What to every other person in town would have seemed an insuperable obstacle to this undertaking, was no obstacle to me. I knew how to get in.  One day in my restless wanderings about a place which had something of the nature of a shrine to me, I had noticed that one of the windows (a swinging one) overlooking the ravine, moved as the wind took it.  Either the lock had given way or it had not been properly fastened.  If I could only bring myself to disregard the narrowness of the ledge separating the house from the precipice beneath, I felt that I could reach this window and sever the vines sufficiently for my body to press in; and this I did that night, finding, just as I had expected, that once a little force was brought to bear upon the sash, it yielded easily, offering a free passage to the delights within.

In all this I experienced little fear, but once inside, I began to realise the hazard of my adventure, as hanging at full length from the casement, I meditated on the drop I must take into what to my dazed eyes looked like an absolute void.  This taxed my courage; but after a moment of sheer fright, I let myself go—­I had to—­and immediately found myself standing upright in a space so narrow I could touch the walls on either side.  It was a closet I had entered, opening, as I soon discovered, into the huge dining-hall where I had once sat beside my father at the one formal meal of my life.

I remembered that room; it had made a great impression upon me, and some light finding its way through the panes of uncurtained glass which topped each of the three windows overlooking the ravine, I soon was able to find the door leading into the drawing-room.

I had brought a small lantern in the bag slung to my shoulders, but I had not hitherto dared to use it on account of the transparency of the panes I have mentioned; but once in the perfectly dark recesses of the room beyond, I drew it out, and without the least fear of detection boldly turned it upon the small alcove where stood the object of my adoration.

It was another instance of the reckless confidence of youth.  I was on the verge of one of the most appalling adventures which could befall a man, and yet no premonition disturbed the ecstasy with which I knelt before the glimmering marble and unrolled my bundle of wet clay.

I was not a complete fool.  I only meant to attempt a miniature copy, but my presumption led me to expect it to be like—­yes, like—­oh, I never doubted it!

But when, after a few minutes of rapturous contemplation of the proportions which have been the despair of all lesser adepts than the great sculptor who conceived them, I began my work, oh, then I began to realise a little the nature of the task I had undertaken and to ask myself whether if I stayed all night I could finish it to my mind.  It was during one of these moments of hesitation that I heard the first growl of distant thunder.  But it made little impression upon me, and I returned to my work with renewed glow,—­ renewed hope.  I felt so secure in my shell of darkness, with only the one small beam lighting up my model and my own fingers busy with the yielding clay.