“Fool that I am!” he repeated unconsciously, “I have frightened her. I ought to have roused her gently by speaking to her. Awkward brute that I am!” He stopped and listened: the watchman came into the garden through the gateway, dragging his stick along the sandy path. It was necessary to hide, and he went down by the pond. The frogs made him start as they plumped from beneath his feet into the water. Though his feet were wet through, he squatted down and began to recall all he had done. How he had climbed the fence, looked for her window, and at last caught sight of a white shadow; how, listening to the faintest rustle, he several times drew near to the window and went back again. How one moment, he felt sure that she was waiting, vexed at his tardiness, and the next that it was impossible she could have agreed so readily to a rendezvous. How, at last, persuading himself that it was only the bashfulness of a country-bred girl that made her pretend to be asleep, he went up resolutely and saw distinctly how she sat, but then for some reason ran away again, and only after severely taunting himself with his cowardice, boldly drew near to her and touched her hand.