“I am Michel Lorio,” he answered, in a quiet, pleasant voice, which won her back to his side.  “Why dost thou call me Michel le diable?”

“All the world calls thee that,” answered Delphine; “thou art a heretic.  See, I am a good Christian.  I say my ave and paternoster every night; if thou wilt do the same thing, no one will call thee Michel le diable.”

“Thou art not afraid of me?” he asked, for the child put her hand again on his.

“No, no! thou art not the real devil!” she said, “and maman has put my name on the register of the monument; so the great archangel St. Michel will deliver me from all evil.  What canst thou do?  Canst thou turn children into cats? or canst thou walk across the sea without being drowned? or canst thou stand on the highest pinnacle of the church, where the golden image of St. Michel used to be, and cast thyself down without killing thyself?  I will go back with thee to thy house and see what thou canst do.”

“I can do none of these things,” answered Michel, “not one; but thou shalt come home with me if thou wilt.”

“Carry me,” she said, “that I may feel how strong thou art.”

He lifted her easily into his arms, for he was strong and accustomed to bear heavier burdens.  His heart beat fast as the child’s hand stole round his neck and her soft cheek touched his own.  Delphine had never been upon the ramparts before when the stars were out and the distant circle of the cliffs hidden by the night, and several times he was compelled to stop and answer her eager questions; but she would not go into the house when they reached the door.

“Carry me back again, Michel,” she demanded.  “I do not like thy mother.  Thou shalt bring me again along the ramparts to-morrow night.  I will always come to thee, always when I see thee standing in the dark corner by our house.  I love thee much, Michel le diable.”

It was a strange friendship carried on stealthily.  Michel could not put away from himself this one little tie of human love and fellowship.  As for Delphine, she was as silent about her new friend as children often are of such things which affect them deeply.  There was a mingling of superstitious feeling in her affection for Michel—­a half-dread that gave their secret meetings a greater charm to the daring spirit of the child.  The evening was a busy time at the inn, and if Delphine had been missed, but little wonder and no anxiety would have been aroused at her absence.  The ramparts were deserted after dark, and no one guessed that the two dark figures sauntering to and fro were Michel and Delphine.  When the nights were too cold they took refuge in a little overhanging turret projecting from one of the angles of the massive walls—­a darksome niche with nothing but the sky to be seen through a narrow embrasure in the shape of a cross.  In these haunts Michel talked in his simple untaught way of his thoughts and of his new faith, pouring into the child’s ear what he could never tell to any other.  By day Delphine never seemed to see him; never cast a look toward him as he passed by amid the undisguised ill will of the town.  She ceased to speak of him even, with the unconscious and natural dissimulation by which children screen themselves from criticism and censure.