The Stolen Queen
could not speak because of the handkerchief which muffled her poor little mouth. But her eyes said as plainly as anything,—“Oh, my dear dollie! Don’t take away my dear doll!”
Perhaps Jacques had once had a little girl of his own who loved dolls. Perhaps he had not always been a bad man, and a terror to little children, whose very name would frighten them at night. At all events his heart softened a little bit.
“It’s a witch doll,” he muttered to himself. “It will not leave her. It will bring us bad luck.—Oh, let her keep her doll,” he growled roughly to Jean, who was already in the saddle. “All we want is the gems—the doll is nothing to us. Here!” and in a moment he had stripped from Mignon her crown, her necklace, and her dress embroidered with pearls and jewels.
Rip, rip! Tear, tear! Ah, Mignon was only a poor little beggar-doll now, all rags and tatters. Jacques tossed her into the lap of the Queen, and leaped upon Black Bête, in front of his brother robber. There was a snort, a start, a click of hoofs—and they were gone.
