Silence, while the jailer, crouching by the door in the position he had held for hours, seemed a graven image; silence, while Don Ernesto and Mr. Hampton sat forward, voiceless, lost in thought, their elbows on their knees, on a couch near the door; silence, while Frank and Jack leaned in a loophole, their heads close together, staring down at the Temple front and the portion of the square within their view.
“Jack,” said Frank at last, in a low voice, “I’ve been thinking.”
“Yes?”
“We can get out to safety all right, probably, with Michac in command.”
“I suppose he’d let us go.”
“But we can’t desert Prince Huaca.”
“That’s right.”
“He’s a white man.”
“He certainly is.”
“He trusted us, Jack, and we ought to help him.”