Mollie knew what an ogre looked like. She had seen the colored likeness of one in a book of fairy-tales. An ogre lived, so the story said, on human beings. She had been told that fairytales were not true. The scene which confronted her as she came abreast of the vegetable patch convinced her that statement was a mistake. The tales were true. Peter Grimes was an ogre. He lived on little children! The awful realization made the poor child's blood run cold. Her heart seemed to stop beating. With dilated, terror-filled eyes she gazed, transfixed, upon the hideous spectacle that was never to be obliterated from her mind. Before a black, loathsome sea of mud stood Peter Grimes. His tall, spare figure appeared to Mollie colossal. His face, what she could see of it, was twisted by a one-sided smile of inexpressible cruelty and satisfaction. Beside him his son, Ambrose, jumped up and down in sheer ecstasy of joy, his attention riveted upon the piteous cries and struggles of an animal that the mud was slowly sucking down to death in its sinister depths. Suspended above the bog, head downward, was the form of Stephen, his slender, knickerbockered legs held in the vise-like grip of the human monster while the latter's powerful arms swung him like a pendulum to and fro, heedless of the shrieks, now subsiding as the terrified boy lapsed into unconsciousness. Two birds, chirping furiously, flew up from the garden and across the bog. A sudden shaft of sunlight sent a golden gleam along their course. Subconsciously Mollie watched their flight. They disappeared into the safety of the thicket beyond. God's sparrows! They were flying away from the hateful place. The ray of light pointed the way. Then God must be near! The wonderful thought flashed over the little girl and gave her courage. So tense was the moment she was incapable of conscious mental effort. It was as if her body were completely detached and she, herself, a separate entity. But the tension was broken. Her sentient little frame quivered, then sprang with the agility of a young wildcat straight at the ogre's legs. She kicked, she beat with her tiny fists, she pinched. It was the pinching that brought results. "You bad man--you wicked--bad--man!" she screamed, emphasizing each word with a blow. "You put Splutters down--Put him down, I say. Don't you dare to hurt Splutters." The leg of the ogre stamped and kicked but Mollie hung on. The great arms of the ogre ceased their pendulous motion, but Mollie's attack did not cease. The arms tossed their limp, senseless burden upon a mound of dank grass. Mollie relaxed her efforts. The tall, crooked figure of the ogre bent toward her. He seemed to be licking his chops in anticipation. His talon-like fingers made convulsive, clutching motions as if to encircle her throat. His evil, twisted face with its narrow eyes leered down into her face with savage intensity. She met the look fearlessly.