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storm, meanwhile, became angrily active.
    Such storms can last for hours.
    Muchly was I pleased that the repairs had been promptly and efficiently accomplished.
    I think I fell asleep, over the book.
    I remember awakening, rather suddenly. It must have been late. My first thought was one of annoyance, that I had fallen asleep.
    I wondered if I had heard a noise, a whimpering cry, a plea as though for mercy, or help. That would have been in some dream.
    I was angry that I had fallen asleep.
    The storm was still raging. One could see flashes of lightning in the distance, out to sea, and then, several seconds later, hear the rumble of thunder, rolling inward, crashing ashore. The rain poured on the shingles. One could scarcely see through the window there was so much rain running on the panes, banking on the partitions, flowing over. The wind whipped the rain against the glass. The shutters, which I had not closed, rattled on their hinges.
    I should have prepared for bed before reading, I suppose, but I had not planned on falling asleep in the chair.
    The shutters, caught in the wind, suddenly banged open and shut.
    It may have been that sound that had awakened me.
    I went to the window to fasten the shutters, as I should have earlier, either back and latched, or closed, and latched, given the storm. I decided to close them. That way the slats would protect the window, and the unpainted partitions, and part of the sill. Too, that might make it a bit easier to sleep, as the room, abruptly, unpredictably, was, again and again, washed with white light, followed by roaring thunder. I could see lightning, too, far out to sea. It seemed to be coming closer.
    It would not be a pleasant job, opening the window, to get at the shutters, but it needed to be done. Certainly one would not want them crashing back and forth all night. Too, they might disturb the other residents in the house. It would be embarrassing if Mrs. Fraser, or one of her roomers, came upstairs to see about it, perhaps offering to fasten them for me.
    I raised the sash and, half closing my eyes against the ferocity of the storm, feeling the rain drenching my shirt, reached outward to grasp the shutters. I had actually begun to draw them inward, to fasten them closed, gratefully, when I stopped, startled, for below me, in the yard, in the driving rain, oddly illuminated in the moonlight, between bursts of lightning, was a small, white figure, she whom I had seen before. She had been running, it seemed, and had just fallen in the gravel and grass, and was on her hands and knees. She turned, and looked up, wildly, toward the window. She was gasping, and muddy. Frantic. She was naked, as before, absolutely so, starkly so, save for that wealth of long blond hair, feet in length, bedraggled, clinging thickly about her like golden, sopped slave cord. How terrified, how beautiful, she was! There, miserable, in the cold and rain. She might have been a delicate, high-born Medieval maiden, escaped perhaps for a moment from barbarians, who had loutishly removed her rings, her jewels, and then, doubtless enjoying her humiliation, mocking her tears, ignoring her protests, roaring with laughter at her unspeakable, unconscionable grief and shame, inappropriate in a thrall, however new to her bondage, her brocade, and lace, leaving not the kindness or grace, or mercy, of a single thread upon her, this preparatory doubtless to handing her about, man to man, victor to victor, she their prize, now belonging to them, rightfully taken from weaker men, theirs now, by the right of nature, putting her to their common pleasure. Barbarians, if they found her satisfactory, sufficiently helpless and gasping, I supposed, might take her with them, on a leash, bound, to their ship. Such do well in cleaning stables, in scrubbing the stone floors of rude halls, in laundering, in carrying water and cooking, in serving at a master’s table, and in his bed.
    â€œCome in!” I called to her, my