"No; but I dread what is in the dark," the girl answered, shuddering.
"Why, what is it you fear?"
"It is a terrible thing. You cannot know how terrible. It is wrapped in a cloak, and it limps as it goes, and it glares at me. Even in my own soft bed at your feet it glares at me, so that I have to creep close to you before it will go away."
"Why, child, that is only a baby's fancy. You will not meet it," answered Mlle de Tricotrin, steadying her voice with difficulty; for her breath was coming thick, and her heart was beating fast, to see the poor girl's terror.
"Yes, I know," answered Penelophon, in an awe-hushed voice; "but as I looked at the stars just now, and wondered which was yours, and which was Trecenito's, and which was my little one, I saw it pass under the window. It limped and glared, and was wrapped in its cloak. Oh, I saw it!" she cried, again covering her face in terror,—"I saw it, and it will be there to glare at me when I open the gate. Oh, I dare not go! Can you not send another?"
"No, Penelophon," said her mistress, after a pause; for she was hardly able to speak in her growing agitation. "It is only you that will do. I promised you should take the letter, as a token that it came indeed from me. So be brave, child. On you it all depends. Be brave this once, and then Trecenito will be mine, and we shall both be always with him."
The iniquitous deceit of her words seemed to stab her like a knife, and for shame she dared not so much as look at her humble maid. She felt that one more of those devoted, trusting looks from the girl's dog-like eyes would overcome her. So she did not see how Penelophon drew herself up and set her lips, and she was surprised to hear her speak quite calmly and cheerfully again.
"And will it really bring you and Trecenito together if I go?" she said.
"Yes," answered her mistress; "and it is the only thing that will."
"Then I will go," said Penelophon. "Where is the note I shall take?"