They crouched at the window. Half an hour passed. An hour. It was getting toward half past eleven. No lights showed now in any of the courtyard windows; it was all dark out there.
Once or twice Alan had heard footsteps in the main corridor outside the reception room. But no one had entered; and for half an hour now there had been no sound of anyone.
Another interval.
"We've been here long enough," Alan decided.
"All right." The boy was shaking again. "It's midnight, isn't it? 'The very witching time of night when churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood and do such bitter business as the day would quake to look on—'"
"Charlie, stop that!"
"It's Hamlet. I'm like Hamlet—a little mad, but though they fool me to the top of my bent they cannot play upon me!"
"Stop it! Let's go upstairs now."
"Shall we? All right. Go where?"
"To the girl's room. Can you lead me there?"