Not a sound passed his
lips. Letting fall the knife, he pushed the ring down over the wound and
the length of his foot. One foot was free, but only one; he was still as
much a prisoner as before. Could he bear the torture again?
He gave himself no time to think, but picking up the knife, repeated,
with convulsive strength, the operation on his other foot. With a low
moan, wrung from him by the double agony, he leaned, faint and deathly
sick, against the wall. In this position he remained for many minutes,
until, above the pain, arose the thought that he was not yet free.
The small window of the prison was within easy reach from the floor, and
it would have been the work of an instant to vault through it, had
Pomponio not been disabled by the ugly wounds he had inflicted upon
himself. With a sigh he stood up slowly on his maimed feet. Think of the
power of will of the poor Indian, his love of life, and, more than his
love of life, his hatred of his oppressors, to go through the agony each
movement caused him! He crept up to the window, laid hold of the sill,
and, with his hands, drew himself up to, and through it, the blood
spouting from his wounds at every inch of progress.
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