It was Juanita.

He threw the cloak down and placing his heel on the sill of a lower window near the ground he raised himself to the level of the bars.
"Oh, Marcos!" whispered Juanita in his ear, through the open window.
He edged his shoulder in between the two bars which were fixed perpendicularly, and being strongly built he only found room to introduce his two thumbs within that which pressed against his chest.

He slowly straightened his arms and the iron gave an audible creak.

It was a hundred years old, all rust-worn and attenuated.
"There," he said, "you can get through that." "Yes," she answered.

She was shivering and yet half laughing.
"Listen," she whispered, drawing him towards her.