we were--marauders, disturbers of the proper respectable peace of
twentieth century farms. He lashed himself into ecstasies of fury against
our unconventionality; he rose to magnificent paroxysms of protest that
passionately besought High Heaven and Farmer Banks to open the door and
let him get at us.

But no one came. There may have been other sounds coming from the house
besides that infuriated demand for vengeance, but all inferior noises--and
surely all other noises must have been inferior to that clamour--were
absorbed and flattened out of existence. We were in a world occupied by
the bark of a single dog, and any addition to that occupation would have
been superfluous.

The owner of the voice was doing his level best now to get the door down
on his own account. I hoped he might succeed. I should have excuse then to
fly to the woods and claim sanctuary. As it was, I retreated a couple of
steps, holding my breath to ease the pain of my nerves, and some old
instinct of prayer made me lift my face to the sky. I welcomed the cold,
inquisitive touch of the silent rain.

Then I became aware through the torture of prolonged exasperation that my
upturned face was lit from above; that a steady candle was now perched on
the very sill of the one illuminated window; and that behind the candle
the figure of a woman stood looking down at me.

She appeared to be speaking.

I held my hands to my ears and shook my head violently to intimate my
temporary deafness; and the figure disappeared, leaving the placid candle
to watch me as it seemed with a kind of indolent nonchalance.