“Spoken like the infamous Captain Laroque!” she flamed back at him.
“That kind of talk will make it all the worse for you,” he growled. He knelt down, the leg-irons in his hands. “Put out your foot!”
“I will not!”
“Put out your foot, I say!”
“I will never submit to chains!” she cried.
“Don’t waste words on her—use force,” advised the governor, who with the aid of a guard was practising this expedient on Borodin. “Or wait a minute, and I will help you.”
“I can manage her,” Drexel quickly returned.
But how he had no idea. Oh, this delay!—with destruction watching from Freeman’s corner. If she only knew!
Suddenly he thought of something she had taught him one day in the house in Three Saints’ Court—the telegraph code of political prisoners, by means of which they speak among themselves by dot-and-dash raps upon their dungeon walls. Sonya’s back was to Freeman; the governor was bent over Borodin. He seized one of her ankles. She did not struggle, but she grew rigid.
“Oh, you brute!” she breathed hotly.