The man obeyed, and felt the sharp point of the knife slip slowly round his neck until it rested behind his ear.
“‘Remember,” said Maurice, “one good cut downwards now and you are a dead man. Put your hands together.”
He pulled the leather belt clear with his left hand, then, dropping the knife, he knelt on the man’s back and gripped his wrists.
In a moment he had them securely strapped together with the leather belt. Then he stuffed a cloth into the soldier’s mouth and bound it there with a stout cord tied tight round his head. Another cord—Maurice had come well supplied with what he was likely to want—was made fast round the man’s legs. Then Maurice stood up and surveyed his handiwork. He laughed softly, well satisfied. The lamp flickered and went out.
“It’s a good job for you,” said Maurice, “that the light lasted as long as it did. I couldn’t have gagged and tied you in the dark. I should have been obliged to kill you.”
He felt along the wall until he came to the cellar door and found the keyhole. After much fumbling he got the key in, turned it, and pushed open the door.
“Neal,” he called. “Neal, are you there?”
“Yes. Who is that? Is it you, Maurice? It’s like your voice.”
Stumbling forward through the pitch dark, Neal gripped Maurice at last. Hand in hand they went cautiously along the passage and up the stairs.
“Come in here,” said Maurice. “There’s a light here, and I want to see if it’s really you. Oh! you needn’t be afraid. There are plenty of soldiers, but they won’t hurt you. They’re all dead drunk. Now, Neal, there’s lots to eat and drink. Sit down and make the best of your time. You’ll want a square meal. I’ll just take a light and go down to that fellow in the passage. I’ve got a few fathom of good, stout rope—I’m not sure that it isn’t the bit that they meant to hang you with in the morning—and I’ll fix him up so that he’ll neither stir nor speak till some one lets him loose.”