“Gott sei Dank! Ingleton! You zay Ingleton! Zough ze dress be Mohr, ze voice is English. You are indeed English? Answer me for ze love of ze heavens!”
“Yes, I am English,” cried Tom impatiently; “I want Sir Mark Ingleton.”
“He is here, vizin, inside, viz me, Hildebrand Schwab. Let me out double-quick; I stifle, I suffocate, I do not breaze. Gott sei dank!”
“He is there? Where is he? Tell him I want to speak to him—an Englishman.”
“He sleep sound, he is indispose; but I am ze vorst. I am here ze longest. Open ze door, please, be good enough, have ze kindness——”
Without more ado, Tom drew back the bolts with a bang and pulled at the door. It was locked. Schwab groaned again; but Tom, handing his torch to Abdul, who was pale with apprehension, called to Schwab to stand away from the door, and blew the lock in with a shot from his revolver. He flung open the door, and burst into the cell. The shot had awakened the envoy, who looked up in a dazed fashion, and asked, in the low voice of a man thoroughly tired, what the disturbance was about.
“God be praise, we are save! Do not notice ze dress; it is nozink; ze man is English. Ach! it is no good; ze door is open, but ve are in chains. Ach! Zum Teufel! It is kaput—all up!”
Tom pushed past him impatiently.
“Quick, Abdul,” he said, “the hammer!”
Hastening to Sir Mark, who had risen from the floor, with half a dozen sturdy blows Tom snapped the chains that fixed his ankle bands to staples in the wall, then performed the like service for Schwab. He made no attempt to release their ankles from the fetters: there was no time for this, and he feared also to do them an injury. The sounds had caused commotion in the further dungeon, where the sheikh’s other prisoners were confined. Chains were clanking, men were shouting, the uproar was so great that it must reach the ears of the jailer if he were anywhere in the neighbourhood, and though he was shut off from the vaults, he might burst the locks and bring a host of armed men to the rescue.