“What is your plan, cobbler?” asked the king, with interest.
“Well, you see,” replied Flemming, “the rope’s short, but it’s very thick.”
“I don’t see how that is to help us.”
“There are nine or ten strands that have gone to the making of it, and I’m thinking that each of those strands will bear a man. Luckily, I have got a ball of my cobbler’s wax here, and that will strengthen the strands, keep the knots from slipping, and make it easier to climb down.”
“Cobbler!” cried the king, “if that lets us escape, I’ll knight you.”
“I care little for knighthood,” returned the cobbler, “but I don’t want to be benighted here.”
“After such a remark as that, your majesty,” exclaimed the poet, “I think you should have him beheaded, if he doesn’t get us out of this safely.”
“Indeed, Sir David,” said the cobbler, as he unwound the rope, “if I don’t get you out of here, the Armstrongs will save his majesty all trouble on the score of decapitation.”
There was silence now as the three watched the deft hands of the cobbler, hurrying to make the most of the last rays of the flickering torch in the wall. He tested the strands and proved them strong, then ran each along the ball of wax, thus cementing their loose thread together. He knotted the ends with extreme care, tried their resistance thoroughly, and waxed them unsparingly. It was a business of breathless interest, but at last the snake-like length of thin rope lay on the floor at his disposal. He tied an end securely to the beam just outside the window-sill so that there would be no sharp edge to cut the cord, then he paid out the line into the darkness, slowly and carefully that it might not became entangled.
“There,” he said at last, with a sigh of satisfaction, “who’s first for the rope. We three await your majesty’s commands.”