“It's me!” I cried, no louder than she could just hear; “it's me, Martha! Come down and let me in.”
Without a word of reply, she left the window, and after some fumbling with the lock, opened the door, and came out to me, looking gray with scare, but none the less with all her wits to her hand.
“How is my uncle, Martha?” I said.
“Much better,” she answered.
“Then I must see him at once!”
“He's fast asleep, child! It would be a world's pity to wake him!”
“It would be a worse pity not!” I returned.
“Very well: must-be must!” she answered.
I made Zoe fast to the lamp-post: the night was warm, and hot as she was, she would take no hurt. Then I followed Martha up the stair.
But my uncle was awake. He had heard a little of our motions and whisperings, and lay in expectation of something.