When the turnkey, next morning, stepp'd into his room, The sight of the hole in the wall struck him dumb; The sheriff's black bracelets lay strewn on the ground, But the lad that had worn 'em could nowhere be found. Her wings were oddly weak, but for all that she could fly. He was Julian five years younger, the spitting image. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. Dieu du ciel! Gerald was kissing her! She struggled to be free, and the arms that held her loosened, the lips leaving hers.
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