In short, Mario, who had seen the besmeared, masked, ghastly, grotesque faces,—disguises assumed by the gypsies in all probability to terrify the peasants of the village and the farm,—and who, despite his courage, had been himself terrified by them, was immensely relieved when he found that he had to do with villains of flesh and blood, rather than with supernatural creatures and mysterious dangers.
Being unable to do anything for the moment except remain in hiding, he waited until the voices and footsteps had died away, before leaving the gate himself to seek shelter from the cold night air in one of the little structures in the garden.
He thought, with good reason, that the labyrinth, with all the windings of which he was so familiar, would enable him to elude any possible pursuit for some time, and he entered it, bending his steps without hesitation toward the little cottage which was metaphorically called the Palace of Astrée.
He was no sooner inside than he fancied that he heard footsteps on the gravel of the circular path.
He listened.
"It is either the wind blowing the dry leaves about," he thought, "or some creature from the farm coming here for shelter. But, in that case, the garden gate must be open! If it is, I am lost! O God! have pity on me!"
The noise was so faint, however, that Mario made bold to look out through the curtain of ivy which covered the walls of his retreat, and he saw a tiny person who was looking all about, in apparent uncertainty, as if seeking refuge in the same place.
Mario had not had time to close the door of the cottage behind him; the small being entered, and said in a low voice:
"Are you here, Mario?"
"Why, is it you, Pilar?" said the child, with an involuntary thrill of pleasure, as he recognized his former little companion, whom he had believed to be dead.