“Don’t be uneasy about that, Chiquita!  I will not annoy my brave friends, who come to save my life at the risk of their own, by any foolish fears or demonstrations; that I promise you.”

“That’s right,” the child replied, “and until they come, you can defend yourself with my knife, you know.  Don’t forget the proper way to use it.  Strike like this, and then do so; you can rip him up beautifully.  As for me, I’m going to hunt up a quiet corner where I can get a nap.  No, I can’t stay here, for we must not be seen together; it would never do.  Now do you be sure to keep away from that window.  You must not even go near it, no matter what you hear, for fear they might suspect that you hoped for help from that direction.  If they did, it would be all up with us; for they would send out and search the woods, and beat the bushes, and find our friends where they lie hidden.  The whole thing would fall through, and you would have to stop here with this horrid duke that you hate so much.”

“I will not go near the window,” Isabelle answered, “nor even look towards it, however much I may wish to.  You may depend upon my discretion, Chiquita, I do assure you.”

Reassured upon this important point, Chiquita crept softly away, and went back to the lower room where she had left the ruffians carousing.  They were still there—­lying about on the benches and the floor, in a drunken sleep, and evidently had not even missed her.  She curled herself up in a corner, as far as might be from the loathsome brutes, and was asleep in a minute.  The poor child was completely tired out; her slender little feet had travelled eight leagues the night before, running a good part of the way, and the return on horseback had perhaps fatigued her even more, being unaccustomed to it.  Although her fragile little body had the strength and endurance of steel, she was worn out now, and lay, pale and motionless, in a sleep that seemed like death.

“Dear me! how these children do sleep to be sure,” said Malartic, when he roused himself at last and looked about him.  “In spite of our carouse, and all the noise we made, that little monkey in the corner there has never waked nor stirred.  Halloa! wake up you fellows! drunken beasts that you are.  Try to stand up on your hind legs, and go out in the court and dash a bucket of cold water over your cursed heads.  The Circe of drunkenness has made swine of you in earnest—­go and see if the baptism I recommend will turn you back into men, and then we’ll take a little look round the place, to make sure there’s no plot hatching to rescue the little beauty we have in charge.”