As he emerged at the top he looked the very spirit of evil breaking from its hole.
Donning his hat at its most rakish angle, he wound his cloak around him, holding one end in front as if to conceal his person from the night, of which it was the blackest part, and muttering strangely to himself, stole away through the trees.
Peter slept on.

The light guttered [burned to edges] and went out, leaving the tenement in darkness; but still he slept.

It must have been not less than ten o'clock by the crocodile, when he suddenly sat up in his bed, wakened by he knew not what.

It was a soft cautious tapping on the door of his tree.
Soft and cautious, but in that stillness it was sinister.

Peter felt for his dagger till his hand gripped it.