Noiselessly she opened the door and peered out.
It was a quiet night of reveries: the stars, as is their wont when seen through falling dew, were changing their colors, flashing green and red.
The nightingale was now cooing in the bushes, as it does when it has found its mate.
Czipra looked around her. It was a deep slumbering night: no one could see her now.
Yet she drew her linen garment closer round her, and was ashamed to show her bare feet to the starry night.
Ah! it would last only a minute.
The grass was warm and soft, wet with dew as far as the bushes: no sharp pebble would hurt her feet, no cracking stick betray her footsteps.
She stepped out into the open, and left the door ajar behind her.
She trembled so, she feared she would fall, and looked around her: for all the world like someone bent on thieving.
She crept quietly towards the bushes.