“Never mind about that; we can examine her baggage in safer place.  Let’s go for the movables.”

And saying this, she fell quickly to work on the person of Flora, slipping out the ear-rings first, then removing her breast-pin and finger-rings, while Pinky unbuttoned the new gaiter boots, and drew off both boots and stockings, leaving upon the damp straw the small, bare feet, pink and soft almost as a baby’s.

It did not take these harpies five minutes to possess themselves of everything but the poor girl’s dress and undergarments.  Cloth oversack, pocket-book, collar, linen cuffs, hat, shoes and stockings—­all these were taken.

“Hallo!” cried the keeper of this foul den as the two girls hurried out with the traveling-bag and a large bundle sooner than he had expected; and he came quickly forth from the cellar in which he lived like a cruel spider and tried to intercept them, but they glided through the gate and were out of his reach before he could get near.  He could follow them only with obscene invectives and horrible oaths.  Well he knew what had been done—­that there had been a robbery in the “Hawk’s Nest,” and he not in to share the booty.

Growling like a savage dog, this wretch, in whom every instinct of humanity had long since died—­this human beast, who looked on innocence and helplessness as a wolf looks upon a lamb—­strode across the yard and entered the den.  Lying in one of the stalls upon the foul, damp straw he found Flora Bond.  Cruel beast that he was, even he felt himself held back as by an invisible hand, as he looked at the pure face of the insensible girl.  Rarely had his eyes rested on a countenance so full of innocence.  But the wolf has no pity for the lamb, nor the hawk for the dove.  The instinct of his nature quickly asserted itself.

Avarice first.  From the face his eyes turned to see what had been left by the two girls.  An angry imprecation fell from his lips when he saw how little remained for him.  But when he lifted Flora’s head and unbound her hair, a gleam of pleasure came info his foul face.  It was a full suit of rich chestnut brown, nearly three feet long, and fell in thick masses over her breast and shoulders.  He caught it up eagerly, drew it through his great ugly hands, and gloated over it with something of a miser’s pleasure as he counts his gold.  Then taking a pair of scissors from his pocket, he ran them over the girl’s head with the quickness and skill of a barber, cutting close down, that he might not lose even the sixteenth part of an inch of her rich tresses.  An Indian scalping his victim could not have shown more eagerness.  An Indian’s wild pleasure was in his face as he lifted the heavy mass of brown hair and held it above his head.  It was not a trophy—­not a sign of conquest and triumph over an enemy—­but simply plunder, and had a market value of fifteen or twenty dollars.

The dress was next examined; it was new, but not of a costly material.  Removing this, the man went out with his portion of the spoils, and locked the door, leaving the half-clothed, unconscious girl lying on the damp, filthy straw, that swarmed with vermin.  It was cold as well as damp, and the chill of a bleak November day began creeping into her warm blood.  But the stupefying draught had been well compounded, and held her senses locked.