He went next to the pile of rugs and
pillows that his men had brought across, and arranged them in the corner,
just clear of the trap-door. Then he knelt and said his evening prayers,
and here at least was no acting. Then he rose again and took off his
doublet and ruff and shoes so that he was dressed only in a shirt, trunks
and hose. Then he went across to the supper-table, where the tapers still
burned, and blew them out, leaving the room in complete darkness. Then he
went back to his bed, and sat and listened.
Up to this point he had been aware that probably at least one pair of
eyes had been watching him; for, although the windows were of bottle-end
glass, yet it was exceedingly likely that there would be some clear glass
in them; and, with the tapers burning inside, his movements would all
have been visible to either of Lackington's men who cared to put his eye
to the window. But now he was invisible. Yet, as he thought of it, he
slipped on his doublet again to hide the possible glimmer of his white
shirt. There was the silence of the summer night about him--the silence
only emphasised by its faint sounds. The house was quiet across the
garden, though once or twice he thought he heard a horse stamp. Once
there came a little stifled cough from outside his window; there was the
silky rustle of the faint breeze in the trees outside; and now and again
came the snoring of a young owl in the ivy somewhere overhead.
He counted five hundred deliberately, to compel himself to wait; and
meanwhile his sub-conscious self laboured at the scheme.
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