“The key,” demanded Ethan, firmly. “Unlock the door.”
“I have no key.”
“I see it among those at your belt,” said Ethan.
With a snarl, Meg whipped out a murderous looking knife with her free hand, and reaching through the grating made a lunge at him. But, held as she was, she could not touch him, and another severe twist at the arm caused her to drop the knife and writhe with pain.
By this time Longsword was storming up and down in his cell. He could hear what they said, but, because of his situation, could not see anything of what was transpiring; his repeated calls to Ethan received no answer, for Ethan was too engrossed in his work to heed him.
“Once more,” said he, ignoring the woman’s cries, “give me the key.”
“I can’t reach it,” she said. “Let my arm go and I’ll give it to you.”
“You’ll give it to me now,” he replied steadily.
“I’ll give you my word,” she whimpered.
But he knew better than to let slip his advantage; for once free she would laugh at him. So he persisted in his demand, his strong fingers clasped like steel about her wrist; and finally, groaning and lamenting the fate that would be meted out to her by Danvers, she selected the key from the bunch at her belt, fitted it in the lock and turned it. Slowly the door swung open, then Ethan released her and sprang out into the passage.