Thus he overmastered himself.
He saw Girasole enter the house. He watched breathlessly. The time
seemed long indeed. He could not hear any thing; the conversation, if
there was any, was carried on in a low tone. He could not see any
thing; those who conversed kept quiet; no one passed in front of the
window. It was all a mystery, and this made the time seem longer. At
length Dacres began to think that Girasole would not go at all. A long
time passed. Hours went away, and still Girasole did not quit the
house.
It was now sundown. Dacres had eaten nothing since morning, but the
conflict of passion drove away all hunger or thirst. The approach of
darkness was in accordance with his own gloomy wishes. Twilight in
Italy is short. Night would soon be over all.
The house was on the slope of the bank. At the corner nearest him the
house was sunk into the ground in such a way that it looked as though
one might climb into the upper story window. As Dacres looked he made
up his mind to attempt it. By standing here on tiptoe he could catch
the upper window-ledge with his hands. He was strong. He was tall. His
enemy was in the house. The hour was at hand. He was the man.
Another hour passed.
All was still.
There was a flickering lamp in the hall, but the men seemed to be
asleep.
Another hour passed.
There was no noise.
Then Dacres ventured down. He moved slowly and cautiously, crouching
low, and thus traversing the intervening space.
He neared the house and touched it.
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