Her object, then, was to approach one of the tents very, very quietly--so softly that even the dog's ears should not detect the light footfall. If she could approach close enough to put her hand on the dog's neck all would be well. She pulled off the gypsy maid's rough shoes, hid them in the grass where she could find them again, and came gingerly step by step, nearer and nearer the principal tent. At its entrance lay a ferocious-looking half-bred bull-dog. Annie possessed that necessary accompaniment to courage--great outward calm; the greater the danger, the more cool and self-possessed did she become. She was within a step or two of the tent when she trod accidentally on a small twig; it cracked, giving her foot a sharp pain, and very slight as the sound was, causing the bull-dog to awake. He raised his wicked face, saw the figure like his own people, and yet unlike, but a step or two away, and, uttering a low growl, sprang forward.