foot of which his road wound
were still as clouds. He could just see the sky through their stems. It
was washed with the faintest of light, for the moon, far below, was yet
climbing towards the horizon. A star or two sparkled where the clouds
broke, but so little light was there, that, until he had passed the
moorland on the hill, he could not get the horror of moss-holes, and
deep springs covered with treacherous green, out of his head. But he
never thought of turning. When the fears of the way at length fell back
and allowed his own thoughts to rise, the sense of a presence, or of
something that might grow to a presence, was the first to awake in him.
The stillness seemed to be thinking all around his head. But the way
grew so dark, where it lay through a corner of the pine-wood, that he
had to feel the edge of the road with his foot to make sure that he was
keeping upon it, and the sense of the silence vanished. Then he passed
a farm, and the motions of horses came through the dark, and a doubtful
crow from a young inexperienced cock, who did not yet know the moon from
the sun. Then a sleepy low in his ear startled him, and made him quicken
his pace involuntarily.

By the time he reached Rothieden all the lights were out, and this was
just what he wanted.

The economy of Dooble Sanny's abode was this: the outer door was always
left on the latch at night, because several families lived in the house;
the soutar's workshop opened from the passage, close to the outer door,
therefore its door was locked; but the key hung on a nail just inside
the soutar's bedroom. All this Robert knew.

Arrived at the house, he lifted the latch, closed the door behind him,
took off his shoes once more, like a housebreaker, as indeed he was,
although a righteous one, and felt his way to and up the stair to the
bedroom. There was a sound of snoring within. The door was a little
ajar. He reached the key and descended, his heart beating more and more
wildly as he approached the realization of his hopes. Gently as he could
he turned it in the lock. In a moment more he had his hands on the spot
where the shoemaker always laid his violin. But his heart sank within
him: there was no violin there. A blank of dismay held him both
motionless and thoughtless; nor had he recovered his senses before he
heard footsteps, which he well knew, approaching in the street. He slunk
at once into a corner. Elshender entered, feeling his way carefully, and
mu