Agostino, holding his head proudly erect, but a trifle paler than usual perhaps, seemed to be searching for some one in the crowd.  When the cart passed slowly in front of the stone cross, he caught sight of the little boy, who had not budged from his excessively uncomfortable and wearisome position, and a flash of joy shone in the brigand’s eyes, a slight smile parted his lips, as he made an almost imperceptible sign with his head, and said, in a low tone, “Chiquita!”

“My son, what was that strange word you spoke?” asked the priest.  “It sounded like an outlandish woman’s name.  Dismiss all such subjects from your mind, and fix your thoughts on your own hopes of salvation, for you stand on the threshold of eternity.”

“Yes, my father, I know it but too well, and though my hair is black and my form erect, whilst you are bowed with age, and your long beard is white as snow, you are younger now than I—­every turn of the wheels, towards that scaffold yonder, ages me by ten years.”

During this brief colloquy the cart had made steady progress, and in a moment more had stopped at the foot of the rude wooden steps that led up to the scaffold, which Agostino ascended slowly but unfalteringly—­preceded by the assistant, supported by the priest, and followed by the executioner.  In less than a minute he was firmly bound upon the wheel, and the executioner, having thrown off his showy scarlet cloak, braided with white, and rolled up his sleeves, stooped to pick up the terrible bar that lay at his feet.  It was a moment of intense horror and excitement.  An anxious curiosity, largely mixed with dread, oppressed the hearts of the spectators, who stood motionless, breathless, with pale faces, and straining eyes fixed upon the tragic group on the fatal scaffold.  Suddenly a strange stir ran through the crowd—­the child, who was perched up on the cross, had slipped quickly down to the ground, and gliding like a serpent through the closely packed throng, reached the scaffold, cleared the steps at a bound, and appeared beside the astonished executioner, who was just in the act of raising the ponderous bar to strike, with such a wild, ghastly, yet inspired and noble countenance—­lighted up by a strength of will and purpose that made it actually sublime—­that the grim dealer of death paused involuntarily, and withheld the murderous blow about to fall.

“Get out of my way, thou puppet!” he roared in angry tones, as he recovered his sang-froid, “or thou wilt get thy accursed head smashed.”

But Chiquita paid no attention to him—­she did not care whether she was killed too, or not.  Bending over Agostino, she passionately kissed his forehead, whispered “I love thee!”—­and then, with a blow as swift as lightning, plunged into his heart the knife she had reclaimed from Isabelle.  It was dealt with so firm a hand, and unerring an aim, that death was almost instantaneous—­scarcely had Agostino time to murmur “Thanks.”