But the moon showed Herons'
Holt sleepy-eyed-blinds drawn.
The cats' parlour, back of the house, gave upon a little strip of turf
that kept away the kitchen garden. George drew his knife; approached
the window. Now he was a criminal indeed.
To slip the catch was easy work; between upper and lower sash there
was clear space. George inserted his pen-knife. Tip of blade grated
against catch; a little pressure--an answering movement; a little
more--and, _click_, the trick was done!
Now he raised the sash, and now he is in the room. Glimmer of a match
shows him the sleeping-baskets; its steadier flame discloses the Rose,
snugly curled, a little free of her silken coverlet.
Wake, now, Rose--as an older school of novelists would have addressed
you. Wake, Rose! Wake, pretty Rose! Queenly Rose, awake! Wake
precious, virgin Rose! Squeal! scratch! bite! Claw those wicked hands
descending into your pure bed! Spring like spotless maiden aroused to
find ravisher at her couch! Spring, Rose, spring! Squawking news of
outrage to all the house, bound wildly, Rose, about this room that
else you shall not see until through searing perils you have passed!
Spring! Rose, spring!
Not Rose!
II.
The ravisher's hands descended upon her person--she only purred. They
passed about her warm and exquisite form--she purred the more.
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