As eleven o’clock sounded, therefore, I tapp’d on Billy’s wall; and finding that Matt. Soames was keeping watch (as we had agreed upon), slipp’d off my boots. Our rooms were on the first floor, over a straw yard; and the distance to the ground an easy drop for a man. But wishing to be silent as possible, I knotted two blankets together, and strapping the end round the window mullion, swung myself down by one hand, holding my boots in the other. I dropp’d very lightly, and look’d about. There was a faint moon up and glimmering on the straw; but under the house was deep shadow, and along this I crept. The straw yard led into the court before the stables, and so into the main court. All this way I heard no sound, nor spied so much as a speck of light in any window. The house door was clos’d, and the bar fastened on the great gate across the yard. I turn’d the corner to explore the third side of the house. Here was a group of outbuildings jutting out, and between them and the high outer wall a narrow alley. ’Twas with difficulty I groped my way here, for the passage was dark as pitch, and rendered the straiter by a line of ragged laurels planted under the house; so that at every other step I would stumble, and run my head into a bush. I had done this for the eighth time, and was cursing under my breath, when on a sudden I heard a stealthy footfall coming down the alley behind me. “Master Tingcomb, for a crown!” thought I, and crouch’d to one side under a bush. The footsteps drew nearer. A dark form parted the laurels: another moment, and I had it by the throat. “Uugh—ugh—grr! For the Lord’s sake, sir,—” I loos’d my hold: ’twas Matt. Soames. “Your pardon,” whisper’d I; “but why have you left your post?” “Black Sampson is watchin’, so I took the freedom—ugh! my poor windpipe!—to—” He broke off to catch me by the sleeve and pull me down behind the bush. About twelve paces ahead I heard a door softly open’d and saw a shaft of light flung across the path between the glist’ning laurels. As the ray touch’d the outer wall, I mark’d a small postern gate there, standing open. Cowering lower, we waited while a man might count fifty. Then came footsteps crunching the gravel, and a couple of men cross’d the path, bearing a large chest between them. In the light I saw the handle of a spade sticking out from it: and by his gait I knew the second man to be my one-ey’d friend. “Woe’s my old bones!” he was muttering: “here’s a fardel for a man o’ my years!” “Hold thy breath for the next load!” growl’d the other voice, which as surely was the good minister’s. They pass’d out of the small gate, and by the sounds that follow’d, we guess’d they were hoisting their burden into a cart. Presently they re-cross’d the path, and entered the house, shutting the door after them. “Now for it!” said I in Matt’s ear. Gliding forward, I peep’d out at the postern gate; but drew back like a shot.