Action and speech were simultaneous. His body, posited sidewise from
his hands, was vaulted across, the perilous spurs a full foot above
the glossy white surface. And simultaneously Lute ducked and went
under the piano on hands and knees. Her mischance lay in that she
bumped her head, and, before she could recover way, Forrest had
circled the piano and cornered her under it.

"Come out!" he commanded. "Come out and take your medicine!"

"A truce," she pleaded. "A truce, Sir Knight, for dear love's sake and
all damsels in distress."

"I ain't no knight," Forrest announced in his deepest bass. "I'm an
ogre, a filthy, debased and altogether unregenerate ogre. I was born
in the tule-swamps. My father was an ogre and my mother was more so. I
was lulled to slumber on the squalls of infants dead, foreordained,
and predamned. I was nourished solely on the blood of maidens educated
in Mills Seminary. My favorite chophouse has ever been a hardwood
floor, a loaf of Mills Seminary maiden, and a roof of flat piano. My
father, as well as an ogre, was a California horse-thief. I am more
reprehensible than my father. I have more teeth. My mother, as well as
an ogress, was a Nevada book-canvasser. Let all her shame be told. She
even solicited subscriptions for ladies' magazines. I am more terrible
than my mother. I have peddled safety razors."

"Can naught soothe and charm your savage breast?" Lute pleaded in
soulful tones while she studied her chances for escape.

"One thing only, miserable female. One thing only, on the earth, over