The nightingale was warbling there in the thickest part.
She must pierce farther in, must quietly put the leaves aside, to see on which branch the bird was singing.
She could not see.
Again she listened: the warbling lured her further.
It must be near to her: it was warbling there, perhaps she could grasp it with her hand.
But as she bent the bough, a fierce figure sprang up before her and grasped the hand she had stretched out.
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE NIGHT-STRUGGLE
The dark figure, which seized Czipra's hand so suddenly, stared with a blood-thirsty grin into his victim's face, whose every limb shuddered with terror at her assailant.