Louvre. But presently, having turned aside from one irregular street
into another, I did not know what was the direction in which I went.
The only noises that I heard were those caused by the wind, excepting
when now and then came suddenly a burst of loud talk, mingled mirth and
jangling, as quickly shut off, when the door of some cabaret opened and
closed. When I heard footsteps on the uneven pebble pavement of the
street, and saw approaching me out of the gloom some cloaked
pedestrian, I mechanically gripped the handle of my sword, and kept a
wary eye on the stranger,--knowing that in passing each other we must
almost touch elbows. His own suspicious and cautious demeanor and
motions reflected mine.

At night, in the narrow streets of a great town, there exists in every
footfall heard, every human figure seen emerging from the darkness, the
possibility of an encounter, an adventure, something unexpected. So, to
the night roamer, every human sound or sight has an unwonted interest.

As I followed the turning of one of the narrowest streets, the darkness,
some distance ahead of me, was suddenly cleft by a stream of light from a
window that was quickly opened in the second story of a tall house on the
right-hand side of the way. Then the window was darkened by the form of a
man coming from the chamber within. At his appearance into view I stood
still. Resting for a moment on his knees on the window-ledge, he lowered
first one leg, then the other, then his body, and presently he was
hanging by his hands over the street. Then the face of a woman appeared
in the window, and as the man remained there, suspended, he looked up at
her inquiringly.

"It is well," she said, in a low tone; "but be quick. We are just in
time." And she stood ready to close the window as soon as he should be