seemed not to have aroused him from his lethargy, but when Prince Aribert spoke to him in German he looked at his uncle.
‘Will you not come with us, Eugen?’ said Prince Aribert; ‘you needn’t stay here any longer, you know.’
‘Leave me alone,’ was the strange reply; ‘leave me alone. What do you want?’
‘We are here to get you out of this scrape,’ said Aribert gently. Racksole stood aside.
‘Who is that fellow?’ said Eugen sharply.
‘That is my friend Mr Racksole, an Englishman—or rather, I should say, an American—to whom we owe a great deal. Come and have supper, Eugen.’