With a wild burst of hysterical laughter the child sprang down from the scaffold, while the executioner, stupefied at her bold deed, lowered his now useless club; uncertain whether or not he should proceed to break the bones of the man already dead, and beyond his power to torture.

“Well done, Chiquita, well done, and bravely!” cried Malartic—­who had recognised her in spite of her boy’s clothes—­losing his self-restraint in his admiration.  The other ruffians, who had seen Chiquita at the Crowned Radish, and wondered at and admired her courage when she stood against the door and let Agostino fling his terrible navaja at her without moving a muscle, now grouped themselves closely together so as to effectually prevent the soldiers from pursuing her.  The fracas that ensued gave Chiquita time to reach the carriage of the Duke of Vallombreuse—­which, taking advantage of the stir and shifting in the throng, was slowly making its way out of the Place de Greve.  She climbed up on the step, and catching sight of de Sigognac within, appealed to him, in scarcely audible words, as she panted and trembled—­“I saved your Isabelle, now save me!”

Vallombreuse, who had been very much interested by this strange and exciting scene, cried to the coachman, “Get on as fast as you can, even if you have to drive over the people.”

But there was no need—­the crowd opened as if by magic before the carriage, and closed again compactly after it had passed, so that Chiquita’s pursuers could not penetrate it, or make any progress—­they were completely baffled, whichever way they turned.  Meanwhile the fugitive was being rapidly carried beyond their reach.  As soon as the open street was gained, the coachman had urged his horses forward, and in a very few minutes they reached the Porte Saint Antoine.  As the report of what had occurred in the Place de Greve could not have preceded them, Vallombreuse thought it better to proceed at a more moderate pace—­fearing that their very speed might arouse suspicion—­and gave orders accordingly; as soon as they were fairly beyond the gate he took Chiquita into the carriage—­where she seated herself, without a word, opposite to de Sigognac.  Under the calmest exterior she was filled with a preternatural excitement—­not a muscle of her face moved; but a bright flush glowed on her usually pale cheeks, which gave to her magnificent dark eyes—­now fixed upon vacancy, and seeing nothing that was before them—­a marvellous brilliancy.  A complete transformation had taken place in Chiquita—­this violent shock had torn asunder the childish chrysalis in which the young maiden had lain dormant—­as she plunged her knife into Agostino’s heart she opened her own.  Her love was born of that murder—­the strange, almost sexless being, half child, half goblin, that she had been until then, existed no longer—­Chiquita was a woman from the moment of that heroic act of sublime devotion.  Her passion, that had bloomed out in one instant, was destined to be eternal—­a kiss and a stab, that was Chiquita’s love story.