The boy blindly lowered his hand for the knife, and not a whisper was heard in those critical moments. For every movement was scanned, and the Colonel was lying on his
chest, straining his eyes, as he waited to give the order to haul up.
Gwyn gripped the knife, a sharp-pointed Spanish blade, and raised it, bending forward now, so as to look over Joe’s shoulder to see where to cut.
His intention was to thrust the point in between the silken cord and the boy’s wrists; but he found it impossible without having both hands, and there was nothing for it but to saw right down.
This he began to do just beneath the knots, hoping that the last part would yield before the knife could touch the boy’s skin.
“Take care, my lad,” growled Hardock.
“Yes; I’m trying not to cut him,” panted Gwyn.
“Nay, I mean when you’re through. Hold tight yourself.”
“Yes, I’ll try.”