"I won't hurt you, little Carl!" And at the words a whole ocean of tenderness welled up in my heart for the trembling and lonely little figure in the soldier's dress, this Pomeranian grenadier, timorous as a rabbit. I must, in this heart of mine, have some good; for, boy as I was, with all the fighting instincts of the Mahons in my blood, I felt no boyish ridicule for this creature that a blow would make cry, but all the tenderness of a nurse, or a person who holds a live and trembling bird in his hand.
"I won't hurt you. I didn't mean to knock you in the pond."
"But you did," said Carl, still dubious.
"I know, and I'm sorry. See here, Carl, I'll give you my dog."
"Your big dog?" asked Carl, for he had seen Marengo bounding about the lawn.
"Yes," said I, knowing full well that the promise was about equivalent to the promise of the moon.
The little hand fell into mine.
"Gretel," said Carl, now in a confidential tone, "told me you would kill me if I played with you, or went near you, or if I looked at you."
"Oh, how wicked!" I cried. "I kill you!" And I clasped the little form more tightly.