There he crouched, with a heart that was going like a shuttle on a loom, and listened for Elspeth's voice.
On a night he had come nearly as far as this before, but in the tail of big fellows with a turnip lantern.

Into the wood-work of the east window they had thrust a pin, to which a button was tied, and the button was also attached to a long string.

They hunkered afar off and pulled this string, and then the button tapped the death-rap on the window, and the sport was successful, for the Painted Lady screamed.

But suddenly the door opened and they were put to flight by the fierce barking of a dog.
One said that the brute nabbed him in the leg, another saw the vive tongue of it, a third played lick at it with the lantern; this was before they discovered that the dog had been Grizel imitating one, brave Grizel, always ready to protect her mother, and never allowed to cherish the childish fears that were hers by birthright.
Tommy could not hear a sound from within, but he had startling proof that Elspeth was near.

His foot struck against something at the door, and, stooping, he saw that it was a little bundle of the treasures she valued most.