The houses opposite were superior to any I had yet seen in Ciudad Rodrigo and had iron balconies before their first-floor windows, broad and deep and overhanging the house-doors.
On one of these doors Leicester was hammering with his side-arm, the Portuguese standing by on the step below.

No one answering, he called to two of his men, who advanced and, setting the muzzles of their muskets close against the keyhole, blew the door in.

Leicester snatched a lantern and sprang inside, the two men after him.
The Portuguese waited.

The rest of the soldiers waited too, grounding arms--some in the roadway, others by the wall at the foot of which they had laid me.
A minute passed--two minutes--and then with a crash a man sprang through one of the first-floor windows, flung a leg over the balcony rail, and hung a moment in air between the ledge and the street.
The window through which he had broken was flung up and Leicester came running after, grabbing at him vainly as he swung clear.
There were two figures now on the balcony.

A woman had run after Leicester.