He gave a happy, low laugh, and tightened his hold.
“Why, dear,” he said, “are not a woman’s extremes of love all for the man who will beat her, or the man she can cherish and protect? I vow I chose only my natural part.”
“Well,” said I, “I’m glad you stopped short of the beating. It would only have stiffened me, like cream.”
“Whipt cream is very good with cherries,” said he, and bent to my lips.
But I started from him gaily, and leapt to my feet.
“Come,” I said; “I’m waiting to be introduced to Mr. Portlock.”
He laughed, and stretched himself, and, rising, stooped to the hole in the wall and scratched with his finger, like a rat gnawing, on the iron stop therein. In a little something was withdrawn, and a weak wash of light flowed through.
“Now,” said he, “I will go first, and do you follow, little mouse.”
He dropped on his hands and knees, and crawled in, and disappeared. It was an attitude that lacked romance, and I was glad there was none behind to witness my passing. But the journey was so short that I was hardly in before my head was free on the farther side; and in a moment George had helped me to my feet, and I saw our host.
I saw nothing else, indeed. There were, I believe, the open range, and herb-hung rafters, and settle and dresser of the ordinary cottager’s kitchen. The huge creature before me absorbed three-fourths of the field of my vision. I understood at once why Mahomet must come to the mountain.