It was a key. He raised
his fettered ankle and examined the lock. There could be no doubt
of it! The key that lay there on the table before him was the key
to that very lock. A careless warrior had laid it there and
departed, forgetting.
Hope surged high in the breast of Gahan of Gathol, of Turan the
panthan. Furtively his eyes sought the open doorways. There was
no one in sight. Ah, if he could but gain his freedom! He would
find some way from this odious city back to her side and never
again would he leave her until he had won safety for her or death
for himself.
He rose and moved cautiously toward the opposite end of the table
where lay the coveted key. The fettered ankle halted his first
step, but he stretched at full length along the table, extending
eager fingers toward the prize. They almost laid hold upon it--a
little more and they would touch it. He strained and stretched,
but still the thing lay just beyond his reach. He hurled himself
forward until the iron fetter bit deep into his flesh, but all
futilely. He sat back upon the bench then and glared at the open
doors and the key, realizing now that they were part of a
well-laid scheme of refined torture, none the less demoralizing
because it inflicted no physical suffering.
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