At the end of that time, he drew a deep breath of relief.

A step that might have been the step of a sentry pacing the rampart, and now pausing, now moving on, began to approach him.

It came on, paused, came on, paused--this time close at hand.

Two or three dull sounds followed, then the sharper noise of a falling stone.

Immediately the foot of the sentry, if sentry it was, began to retreat.
Claude drove his nails into the palms of his hands and waited, waited through an eternity, waited until the retreating foot had almost reached, as he judged, the Porte Tertasse.