The criminal, whom every one turned to gaze
at, was no other than our old acquaintance, Agostino, the brigand.
"Why, what is this!" cried de Sigognac, in great surprise. "I know
that man--he is the fellow who stopped us on the highway, and tried to
frighten us with his band of scarecrows, as poor Matamore called them. I
told you all about it when we came by the place where it happened."
"Yes, I remember perfectly," said Vallombreuse; "it was a capital story,
and I had a good laugh over it. But it would seem that the ingenious
rascal has been up to something more serious since then--his ambition
has probably been his ruin. He certainly is no coward--only look what a
good face he puts on it."
Agostino, holding his head proudly erect, but a trifle paler than usual
perhaps, seemed to be searching for some one in the crowd. When the cart
passed slowly in front of the stone cross, he caught sight of the little
boy, who had not budged from his excessively uncomfortable and wearisome
position, and a flash of joy shone in the brigand's eyes, a slight smile
parted his lips, as he made an almost imperceptible sign with his head,
and said, in a low tone, "Chiquita!"
"My son, what was that strange word you spoke?" asked the priest. "It
sounded like an outlandish woman's name.
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