God in Heaven! What had happened? The door of the torture den was opened, and suddenly, uttering the words, “To me, Foy!” Martin made a movement more quick than he could follow. Something flew up and fell with a fearful thud upon the executioner in the doorway. The guard sprang forward, and a great bar of iron, hurled with awful force into their faces, swept two of them broken to the ground. Another instant, and one arm was about his middle, the next they were outside the door, Martin standing straddle-legged over the body of the dead Professor Baptiste.
They were outside the door, but it was not shut, for now, on the other side of it six men were pushing with all their might and main. Martin dropped Foy. “Take his dagger and look out for the porter,” he gasped as he hurled himself against the door.
In a second Foy had drawn the weapon out of the belt of the dead man, and wheeled round. The porter from the wicket was running on them sword in hand. Foy forgot that he was wounded—for the moment his leg seemed sound again. He doubled himself up and sprang at the man like a wild-cat, as one springs who has the rack behind him. There was no fight, yet in that thrust the skill which Martin had taught him so patiently served him well, for the sword of the Spaniard passed over his head, whereas Foy’s long dagger went through the porter’s throat. A glance showed Foy that from him there was nothing more to fear, so he turned.
“Help if you can,” groaned Martin, as well he might, for with his naked shoulder wedged against one of the cross pieces of the door he was striving to press it to so that the bolt could be shot into its socket.
Heavens! what a struggle was that. Martin’s blue eyes seemed to be starting from his head, his tongue lolled out and the muscles of his body rose in great knots. Foy hopped to him and pushed as well as he was able. It was little that he could do standing upon one leg only, for now the sinews of the other had given way again; still that little made the difference, for let the soldiers on the further side strive as they might, slowly, very slowly, the thick door quivered to its frame. Martin glanced at the bolt, for he could not speak, and with his left hand Foy slowly worked it forward. It was stiff with disuse, it caught upon the edge of the socket.
“Closer,” he gasped.
Martin made an effort so fierce that it was hideous to behold, for beneath the pressure the blood trickled from his nostrils, but the door went in the sixteenth of an inch and the rusty bolt creaked home into its stone notch.
Martin stepped back, and for a moment stood swaying like a man about to fall. Then, recovering himself, he leapt at the sword Silence which hung upon the wall and passed its thong over his right wrist. Next he turned towards the door of the court-room.
“Where are you going?” asked Foy.
“To bid him farewell,” hissed Martin.