The result was once more in vain, and he resumed his seat upon the leaves, with his back reclining against an oak.

Here, despite the fact that the night was growing darker, nothing within range of a rifle shot could escape his eyes.
Nothing stirred.

The noise did not come a second time from the thicket.
The very silence was oppressive.

There was no wind, not even a stray puff, and the bushes never rustled.

Henry longed for a noise of some kind to break that terrible, oppressive silence.