Time has no place in dreams, or I might be able to state the day and the hour when he stood looking at the ring of keys lying on the Curator's desk, and struck with what it might do for him, singled out one of the keys which he placed in the keyhole of a door opening upon a certain little iron staircase.

He was alone, but he stopped to listen before turning that key.

I can see him, can't you?
His air is a guilty one; but it is the guilt of folly, not of premeditated crime.

He wants a try at that bow and recognizes his weakness and laughs.
"But his longing holds, and running up the little staircase to a second door, he unlocks this also and after another moment of hesitation pulls it open.

He has brought the bow with him, but he does not take it past the drapery hanging straight down before his eyes.