Claude groped his way to the spot, his breath coming fast; fortunately he laid his hand almost at once on the chains and felt for the spike, which he knew he must draw or knock out.

That done, the winch would fly round, and the huge machine fall by its own weight.
On a sudden, "They are coming!" the soldier cried in a terrified whisper.

"My God, they are coming! Come back! Come back!" For Claude had their only weapon, and the guard was defenceless.

Defenceless by the side of the stairs up which the foe was climbing! The hair rose on Claude's head, but he set his teeth; though the man died, though he died, the portcullis must fall! More than his own life, more than the lives of both of them, more than lives a hundred or a thousand hung on that bolt; the fate of millions yet unborn, the freedom and the future of a country hung on that bolt which would not give way--though now he had found it and was hammering it.

Grinding his teeth, the sweat on his brow, he beat on it with the pike, struck the iron with the strength of despair, stooped to see what was amiss--still with the frenzied prayers of the other in his ears--saw it, and struck again and again--and again! Whirr! The winch flew round, barely missing his head.