It was the crash of thunder in the heavens overhead.
It was Cervera's first intimation of the terrible tempest that had been
gathering outside.
At first she thought the sound was that of revolvers, and she darted to
the door and listened, pressing her ear to the wall.
The instant her back was turned, Nick made a desperate attempt to free
himself, straining cords and muscles under the determined effort. It
proved vain, however. The ropes held him as if made of twisted steel.
Yet in his brief but desperate struggle his right arm came in contact
with an object in the side pocket of his sack coat.
The object was a box nearly filled with parlor matches--one of the most
dangerous and treacherous creations of man's inventive genius.
Like a sudden revelation, or a bolt out of the blue, there leaped up in
Nick's mind a possible way of escape.
He thought of Cervera's garments, of the fluffy lace skirts beneath her
gown, to which a single flash of fire would instantly prove fatal.
The resort to such means seemed horrible--yet Nick well knew it was the
one and only resource left him.
He glanced sharply at Cervera. She was still listening at the door, with
her evil face a picture of intense suspense.
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