Upon the lawn he became more cautious. 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. They tickled her as they laid hold--she stretched a leg; purred with fuller note. Perchance this virgin cat dreamed of some gallant young Tom wooing her bed; perchance these ticklings had their deliciously transfigured place in her visions; perchance--she only purred. Now George tucked her beneath his arm. Legs dangled wretchedly; gallant young Tom leapt from her dreams and she awoke. She stirred. George had a foot upon the window-sill, and the night air ruffled her downy coat. She was pressed against bony ribs; a rough arm squeezed her wretchedly; long, poky fingers tortured her flank; her legs draggled dismally. She voiced protest in a plaintive, piercing, long-drawn _“Mi-aow!”_ _Clout!_ Ah, Rose! Pretty, foolish Rose--as our older school again would have written--why did you entertain sensuous dreams when you should have been stirring? _“Mi-aow!”_ _Clout!_ Too late, Rose! Too late! That beauteous head--that prize-winning head which from kittenhood upwards has known none other than caress, is now a mark for battering bumps if you do but open those perfect jaws--those prize-winning jaws. Too late, Rose! Too late! Do not cry now, Rose! The ravisher has you. His blood congeals in terror at your plaintive cry. In his brutish panic he will answer it with thuds. Too late, Rose! Too late! “_Mi-aow!_” _Clout!_ Ah, Rose, Rose! He is outside now. “Shut up, you fat idiot!” he hisses. Squeezing her yet more villainously with one arm, with the other he draws down the sash. Through the gate, into the lane, over the stream, down the ride, into the copse--up to the hut.