That bridge led through a sparsely wooded forest to a road running in a quite different direction from the one by which the house was approached.

As she strove to recall her memories of it, she became more and more assured that her one and only opportunity for a successful flight lay that way.

Moved to joy at the thought, she bowed her head for one wild moment in heartfelt thankfulness and then quickly drew the bolts of the door which offered her this happy deliverance.
She did not mean to seek escape to-night, but an irresistible impulse, which quite robbed her of her judgment, drove her to take a look into the yard and make sure for herself that the bridge was still there and everything as she had last seen it.
But when with the help of the wind she pulled open the heavy door and stood, throbbing under the force of the gale, on the shallow step outside, she found herself confronted by a darkness so hollow and so absolute that she felt as though she had stumbled into a pit.

But instead of retreating, if only to procure a lantern, she took the one step down to the narrow walk which led through grass and flowers to the edge of the plateau from which the bridge extended.

Would she be satisfied now?
No, she must see the bridge, or if she could not see it, must feel it with her foot or touch it with her hand.