There was no help for it. Philip, much against his will, held out his hands, and they were tied tightly around the wrists, so that the stricture was painful.
“It hurts me,” he complained.
“It would hurt your neck worse,” replied Temple.
Philip understood what he meant, and turned pale. But a ray of hope came to him in his despondency. Even if his hands were tied he might escape, and he resolved to do so as soon as Temple was at a safe distance.
His hands being tied would not prevent his walking or running, and once out of the wood he would feel comparatively safe.
He reckoned without his host, however; or, rather, he reckoned without knowing the intentions of his captor.
“There,” said Temple, when the boy’s hands were tied, “so far so good! Now for your feet!”
Hope died once more in Philip’s breast. He might escape with his hands tied, but with his feet tied it was quite another matter. In vain he protested against this second indignity. His jailor was not to be moved.
“You may as well spare your breath, boy,” he said. “I ain’t quite a fool. I’m not going to leave you free to get away as soon as my back is turned.”
So Philip’s feet were tied, too, and he realized how utterly helpless he was.