Before re-entering the house she went to look at the drawbridge, with a faint hope that she might chance upon some unexpected means of escape, but all was secure there, and a little postern, opening on the moat, which she discovered near by, was also carefully fastened, with bolts and bars strong enough to keep out an army.  As these seemed to be the only means of exit from the chateau, she felt that she was a prisoner indeed, and understood why it had not been deemed necessary to lock any of the inner doors against her.  She walked slowly back to the gallery, entered it by the glass door, found her lamp burning tranquilly just where she had left it, retraced her steps swiftly through the long suite of spacious apartments already described and flew up the grand staircase to her own room, congratulating herself upon not having been detected in her wanderings.  She put her lamp down in the antechamber, but paused in terror on the threshold of the inner room, stifling a shriek that had nearly escaped her as she caught sight of a strange, wild figure crouching on the hearth.  But her fears were short-lived, for with an exclamation of delight the intruder sprang towards her and she saw that it was Chiquita—­but Chiquita in boy’s clothes.

“Have you got the knife yet?” said the strange little creature abruptly to Isabelle—­“the knife with three bonny red marks.”

“Yes, Chiquita, I have it here in my bosom,” she replied.  “But why do you ask?  Is my life in danger?”

“A knife,” said the child with fierce, sparkling eyes, “a knife is a faithful friend and servant; it never betrays or fails its master, if he is careful to give it a drink now and then, for a knife is often thirsty you know.”

“You frighten me, you naughty child!” exclaimed Isabelle, much troubled and agitated by these sinister, extravagant words, which perhaps, she thought, might be intended as a friendly warning.

“Sharpen the edge on the marble of the chimney-piece, like this,” continued Chiquita, “and polish the blade on the sole of your shoe.”

“Why do you tell me all this?” cried Isabelle, turning very pale.

“For nothing in particular, only he who would defend himself gets his weapons ready—­that’s all.”

These odd, fierce phrases greatly alarmed Isabelle, yet Chiquita’s presence in her room was a wonderful relief and comfort to her.  The child apparently cherished a warm and sincere affection for her, which was none the less genuine because of its having arisen from such a trivial incident—­for the pearl beads were more precious than diamonds to Chiquita.  She had given a voluntary promise to Isabelle never to kill or harm her, and with her strange, wild, yet exalted notions of honour she looked upon it as a solemn obligation and vow, by which she must always abide—­for there was a certain savage nobility in Chiquita’s character, and she could be faithful unto death.  Isabelle was the only human being,