From somewhere or other he produced yet more bottles. "Come along, comrades, some more," he cried, and the guards grinned and held out their mugs. The soldier served them all. "Let us--let--let us drink a toast," he called out, "l-let us drink to the Revolution." "Ay, ay," answered the men, and they drank deeply. "Must take some to the others," muttered the proposer, and he staggered away. The noisy rowdyism gradually died away as the potent wine took effect. The drink must have been stronger than usual, for the Reds found their heads nodding--nodding.... Ten minutes later every man was sound asleep, and when the soldier returned who had, in his generosity, visited the other guards all through the prison, and served out drink to toast the Revolution, he chuckled, and straightened up. "Drunken swine," he muttered. It was Arnold Terhune. The first part of his task completed, there was now the hardest part to perform. With noiseless steps he traversed the corridors going in the direction of Count Bakocz's cell. At the actual corridor he came to a halt and listened. Round the corner he could hear the heavy breathing of Wenzel, who now seemed quieter. With scarcely a movement Terhune leaned forward till he could see what was happening, and his heart leaped with joy as he noticed that Wenzel, though seated with his back to the cell, was just slightly turned away from him. If he could but creep along without being seen or heard he hoped to succeed in getting near enough to use a chloroform pad which he had ready. He determined to try. Squeezing his back against the wall, and moving with the utmost caution, he turned the corner. If Wenzel should glance only just slightly round now, he would be seen. Breathing a prayer that Wenzel would not move he advanced slowly forward. Four feet, three feet, two feet. Another few paces and he could jump and catch the unconscious Wenzel unprepared, but at that moment Wenzel turned. For a second or two Terhune seemed paralysed with astonishment, until Wenzel gave a roar, and would have jumped for him, but the Englishman was infinitesimally quicker, and even as Wenzel commenced to move he had quickly advanced the extra pace and with a dull thud brought a revolver butt down upon Wenzel's defenceless head, and the jailer collapsed with a groan. Terhune worked with nightmare haste. From his pocket he produced a key, a duplicate of the original, and before Count Bakocz was even aware of what was happening, had opened the cell-door and was pulling the bewildered aristocrat away. Terhune had not bargained on Wenzel's strength. No sooner had the echoing footsteps of the two men faded away in the distance than Wenzel raised his ponderous frame from the floor and stumblingly commenced the pursuit, blood pouring down his face and blinding his eyes.