That night, what with her bell-rope and her little bit of a wall, she was somewhat less timorous, and went to sleep early.
But even in sleep she was watchful, and she was awakened by a slight sound in the neighborhood of the boat.
She lay watching, but did not stir.
Presently she heard a footstep.
With a stifled cry she bounded up, and her first impulse was to rush out of the tent. But she conquered this, and, gliding to the south side of her bower, she peered through the palm-leaves, and the first thing she saw was the figure of a man standing between her and the boat.
She drew her breath hard. The outline of the man was somewhat indistinct. But it was not a savage. The man was clothed; and his stature betrayed him.
He stood still for some time. "He is listening to see if I am awake," said Helen to herself.
The figure moved toward her bower.
Then all in a moment she became another woman. She did not rely on her bell-rope; she felt it was fast to nothing that could help her. She looked round for no weapon; she trusted to herself. She drew herself hastily up, and folded her arms; her bosom panted, but her cheek never paled. Her modesty was alarmed; her blood was up, and life or death were nothing to her.
The footsteps came nearer; they stopped at her door; they went north; they came back south. They kept her in this high-wrought attitude for half an hour. Then they retired softly; and, when they were gone, she gave way and fell on her knees and began to cry hysterically. Then she got calmer, and then she wondered and puzzled herself; but she slept no more that night.