Chris nodded.  “And you?  No,” hastily checking herself, “don’t tell me!  You live in the Magic Cave, of course.  I knew you were there.  It was why I came.”

“You knew, mademoiselle?” His eyes interrogated her.

She nodded again in answer.  “You have lived there for hundreds of years.  You were under a spell, and I came and broke it.  If I hadn’t cut my foot, you would have been there still.  Do you really think you can lift me?  And what shall you do when you come to cross the rocks?  They are much too slippery to walk on.”

He stooped to raise her, still smiling.  “Have no fear, mademoiselle!  I know these rocks by heart.”

She laughed with a child’s pure merriment.  “Oh, I am not afraid, preux chevalier.  But if you find me too heavy—­”

“If I cannot carry the queen of the fairies,” he interrupted, “I am not worthy of the name.”

He had her in his arms with the words, holding her lightly and easily, as if she had been an infant.  His eyes smiled reassuringly into hers.

“So, mademoiselle!  We depart for Valpre!”

“What fun!” said Chris.

It seemed she was to enjoy her adventure after all, adverse circumstances notwithstanding.  Her foot throbbed and burned, but she put this fact resolutely away from her.  She had found the knight, and, albeit he was French, she was very pleased with him.  He was the prettiest toy that had ever yet come her way.

Possibly in this respect the knight’s sentiments resembled hers.  For she was very enchanting, this English girl, fresh as a rose and gay as a butterfly, with a face that none called beautiful but which most paused to admire.  It was the vividness, the entrancing vitality of her, that caught the attention.  People smiled almost unwittingly when little Chris Wyndham turned her laughing eyes their way; they were so clear, so blue, so confidingly merry.  There was a rare sweetness about her, a spontaneous charm irresistibly winning.  She loved everybody without effort, as naturally as she loved life, with an absence of self-consciousness so entire that perhaps it was not surprising that she was loved in return.

“You are much stronger than you look, preux chevalier,” she remarked presently.  “But wouldn’t you like to set me down while you go and fetch my sandals?  They are over there on the rocks.  It would be a pity for them to get washed away, and I might manage to walk with them on.”

He had brought her safely over the most difficult part of the way.  He seated her at once upon a flat rock, and stooped to assure himself as to the success of his bandage.

“It gives you not so much of pain, no?” he asked.

“It scarcely hurts at all,” she assured him.  “You will be quick now, won’t you, because I ought to be getting back.  If you see Cinders, you might bring him too.”

“Cinders?” he questioned, pausing.

“My dog,” she explained.  “But he doesn’t talk French, so I don’t suppose he will follow you.”