The sperm oil in the lantern burned low. The men extinguished the light, to replenish the oil. In a few minutes it was again burning brightly.
The astounded Indians saw Farquharson standing in front of them, wrists and ankles free, brandishing an open clasp-knife.
They cowered away from him. He moved toward the door as fast as his benumbed limbs could take him.
Dread of Yoscolo overcame their superstitious fear. They drew their pistols, and commanded: "Hands up! Away from the door!"
Farquharson dropped his knife. He moved his arms over his head in extraordinary fashion, grimaced at the ceiling, then moved slowly toward his jailers. Flirting his fingers ominously at them, he exclaimed in sepulchral tones: "Winky, wanky, wunky, fum! Winky, wanky, wunky, fum!"
Despite the pain in his ankles he executed a miniature war-dance on the floor, again solemnly uttering: "Winky, wanky, wunky, fum!"
The Indians moved back from him, again overcome by his "big medicine." In one of his eccentric movements he managed to knock over the lantern, the oil running out over the floor. They snorted in terror, and began some incantation.
Farquharson found the door and started downstairs. His feet refused further action. He fell and slid down to a landing.
The Indians heard the fall. There was a colloquy and a rush across the floor.
The Captain attempted to crawl to the next flight of stairs, but he could move but slowly.