"Brave child!" cried the Baron, who sprang from his car and hurried to the group of frightened peasants. "Are you injured?"
"Not at all, Most Noble Baron," said Marushka, not forgetting to make her courtesy, though it was not easy with the baby in her arms.
The child's mother had by this time picked herself out of the ditch and rushed over to where Maruskha stood, the baby still in her arms and cooing delightedly as he looked into the child's sweet face, his tiny hand clutching the silver medal which always hung about Marushka's neck. The mother snatched the baby to her breast and, seating herself by the roadside, she felt all over its little body to see if it was hurt.
"You have this brave little girl to thank that your baby was not killed," said the Baron. The woman turned to Marushka.
"I thank you for—" she began, stopped abruptly, and then stared at the little girl with an expression of amazement. "Child, who are you?" she demanded.
"Marushka," said the little girl simply. The woman put her hand to her head.
"It is her image," she muttered. "Her very self!"
The Baroness had alighted from the motor and came up in time to hear the woman's words.
"Whose image?" she demanded sharply.
The woman changed colour and put her baby down on the grass.