It was certainly a rustle of footsteps.
Her own instantly fell as gently as snowflakes.

She reassured herself by a remembrance that the path was public, and that the traveller was probably some villager returning home; regretting, at the same time, that the meeting should be about to occur in the darkest point of her route, even though only just outside her own door.
The noise approached, came close, and a figure was apparently on the point of gliding past her when something tugged at her skirt and pinned it forcibly to the ground.

The instantaneous check nearly threw Bathsheba off her balance.

In recovering she struck against warm clothes and buttons.
"A rum start, upon my soul!" said a masculine voice, a foot or so above her head.

"Have I hurt you, mate ?" "No," said Bathsheba, attempting to shrink away.
"We have got hitched together somehow, I think." "Yes." "Are you a woman ?" "Yes." "A lady, I should have said." "It doesn't matter." "I am a man." "Oh!" Bathsheba softly tugged again, but to no purpose.
"Is that a dark lantern you have?
I fancy so," said the man.
"Yes." "If you'll allow me I'll open it, and set you free." A hand seized the lantern, the door was opened, the rays burst out from their prison, and Bathsheba beheld her position with astonishment.
The man to whom she was hooked was brilliant in brass and scarlet.
He was a soldier.