the chariot, standing directly in his way, and it proved to be a little girl about twelve years old; a child with large, dark, liquid eyes that had a feverish light in them—­eyes exactly like Chiquita’s.  There was a string of pearl beads round the slender neck, and an extraordinary combination of rags and tatters, held together in some mysterious way, hung about the thin, fragile little figure.  It was indeed Chiquita herself, and with her, Agostino—­the ingenious rascal, whose laughable exploit with his scarecrow brigands has been already recorded—­who, tired of following a profession that yielded no profits, had set out on foot for Paris—­where all men of talent could find employment they said—­marching by night, and lying hidden by day, like all other beasts of prey.  The poor child, overcome with fatigue and benumbed by the cold, had given out entirely that night, in spite of her valiant efforts to keep up with Agostino, and he had at last picked her up in his arms and carried her for a while—­she was but a light burden—­hoping to find some sort of shelter soon.

“What can be the meaning of this?” he said to Chiquita.  “Usually we stop the vehicles, but here we are stopped by one in our turn; we must look out lest it be full of travellers, ready to demand our money or our lives.”

“There’s nobody in it,” Chiquita replied, having peeped in under the cover.

“Perhaps there may be something worth having inside there,” Agostino said; “we will look and see,” and he proceeded to light the little dark lantern he always had with him, for the daylight was not yet strong enough to penetrate into the dusky interior of the chariot.  Chiquita, who was greatly excited by the hope of booty, jumped in, and rapidly searched it, carefully directing the light of the lantern upon the packages and confused mass of theatrical articles stowed away in the back part of it, but finding nothing of value anywhere.

“Search thoroughly, my good little Chiquita!” said the brigand, as he kept watch outside, “be sure that you don’t overlook anything.”

“There is nothing here, absolutely nothing that is worth the trouble of carrying away.  Oh, yes! here is a bag, with something that sounds like money in ft.”

“Give it to me,” cried Agostino eagerly, snatching it from her, and making a rapid examination of its contents; but he threw it down angrily upon the ground, exclaiming, “the devil take it!  I thought we had found a treasure at last, but instead of good money there’s nothing but a lot of pieces of gilded lead and such-like in it.  But we’ll get one thing out of this anyhow—­a good rest inside here for you, sheltered from the wind and cold.  Your poor little feet are bleeding, and they must be nearly frozen.  Curl yourself down there on those cushions, and I will cover you with this bit of painted canvas.  Now go to sleep, and I will watch while you have a nap; it is too early yet for honest folks to be abroad, and we shall not be disturbed.”  In a few minutes poor little Chiquita was sound asleep.