The little gypsy, proud and overjoyed to be riding such a big rocking-horse all by himself, had cajoled the coachman into allowing him to hold the halter. Honest Squilindre, feeling that he had been turned over to that tiny hand, and excited by the merry little heels drumming against his sides, had ventured too far to the right, missed the ford, and swum under the bridge. The coachman tried to go to his assistance, but Pimante, being more suspicious than his mate, refused to leave the solid ground; and the child, clinging to the mane, was delighted with the adventure. His mothers shrieks calmed his excitement, however, and he shouted to her, in a tone which Lucilio alone understood: "Don't be afraid, mother, I am holding on tight." But they were fairly in the current of the little river which fed the moat. The bulky, phlegmatic Squilindre had already had enough of it, and his nostrils, tremendously dilated, betrayed his discomfort and his anxiety. He had not the wit to turn back. He was heading straight for the pond, where the impossibility of passing the dam might well exhaust what little swimming strength he still retained. However, the danger was not imminent as yet, and Lucilio strove by gestures to make the Moor understand that she must not jump into the water. She paid no heed, and was descending the grassy bank, when the marquis, realizing the danger that threatened those two poor creatures, attempted to unbutton his cloak. He would have thrown himself into the stream; indeed, he was about to do it without consulting anybody, and before D'Alvimar had any suspicion of his purpose, when Lucilio, who did detect it, and who wore nothing to impede his freedom of movement, leaped from the bridge and swam vigorously toward the child. "Ah! dear, brave Giovellino!" cried the marquis, forgetting in his emotion the French translation which disguised his friend's name. D'Alvimar recorded that name in the archives of his memory, which was very reliable, and, while the marquis approached the bank to pacify and restrain the Moor, he remained on the bridge, awaiting with strange interest the conclusion of the adventure. His interest was not of the sort that every kind heart would have felt at such a time, and yet the Spaniard was conscious of a keen anxiety. He did not desire the death of the mute, which was in nowise likely to result; but he did desire the death of the child, which seemed more than possible. He did not pray to heaven to abandon that poor creature; he did not seek the explanation of his cruel instinct; he submitted to it, in spite of himself, as to a strange, unconquerable disease. He was more and more conscious that that child inspired him with superstitious terror. "If this that I feel is a revelation of my destiny," he thought, "it is in the balance and is being decided at this moment. If the child dies, I am saved; if he is saved, I am lost." The child was saved.