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, unconsci