The words were spoken in Hungarian, hardly above a breath, and I fancied there was a somewhat familiar ring in the voice.
I lay quite quiet, not attempting to speak, and the knife, creeping down, began to rub edgewise against the cords that fastened my wrists.
The steel was sharp, the worker a master-hand, and the hempen threads fell apart as if by magic.
A sharp jerk would have set my wrists free, when Franz stirred uneasily, and though not even half awake, tugged at the rope which bound me to him.
Then he turned over again and was as soundly asleep as ever.
It was a terrible moment for the three of us, but most terrible of all for the unconscious Franz.
The dark figure at my head lay motionless, but the hand underneath that innocent-looking coat held, firmly grasped, a sharp, keen blade.
However, the danger past, the knife again slid down and finished its work. The fellow then wriggled round to our feet, and cut the cords on my legs; only the ropes binding me to my guards remained to be severed.
My excitement grew to an intense pitch; I had to force myself into silence. I wanted to jump up and scream aloud.
My unknown rescuer had apparently no nerves. The steel was pushed forward steadily, without a tremor, and the rope which bound me to Franz was cut.