We were at that moment not far from a window in which a light was still burning and which opened upon the sitting room of Old Bob and sloped out upon the sea. This window was not closed, and it was this, doubtless, which had permitted us to hear so distinctly in spite of the thickness of the walls of the tower, the pistol shot and the cry of agony that had followed it. From the spot where we were now stationed, we could see nothing through this window, but was it not something to be able to hear? The storm was past, but the waters were not yet appeased and the waves broke on the rocks of the peninsula with a violence that would have rendered the approach of any vessel impossible. The thought of a vessel crossed my mind because I believed for an instant that I could see the shadow of a vessel of some sort appearing or disappearing in the gloom. But what could it be? Evidently a delusion of my mind which beheld hostile shades everywhere--an illusion of a mind which was assuredly more agitated than the waters themselves. We stood there, motionless, for more than five minutes, before we heard a sigh--ah, how long it was, that mournful sound!--a groan, deep as an expiration, like a moan of agony, a heavy sob, like the last breath of a departing soul--which reached our ears from that window, and brought the sweat of terror to our brows. And then, nothing more--nothing except the intermittent sobbings of the sea. And suddenly the light in the window went out. The outline of the Square Tower blended with the blackness of the night. My friend and I grasped each other’s hand as if instinctively, commanding each other, by this mute communication, to remain motionless and silent. _Someone was dying, there, in that tower!_ Someone whom they had hidden. Why? And who? Someone who was neither M. Darzac nor Mme. Darzac, nor Pere Bernier, nor Mere Bernier, nor--almost beyond the shadow of a doubt, Old Bob; _someone who could not have been in the tower_.