It was as dark as midnight, but perfectly straight, and as there were no others branching off from it, there was no danger that Mark would lose his way.
He hurried along with all possible speed, keeping his hands stretched out before him, and presently they came in contact with some obstruction, which blocked up the whole end of the passage-way.
Mark ran his fingers over it, and found that it was a wide oak plank, with a strap nailed to it. This he seized with both hands, and, after pulling it about in various ways, succeeded in forcing back the plank, disclosing to view the interior of our prison.
He was astonished and alarmed at the reception he met with. A thick cloud of smoke, through which the flames were shining brightly, rushed into his face, almost suffocating him and driving him back from the door.
He thought the room was on fire, and when he heard my voice, he bounded through the smoke, expecting to find me badly burned and almost smothered.
“Can you walk, Joe?” he asked, speaking with the greatest difficulty. “If you can, follow me. You here, Tom Mason?”
Mark’s clinched hand was drawn back, and in a moment more Tom would have measured his length on the floor, had I not interposed.
“No violence,” said I. “Tom has stuck to me like a brother, and you owe him thanks instead of blows.”
I knew by the expression on Mark’s face that he could not understand the matter at all. He did not stop to ask questions, however, but led us at once to the entrance to the passage-way.
When we reached it, it was my turn to be astonished, for there stood the young wrestler. He did not draw back as we approached, and neither did my brother seize him, as I expected he would.