Effort after effort, stroke after stroke, though each seemed impossible after the last.  He could not fail, and let that poor girl die, unless he could die first, of sheer exhaustion.

If he were to stop now, it might be hours before he could go on again, and then he would be already weakened by hunger.  There was nothing to be done but to keep at it, to strike and strike, with such half-frantic energy as was left in him.  Every bone and sinew ached, and his breath came short, while the sweat ran down into his short beard, and fell in rain on his dusty hands.

But do what he would, the blows followed each other in slower succession.  He could not strike twenty more, not ten, not five perhaps; he would not count them; he would cheat himself into doing what could not be done; he would count backwards and forwards, one, two, three, three, two, one, one, two—­

And then, all at once, the tired sinews were braced like steel, and his back straightened, and his breath came full and clear.  The blow had rung hollow.

He could have yelled as he sent the great bar flying against the bricks again and again, far in the shadow, and the echo rang back, louder and louder, every time.

The bar ran through and the end he held shot from his hands, as the resistance failed at last, and half the iron went out on the other side.  He drew it back quickly and looked to see if there were any light, but there was none.  He did not care, for the rest would be child’s play compared with what he had done, and easier than play now that he had the certainty of safety.

The first thing to be done was to tell Sabina that the danger was past.  He crept back with his light and stood upright.  It hurt him to straighten himself, and he now knew how tremendous the labour had been; the last furious minutes had been like the delirium of a fever.  But he was tough and used to every sort of fatigue, and hope had come back; he forgot how thirsty he had been, and did not even glance behind him at the water.

Sabina was still asleep.  He stood before her, and hesitated, for it seemed cruel to wake her, even to tell her the good news.  He would go back and widen the breach, and when there was room to get out, he could come and fetch her.  She had put out the lamp.  He lighted it again quietly, and was going to place it where it could not shine in her eyes and perhaps wake her, when he paused to look at her face.

It was very still, and deadly pale, and her lips were blue.  He could not see that she was breathing, for his coat hung loosely over her slender figure.  She looked almost dead.  Her gloved hands lay with the palms upwards, the one in her lap, the other on the ground beside her.  He touched that one gently with the back of his own, and it seemed to him that it was very cold, through the glove.