Without a word the Communist pulled some matches from his pocket, and, striking one, looked for the dropped candle. This he picked up and relit. Holding it with fingers which shook and trembled in fear he began to retrace his steps. Presently they came to stairs which led downward; cold, stone stairs which, in the past, many a prisoner had trodden but once--going down. The air was fetid from the moss-covered walls and lack of ventilation, the atmosphere chilly and gruesome. The Communist pointed to the dark depths: "Imre Kiss is in the second cell on the left." Wenzel did not waste time in words. He roughly caught the man by his arms, and with a jerk swung him forward, and the unwilling guide crept down. There was a murmuring cry from one of the cells. "Hear my prayers, O Lord! Guard Elizabeth from the foul hands of the beast; take my life but save hers. In Thy infinite justice destroy the man who would dare lay hands upon her. In Thy Omnipotency, protect her this night; show mercy to her who hath ever revered Thy Name." Conscious, suddenly, of intruders, Imre ceased his invocation. He saw the light of the candle, the two Communists--his call had come. He threw himself on his knees, his arms outstretched toward them. "Save my daughter! for God's sake rescue her from the arms of that brute! You shall be well rewarded. But tell the truth to my friends, and on my sacred oath you will receive a thousand crowns, ten thousand crowns, the whole of my fortune, my castle! I will give you a note of hand; it will be honoured I swear." His voice broke; he could say no more, and, believing his appeal futile, he collapsed to the floor with a sob. The door of the cell was locked. Wenzel turned to the guide with a growl. "The key." "Comrade Grocz has it." Wenzel swore. The door was an unexpected obstacle. Unsuspecting the cells he had not worried about keys. There was no door made to withstand the force of his shoulders, but the iron-barred gate... He seized the candle from the hand of the other. If there were one single flaw, a weakness... But he found no sign of such, only that the rust of ages had eaten into the metal. Wenzel passed the candle back to the Communist. If only his arms had not suffered from the strain of that gruelling climb, if only his hands were not still raw and hard with dried blood; but Wenzel knew he would have to make the attempt even if his back broke. There was still echoing in his memory Imre's prayer.... He stood with his back to the door, which was composed solely of iron bars. His arms hung down by his side, his hands gripping a cross bar. Carefully he placed his feet into position. He was ready. With a slowly increasing force he pushed, with his feet, his hands, his back, pushed until his limbs were as taut as the iron bars themselves. Nothing happened, so he increased the pressure, and the sweat burst from his forehead and trickled down his face.