His mind was confused, but his senses were alert; he was in a kind of dream, yet he was acutely conscious of the smell of new-made bread.

It pervaded the air of the place; it somehow crept into his brain and his being, so that, as long as he might live, the smell of new-made bread would fetch back upon him the nervous shiver and numbness of this hour of danger.
As he waited, he heard a noise outside, a clac-clac! clac-clac! which seemed to be echoed back from the wood and stone of the houses in the street, and then to be lifted up and carried away over the roofs and out to sea---clac-clac! clac-clac! It was not the tap of a blind man's staff--at first he thought it might be; it was not a donkey's foot on the cobbles; it was not the broom-sticks of the witches of St.Clement's Bay, for the rattle was below in the street, and the broom-stick rattle is heard only on the roofs as the witches fly across country from Rocbert to Bonne Nuit Bay.
This clac-clac came from the sabots of some nightfarer.

Should he make a noise and attract the attention of the passer-by?
No, that would not do.

It might be some one who would wish to know whys and wherefores.

He must, of course, do his duty to his country, but he must save his father too.