“I wish it wasn’t going to be quite dark,” she said when they returned.  “But if we hold hands and talk I shan’t mind.  That was a lovely cake of yours, Bertie, I shall never forget it.”

They found a ledge to sit on, Chris with her feet curled up; and Cinders, grown sleepy after a generous meal, pressed against her.  She protested when Bertrand took off his coat and wrapped it round her, but he would take no refusal.  There was a penetrating dampness about the place that he feared for her.

“If you sleep, you will feel it,” he said.

“But I’m not going to sleep,” declared Chris.  “I never felt more wide-awake in my life.  I often do at bedtime.  I hope you are not feeling sleepy either, for I want to talk all night long.”

Bertrand professed himself quite willing to listen.  “You were going to tell me something about this cave,” he reminded her.

“Oh, yes.”  Chris swooped upon the subject eagerly.  “Manon, the little maid-of-all-work, was telling me.  She said that no one ever comes here because it is haunted.  That’s what made Cinders and me call it the Magic Cave.  She said that it was well known that no one ever came out the same as they went in even in the daytime, and if any one were to spend the night here they would be under a spell for the rest of their lives.  Just think of that, Bertie!  Do you think we shall be?  She didn’t tell me what the spell was.  I expect it was something too bad to repeat.  That’s how Cinders and I came to make up about the knight and the dragon.  I hope the dragon won’t find us, don’t you?”

She drew a little nearer to him and slipped a hand inside his arm.  He pressed it close to him,

“Have no fear, cherie.  No evil can touch you while I am here.”

“I should be terrified if you weren’t,” she told him frankly.  “Did you ever hear about the spell?  Do you know what it means?”

“Yes,” he said slowly; “I have heard.  That was in part why I came here at first, because I knew that I should be alone.  I had need of solitude in order to accomplish that which I had begun.”

“Your magic?” queried Chris eagerly.

“Yes, little one, my magic.  But”—­he was smiling—­“I have never remained here for the night.  And the charm, you say, is not so potent during the day.”

“You may be under it already,” she said.  “I wonder if you are.”

“Ah!” Bertrand’s tone was suddenly grave.  “That also is possible.”

“I wonder,” she said again.  “That may be what made you knock your head.  One never knows.  But tell me about your magic.  What is it?  What do you do?”

“I think,” he said, “I calculate.  And I build.”

“What do you build?”

“It is a secret,” he said.

“But you will tell me!”

“Why, Christine?”

“Because I do so want to know,” she urged coaxingly.  “And I can keep secrets really.  All English people can.  Try me!” She thrust forward the little finger of the hand that his arm held.  “You must pinch it,” she explained, “as hard as you can.  And if I don’t even squeak you will know I am to be trusted.”