And like a frightened roe she fled toward the house, the others following her.

In an hour all was silent in the villa.  The lights were successively extinguished in Natalie’s and Marianne’s chambers; only in Carlo’s little chamber yet burned a dull, solitary lamp, and occasionally the shadow of the uneasy singer passed the window as he restlessly walked his room.  At length, however, this lamp also was distinguished, and all was dark and still.

About this time a dark shadow was seen creeping slowly and cautiously through the garden.  Soon it stood still, and then one might have supposed it to be a deception, and that only the wind shaking the pines had caused that moving shadow.  But suddenly it again appeared in a moonlighted place, where no bush or tree threw its shade, and, as if alarmed by the brightness, it then again moved aside into the bushes.

This shadow came constantly nearer and nearer to the house, and as the walks were here broader and lighter, one might distinctly discern that it was a human being, the form of a tall, stately man, that so cautiously and stealthily approached the house.  And what is that, sparkling and flashing in his girdle—­is it not a dagger, together with a pistol and a long knife?  Ah, a threatening, armed man is approaching this silent, solitary house, and no one sees, no one hears him!  Even the two large hounds which with remarkable watchfulness patrol the garden during the night, even they are silent!  Ah, where, then, are they?  Carlo had himself unchained them that they might wander freely—­where, then, can they be?

They lie in the bushes far from the house, cold, stiff, and lifeless.  Before them lies a piece of seductively smelling meat.  That was what had enticed them to forget their duty, and, instead of growling and barking, they had with snuffling noses been licking this tempting flesh.  Their instinct had not told them it was poisoned, and therefore they now lay stiff and cold near the food that had destroyed them.

No, from those hounds he had nothing more to fear, this bold, audacious man; the hounds will no more betray him, nor warningly announce that Joseph Ribas, the venturesome thief and galley-slave, is lurking about the house to steal or murder, as the case may be.

He has now reached the house.  He listens for a moment, and as all remains still, no suspicious noise making itself heard, with pitch-covered paper, brought with him for the purpose, he presses in one of the window panes.  Then, passing his hand through the vacancy caused by the absent pane of glass, he opens one wing of the French window, and, by a bold leap springing upon the parapet, he lets himself glide slowly down into the room.

Again all is still, and silent lies the solitary, peaceful villa.  Suddenly appears a small but bright light behind one of these dark windows.

That is the thief’s lantern, which Joseph Ribas has lighted to illuminate his dark, criminal way.