Crouching hastily behind a boxwood hedge, I watched
St. Auban--for I guessed that he it was--as he leaned out and gazed
skywards.
For a little while he remained there, then he withdrew, leaving the
casement open, and presently I caught the grating of a chair on the parquet
floor within. If ever the gods favoured mortal, they favoured me at that
moment.
Stealthily as a cat I sprang towards the terrace, the steps to which I
climbed on hands and knees. Stooping, I sped silently across it until I
had gained the flower-bed immediately below the window that had drawn me to
it. Crouching there--for did I stand upright my chin would be on a level
with the sill--I paused to listen for some moments. The only sound I
caught was a rustle, as of paper. Emboldened, I took a deep breath, and
standing up I gazed straight into the chamber.
By the light of four tapers in heavy silver sconces, I beheld St. Auban
seated at a table littered with parchments, over which he was intently
poring. His back was towards me, and his long black hair hung straight
upon his shoulders. On the table, amid the papers, lay his golden wig and
black mask, and on the floor in the centre of the room, his back and breast
of blackened steel and his sword.
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