"The dining-room--a big, deserted apartment where the girls take their meals." "'Tain't her bedroom, then?" "No. She is to steal dressed from her bedroom to the _salle-à-manger_--" "The Sally what, sir?" "No matter, no matter," I answered. I pulled out my watch, but there was no power in the starlight to reveal the dial-plate. All continued still as the tomb, saving at fitful intervals a low note of silken rustling that stole upon the ear with some tender, dream-like gushing of night-air, as though the atmosphere had been stirred by the sweep of a large, near, invisible pinion. "This here posture ain't so agreeable as dancing," hoarsely grumbled Caudel, "could almost wish myself a dwarf. That there word beginning with a Sally--" "Not so loud, man; not so loud." "It's oncommon queer," he persisted, "to feel one's self in a country where one's language ain't spoke. The werry soil don't seem natural. As to the language itself, burst me if I can understand how a man masters it. I was once trying to teach an Irish sailor how to dance a quadrille. 'Now, Murphy,' says I to him, 'you onderstand you're my wiz-a-wee?' 'What's dat you call me?' he cried out. 'You're anoder and a damn scoundrel besoides!' Half the words in this here tongue sound like cussing of a man. And to think of a dining-room being called a Sally--" The convent clock struck one. "Now," said I, "stand by." I held up the lamp, and so turned the darkened part as to produce two flashes. A moment after a tiny flame showed and vanished above the balcony. "My brave darling!" I exclaimed. "Have you the ladder in your hand?" "Ay, sir." "Mind these confounded hooks don't chink." We stepped across the sward and stood under the balcony. "Grace, my darling, is that you?" I called in a low voice. "Yes, Herbert. Oh, please be quick. I am fancying I hear footsteps. My heart is scarcely beating for fright." But despite the tremble in her low, sweet voice my ear seemed to find strength of purpose enough in it to satisfy me that there would be no failure from want of courage on her part. I could just discern the outline of her figure as she leaned over the balcony, and see the white of her face vague as a fancy. "My darling, lower the line to pull the ladder up with--very softly, my pet--there are iron hooks which make a noise." In a few moments she called: "I have lowered the line." I felt about with my hand and grasped the end of it--a piece of twine, but strong enough to support the ladder. The deep, blood-hound-like baying of the dog recommenced, and at the same time I heard a sound of footsteps in the lane. "Hist! Not a stir--not a whisper," I breathed out.