And into these big pockets the old wanderer's arms were buried up to the elbows.
Perhaps it was because he felt somewhat chilly.
There was a gentle breeze blowing through the trees.
As he went along, he shot sly glances from time to time about him, almost as if he were expecting someone; but he had got nearly over a third of the distance down the fig-tree grove before there were the faintest signs of life about him, and there, apparently overcome by the fatigue of his walk, he dropped down upon a moss-grown bank to rest.
He looked up at the leafy canopy overhead, and sniffed down the sweet odours that floated along on the gentlest of zephyrs.
"Not such bad quarters," he muttered to himself (it was in English that he spoke); "not at all bad. There is only one thing required to make this the happiest day of my life; only one thing, and that is, success in my present undertaking—"
He paused.
"Hark!"
What was it?
He heard a faint rustling in the foliage hard by.