Bob did not understand what means of persuasion Sing-Cheng had found, but he had complete faith in the man’s discretion. As soon as the chief had disappeared up the cleft, Bob went in haste with Ah-Sam back into the tower; he felt with a deep sense of relief that there was now nothing to prevent the release of Kobo. They returned to the kitchen. Bob suspected that the keys of the dungeon would be found on the person of the big Manchu who had slept by Chang-Wo’s door, and told Ah-Sam to search him. In half a minute the keys were in his possession, and with eager steps he hastened along the corridor, up the staircase, until he came to the doorway. The lamp had burnt itself out; the passage was so dark that he had to feel for the keyhole. Then he threw open the door and entered the room. It was in darkness, save for the thin light filtering through a narrow slit high up in the wall. In the middle of the room lay, amid his chains, the huddled figure of the Samurai. Bob went up to him, stooped, and touched him on the shoulder. In a low, husky whisper came an exclamation that he did not understand. "Speak to him," murmured Bob to Ah-Sam; he feared lest the sound of an English voice might prove disastrous to the overwrought prisoner. At Ah-Sam’s first words the prostrate man stirred and opened his eyes. He tried to lift his hand, but it fell back, and the chain clinked against the stone floor. "Mr. Fawcett!" he murmured. "Water, water!" Reproaching himself for forgetting, in the excitement of the moment, the scene he had witnessed in Chang-Wo’s room, Bob sent Ah-Sam back to the kitchen, whence he returned with a full cup. Handing this to his master, he knelt down and raised the prisoner’s head. Bob held the cup to Kobo’s lips, allowing him to take only one sip at a time. The Japanese gave a sigh of ineffable content; for several minutes not a word was spoken by any of the three; Bob’s heart was too full for speech. Presently Kobo signified that he had drunk enough, and Bob placed the cup beside him on the floor. "Thank God I came in time to save you!" he said, laying his hand on Kobo’s. He had a terrible sinking of the heart as he felt the thin hand—it was mere skin and bone, the hand of a skeleton; it was clammy to his touch. "I thank you, Mr. Fawcett," said Kobo feebly. "I thank you, but it is too late. I am dying." "Don’t say that," replied Bob. "We’ll take you out of this horrible place. In the fresh air and sunshine, with good food, you will be yourself again." "Tell me," went on the prisoner, in the same low, difficult tones, "did you give my message to the general?" "Yes; I remained with him, and was able to do something to guide the Twelfth Division. We are across the Yalu, sir." "Banzai! Banzai!" exclaimed Kobo with sudden vigour. "The Russians are beaten?" "Thoroughly—driven from all their positions; we captured forty of their guns."