The band cut into Aylmer's cheek as the knot was twitched with all the awkwardness of haste, but a moment later the pressure ceased. He spat the gag from between his teeth.
"Little John!" he cried. "Little John! Are you hurt? are you able to stand?"
The boy clutched him with a sort of desperation of relief.
"Oh, you can speak—you can speak!" he shouted joyously. "My head aches and my shoulder doesn't move right, but I can stand. I can reach nothing above my head—or right—or left."
There was a creaking of timber as he moved, stretching his hands, as was evident, into the black emptiness about the boat. Aylmer's bound wrists were lifted to reach him.
"Pick at them—as you did before, little John," he said. "Loose me, so that we can search the darkness together."
The child's breath came in zealous pants as he tugged and pulled, but the knots were tightly lashed and sodden with the sea. And his haste was a handicap; he plucked and twisted ineffectually. And finally he overbalanced himself and slipped.
He gave a cry of pain.
"I'm hurted—I'm bleeding!" he sobbed. "I fell against something that cut!"
Aylmer's heart stood still. If the fall had injured the child severely, if it had disabled him, if he were to lose consciousness—was this horror of helplessness to be added to those which already had them in their grip? He stretched out his arms towards the sound of the sobbing, and this, as he did so, suddenly ceased.