Then Farrell tested the idea that came to him an instant after his expression of disgust. He reached into his pocket and found a large silver coin the size of an American dollar. He sent it spinning across the vault. It struck the opposite wall and tinkled to the floor. As the Ismailian at the left of the group started, caught the gleam of silver, and stooped to pick it up, Farrell, whirling his flail, leaped from cover and charged. * * * * * The startled cry of the crouching negro was simultaneous with the impact of the swinging fetter against the skull of the stooping enemy. The massive circlet of iron crunched home as the other white-robed enemy whirled from confronting his prisoner and drew a pistol. Farrell knew that he could not lash out with a second blow of his flail. He ducked as the pistol flashed, gripped the Ismailian's wrist as the pistol cracked again, and back-heeled him. They crashed to the flags, Farrell striving to keep the pistol out of effective action and to disable his enemy before the giant negro recovered his wits enough to overwhelm him. With a fierce wrench, Farrell disarmed the Ismailian and sent the pistol flying against the wall. And then the negro took a hand. They pounded and crushed Farrell as they sought to drive home with knife-thrusts which he evaded in his struggles to drive in with boot or knee. He finally, thrashing about, seized the shackle end of his flail; and as the Ismailian's knife darted in, Farrell jabbed the ponderous iron to the enemy's jaw with a crushing blow. Then the negro crushed Farrell to the paving. Farrell's struggles were futile; the cumulative effect of previous combats was telling. In another moment his breath would be completely cut off by those relentless black hands.... Then an agonized yell, and the stench of burning hair and flesh. The pressure relaxed as a shower of white-hot charcoal rained from the frenzied enemy and seared Farrell's hands and face. But the respite, though brief, sufficed. Farrell's boot laid the enemy out flat. Then he rose, recovered the pistol that lay against the wall, and turned to confront the fettered prisoner. "Fortunately," said the prisoner, "I was able to reach the tongs and flip that brazier into the party." The mutual benefactors regarded each other a moment. "_Monsieur_," began Farrell, recognizing the prisoner as a Frenchman, "I am more interested in getting out of here than exchanging compliments. Judging from the preparations I interrupted, you were in for a pleasant evening, morning, or whatever it may be." "Unfortunately," came the reply, "these fetters are rivetted, and none of the tools they brought----" "I'll tend to that," assured Farrell. He turned and set the brazier right side up, then with the tongs collected the still glowing charcoal, and fanned it once more to a white heat. "Get your chains hot enough," he explained, "and we can break them by hand."