The child's breath came in zealous pants as he tugged and pulled, but the knots were tightly lashed and sodden with the sea. And his haste was a handicap; he plucked and twisted ineffectually. And finally he overbalanced himself and slipped. He gave a cry of pain. "I'm hurted--I'm bleeding!" he sobbed. "I fell against something that cut!" Aylmer's heart stood still. If the fall had injured the child severely, if it had disabled him, if he were to lose consciousness--was this horror of helplessness to be added to those which already had them in their grip? He stretched out his arms towards the sound of the sobbing, and this, as he did so, suddenly ceased. Panic gripped him, only to be fought down. Slowly, and with painful effort, he twisted himself round in the darkness till his bound wrists found as their goal the child's cap which still covered his untidy mane of curls. And these were wet and sticky. The reason was not far to seek. The baling slipper lay below little John's temple--the baling slipper mended with a rough strip of tin. And this had cut through cap and curls, down to the bone. It had finished what terror had begun. The boy had fainted. Aylmer's first impulse was to use the whole of his tethered strength in bringing consciousness back to the child--to what was, he considered, his only chance of freedom. A moment later chance pointed a quicker road. His knuckles met and were scarred by the frayed edge of the tin. He gave an exclamation of impatience at his own dulness. What would cut him would cut his bonds. Crouching down he managed to grip the slipper between his knees and steady it there. And then he rasped his lashings upon its edge. A minute sufficed, or even less. The cord frayed, gave strand by strand, and broke apart with a twang. He gasped with relief and fell to work upon his ankles. As these bonds loosened and fell away in their turn, he stood up, rising slowly and stretching his hands above his head. He touched nothing. He sighed not only with relief, this time, but with a faint tinge of hope. And then he bent, felt his way past the still motionless child, and touched, by chance's guidance, Claire Van Arlen's hair. And he gave another exclamation of self-encouragement. For her cheek was warm. He plucked the gag from her lips; his hands were already at her wrists as she uttered his name. He thrilled to the anxiety in her voice. "You?" she asked anxiously. "You? You were uninjured. I heard you speak and--and, it seemed, to me that you--_flagged_--that you--were not you!" "Yes," he answered quietly. "I had not found you then. I did not know--I do not know it yet--how far you yourself were unhurt." His fingers were unlashing her feet now. He heard her stir into a sitting posture and, as her feet were freed, felt her rise to her knees. Instinct bade him thrust out a hand as she did so, and she rocked up against it. Her energy had been more than her strength; she leaned against him panting.