The door cracked open of a high house, scattered cries of, “Help, help, help! Save, save, save!” But no one came, for these cries were from a high house. She was stripped garment by garment, her last drape snatched, debased. She was helpless craven and lifeless. Her youthfulness was dead, merely a pile of soot. This was the honor of a poor man’s daughter. She was dead, merely a pile of soot, no longer able to raise a voice. This was the honor, the chastity, of a poor man’s daughter. The high flames of her pyre became a vampire to **** the blood of her looters.