"You stay right there in the moonlight."
"Right here?"
"Right there. And if you dare to move, I'll scream with all my might."
Buckley first shivered and then froze as stiff as if a hair-trigger rifle were pointing at him. "How long must I stay here?" he asked, without moving his head.
"Until my hus— Until daylight," returned the voice.
"Until daylight!" repeated Buckley. There was something impressive in the deep, rich voice of this tall young woman, and whoever she was, Buckley could tell, from the refined tones, that she was a lady. He could just make out the gleam of her face and of one arm in the dark corner.
Outside, the crickets were scratching in the warm, still night. It was after two o'clock. A moon was shining in his left eye. And he, William Buckley, was kneeling, with his hands stretched imploringly toward a girl whom he had never seen before, in the third story of an old-fashioned Princeton house, which he had entered for the first time by a ladder which, by this time, was resting serenely against a freshly painted house in Mercer Street, whither it had been borne by four classmates, who were now at the corner of Canal and Dickinson Streets, as per agreement, and cursing him for taking such a long time to pull one small freshman out of bed. Meanwhile, the moon was approaching the window-post.
"Please, oh, please, whoever you are," he began, in earnest, pleading tones, "won't you forgive me, and let me go?"
There was no answer.
"I am a gentleman. Indeed I am! I wouldn't harm a girl for the world. Please let me go. I'll be fired—I mean expelled from college for this. I'll be disgraced for life. I'll——"