“An American!” came the low cry. “Yes, I am alone. Who are you, and what do you want?”
“I came to save you—that is, I thought my father was a prisoner here,” I stammered. “Are you tied up?”
“Worse, chained. But I think the chain can easily be broken. If you’ll help me get away from here, I’ll consider myself in your debt for life.”
“I’ll do what I can for you. But keep quiet, for there are a number of guards about,” I whispered.
With an effort I squeezed through the hole that had been made, and felt my way to the prisoner’s side, for the interior of the cell was dark. He had a chain around one wrist, and the chain was fastened by a large staple driven into a log of the wall of the fort.
Jorge had come up behind me, and, learning of the staple, began to cut at the woodwork surrounding it with his machete. The lower end of the blade was fairly keen, and he made such rapid progress that in less than five minutes a sharp jerk cleared the staple from the log, and the prisoner was free.
“Good for you,” he whispered to the colored guide. “Now which is the way out of this hole?”
“Follow me, and keep very quiet,” I whispered, and motioned to Jorge to lead the way.
Soon the guide had disappeared into the opening we had made. Going from the prison was worse than getting in, and the man we were trying to rescue declared the passage-way too small for him.
We commenced to enlarge it, I with my dagger and he with his hands. We had just made it of sufficient size when we heard a cry from outside. Jorge had emerged into the open, only to be discovered by a sentry who chanced to be looking his way. There was a shot, and half a dozen soldiers came running up, at which the guide took to the river with a loud splash.