Lisle was thinking deeply, while he drank the glass of milk and ate the cakes. He went over in his mind the events of a fortnight ago—his sudden, unbelievable capture, the rush through the fury of the storm, then warmth, the smell of baking, this room, and the bakery woman! He had never seen his captors. They had left him blindfolded inside the room, and the woman had come in shortly afterward! He knew that the bakery woman was kind and he was grateful to her. He knew that as a prisoner he might have had to suffer physically in ways that he would have found it hard to bear. Here there was no filth or misery. There was good food and a comfortable bed. There was even a little mouse who came out and wabbled its nose at him now and then. He particularly enjoyed this because he had read stories in which prisoners made friends with mice and rats. It made his captivity more interesting to him. He felt certain that the bakery woman would not lift a finger to help him to escape, and he was right. She was not of the stuff of which heroines are made. She would not do anything to change the peaceful, even course of her bakery existence. No, he must not look to her for more than everyday comfort! Where, then, could he look? He thought constantly of Rosanne, more so than of his mother, for he knew where his mother was, or, at least, where she was supposed to be, while of Rosanne he knew nothing at all, except that he had left her singing in the salon when he went to the cellar for the wood. More than anything else he longed to know that she was safe. He did not dare to mention her to the bakery woman, because he did not want to call attention to her at all. There was nothing then that he could do, but wait. He asked the bakery woman for ink and a pen soon after his coming. She had protested at first, but had finally brought him a dish of ink and a long, fine quill pen. She herself used such articles only for her accounts, writing not being one of her best accomplishments. Lisle had explained to her why he wanted them. “There is nothing to do, don’t you see? Nothing. I have no books, and you have none to give me. All prisoners have written accounts of their life in prison. It is always done, and it will give me something to think about!” he had said to her, and she had brought what he wanted, when she had come up again with his food. He had begun a sort of diary, and once when the mouse came out from his hole and winked at him while he was writing, he felt as though he might be a part of an old novel. He was a prisoner writing his diary, and his one friend was a mouse!