He drew himself up to a sitting posture, but his head struck a curved stone ceiling.

Then he swung round and moved his foot along the wall--it touched iron.

He felt farther with his foot-something clicked.

Now he understood; he was in the oven of the bakehouse, with his hands bound.
He began to think of means of escape.

The iron door had no inside latch.
There was a small damper covering a barred hole, through which perhaps he might be able to get a hand, if only it were free.