He received the information with a smile.  “But I speak English, mademoiselle,” he protested for the second time.

“Ah yes, you do—­after a fashion,” admitted Chris.  “But I don’t suppose Cinders would understand it.  It’s not very English English.”

He raised his shoulders in a gesture that was purely French. “La belle dame sans merci!” he murmured ruefully. “Bien!  I will do my possible.”

“Splendid!” laughed Chris.  “No one could do more.”

She watched him go with eyes that sparkled with merriment.  The trim, slight figure was quite good to look upon.  He went bounding over the rocks with the sure-footed grace of a chamois.

“I wonder who he really is,” said Chris, “and where he comes from.”

CHAPTER II

DESTINY

Over the rocks went the stranger with the careless speed of youth, humming to himself in a soft tenor, his brown face turned to the sun.  The pleasant smile was still upon it.  He had the look of one in whose eyes all things are good.

Ahead of him gleamed the towel with the sandals upon it, sandals that might have been fashioned for fairy feet.  He quickened his pace at sight of them.  But she was charming, this English child!  He had never before seen anyone quite so dainty.  And of a courage unique in one so young!

He was nearing the sandals now, but the sun was in his eyes, and he saw only the towel spread like a tablecloth over the rock.  He sprang lightly down on to a heap of shingle, and reached for it, still humming the chanson that the little English girl had somehow put into his head.

The next instant a deep growl arrested him, and sharply he drew back.  There was something more than a pair of sandals on the towel above him, something that crouched in an attitude of tense hostility, daring him to approach.  It was only a small creature that thus challenged him, only a weird black terrier of doubtful extraction, but he bristled from end to end with animosity.  Quite plainly he regarded the sandals as his responsibility.  With glaring eyes and gleaming teeth he crouched, prepared to defend them.

The young Frenchman’s discomfiture was but momentary.  In an instant he had taken in the situation and the humour of it.

“But it is the good Cinders!” he said aloud, and extended a fearless hand.  “So, my friend, so!  The little mistress waits.”

Cinders’ growl became a snarl.  He sucked up his breath in furious protest, threatening murder.  But the stranger’s hand was not withdrawn.  On the contrary it advanced upon him with the utmost deliberation till Cinders was compelled to jerk backwards to avoid it.

So jerking, he missed his footing as his mistress had before him, lost his balance, and rolled, cursing, clinging, and clambering, over the edge of the rock.