“Hank!”
“Yes, chief!” said Hank Putney, for it was he; “but be quiet! be quiet! I must have time to file through these bars. Only take care that I am not seen through th’ gratin’ of th’ door.”
“Oh! that is all secure; it is too dark for the sentinel to see you, and I will stand with my back against the door.”
“Be ready at the first signal.”
“Ay, my trusty fellow; but make haste;” and he retreated to the door, where he placed himself in such a position that no person without the cell could possibly obtain a view of the window.
Amidst the moaning of the storm Iron Hand could hear the grinding of the file upon the bars, and by the light of every flash he perceived the form of Hank Putney.
An hour was spent in breathless suspense; the cold sweat stood upon his brow, and his heart beat quick at every movement he heard in the corridor.
There are hours which seem a year.
At the expiration of an hour, Hank tapped again. Iron Hand hastened to the window. Two of the huge iron bars were removed, forming an opening large enough for a man to pass through.
“Are ye ready?” asked Hank, in a low tone.