"You have been here so long," she explained quickly. "And tied all these days." She was tugging at the knot.
"Only since I gave that pleasant punch to Peter Brutus."
"That shows what you can do," she whispered warmly. "Oh, I wonder! I wonder if we have a chance! Anyway, your arms will be free. I shall feel safer if your arms are free."
He sat with his back to her while she struggled with the stubborn knots. A delicious thrill of pleasure swept over him. She had said she would feel safer if his arms were free! She was struggling, with many a tense straining of delicate fingers, to undo the bonds which held him helpless. The touch of her eager fingers, the closeness of her body, the warmth of her breathing—he was beginning to hope that the effort might be prolonged interminably.
At last, after many despairing tugs, the knot relaxed. "There!" she cried, sinking back exhausted. "Oh, how it must have hurt you! Your wrists are raw!"
He suppressed the tactless impulse to say that he preferred a rope on the wrists to one about his neck, realising that the jest could only shock and not amuse her under the present conditions.
His arms were stiff and sore and hung like lead at his sides. She watched him, with narrowed eyes, while he stood off and tried to work blood and strength back into his muscles.
"Do you think you can—can do anything now, Mr. King?" she asked, after a long interval.
He would not tell her how helpless he was, even with his hands free. So he smiled bravely and sought to reassure her with the most imposing boasts he could utter. She began to breathe easier; the light in her eyes grew brighter, more hopeful.
"We must escape," she said, as if it were all settled.