The emissaries had thrown the rope over a beam which was far above
Locke, and it seemed an impossibility for him to reach it. For one less
resourceful or with a physique less perfectly developed, even to try
would have been useless. But there was one chance in a thousand, and he
grasped it eagerly.
Alternately contracting and relaxing his muscles, Locke succeeded in
swinging himself in an ever-widening arc. Nearer he swung--back--and
again nearer. Could he make it? Back again and a terrific effort. He was
gaining.
There came to him the sound of running feet. In his fear and agony he
could have shrieked, but from his parched throat there issued no sound.
Friend or foe, for him it meant the same fate--one touch on that knob
and a torturing death by fire.
With bursting muscles he redoubled his efforts. In a long sweep his body
swayed out and up. Would he be in time? Those pattering feet, they were
coming nearer and nearer. There were now but a few yards between them
and that knob.
A mighty swing, a monstrous heave, his fingers crooked talon-like, and
he touched the rafter, clutched--and missed.
Downward and backward, his mind now reeling in black despair.
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