"Come, Ruth. Come home with me. I will make you happier than you will ever be in this place."
"No, Cyrus. No. I cannot."
"Do you mean that you will stay here all your life, from a sense of duty?"
"No—not wholly. Oh, why begin all over again? Please be reasonable, Drowsy. Please go away quietly."
His voice was gentle, but there was something in his face that recalled the boy of long ago, the boy who vanquished giants. Now it was the man—who might defy the gods. She was afraid:—of what, she knew not. But she took a backward step, a hand to her breast as if to calm a nervous heart. There was reason to be afraid. For then happened the unforgivable thing—doubly unforgivable when applied to a woman of sensibility and pride. He bent forward, to pick up something at her feet, she thought. Then, without warning, and all too sudden for escape, she felt an arm behind her knees, another across her back, and she was lifted from the ground. Before she could protest, or even struggle, he pushed open the door of the iron monster with his foot and passed her within as if she were a child. Gently he placed her on the floor and climbed in himself. She found herself sitting in front of him, her shoulders held firmly between his knees. He shut the little door at his side and all was dark. A button was pressed, one or two small levers manipulated, then a buzzing sound, a slight quivering of the car and through the port hole in front she saw that they were rising above the tops of the trees.
Then, high into the air.
