“Adam!” she repeated, this time more strongly.
Some subterranean rustling then came to her ears.
“Adam! Oh, Adam!” she said, in a voice that trembled uncontrollably.
“Who’s that? Who’s speaking? Is it you, John Rosella?” came in a rumble from the dungeon.
She failed to recognize his voice, so altered did the passage from his place of imprisonment make it.
“Oh, is that you, Adam—Mr. Rust?” she asked, trembling violently.
“Garde!” he said, joyously. “Garde! Oh, my darling! Yes, it’s I. Where are you? What have you done?”
Garde felt her strength leave her treacherously. Thus to hear the endearing names leap upward to her from that terrible place was too much to bear, after all she had learned.
“Here—here are the keys,” she whispered down to him, haltingly. “And your friends—your two companions—they are also in the prison. I hope—I hope you can find your way out. I am dropping them down—the keys. Here they come.” She tossed the bunch, which she had taken from her pocket with nerveless fingers, and now she heard the metallic clink, as they struck the floor, come faintly up through the aperture.
Adam was starting to say something. She dared not wait to listen. Now that her task was done, she knew she would absolutely collapse, if she did not at once bestir herself to flee.