Was it all up with the plebes then? They thought so, for they knew that the deathlike silence boded no good for them. They knew from the sounds they had heard that their friend had been attacked, and they lay and waited in agonized dread to learn what had been the issue. They heard not a sound to tell them, though at least a minute passed.
And then suddenly—— Great heavens! what was that?
“Hold up your hands!”
The voice was a perfect roar that filled the ghostly cavern with echoing noises. The prisoners sprang up and stared at each other in amazement, in delirious joy. It was a rescue! But where? And how? Who could it be? The voice was not the Parson’s; it was not Indian’s!
Outside of the vault there was a dramatic scene at that critical moment. The actors in it were all of them no less amazed than the plebes inside.
The maniac had been completing his ghastly work. His knee was on his victim’s chest, and the victim, blue in the face and gasping, was growing weaker every instant. And suddenly, just in the nick of time, the cavern had seemed fairly to blaze with light.
The old man sprang up and gazed about him wildly; his victim staggered blindly to his feet, clutching helplessly at the air. And then loud and clear had rung the order:
“Hold up your hands!”
It came from the entrance to the cave, the hole in the side of the rock. A figure was leaning in! In one hand he clutched a blazing torch and in the other a revolver that was pointing straight at the maniac. It was the sheriff from Highland Falls!
The maniac’s answer was swift to come. With one wild, despairing cry—the first sound he had made that night—he whirled about and made a dash for the shadows. Quick as a wink the sheriff pulled the trigger of his weapon; there was a deafening report that seemed to shake the rocks.