Some corners of the ditch, at certain angles of the massive bastions, are favourite dens or nests for thieves and lovers.
Salvat, as he made his way through the thickest of the brambles, nettles and ivy, was lucky enough to find a cavity full of dry leaves, in which he buried himself to the chin.

The rain had already drenched him, and after slipping down the muddy slope, he had frequently been obliged to grope his way upon all fours.

So those dry leaves proved a boon such as he had not dared to hope for.

They dried him somewhat, serving as a blanket in which he coiled himself after his wild race through the dank darkness.

The rain still fell, but he now only felt it on his head, and, weary as he was, he gradually sank into deep slumber beneath the continuous drizzle.