ing him, and the heavy panting of his persecutors. The same silence.
Seeing that knocking was useless he began in desperation to kick and pommel the door with all his might. The window then opened and a beautiful Child appeared at it. She had blue hair and a face as white as a waxen image; her eyes were closed and her hands were crossed on her breast. Without moving her lips in the least, she said in a voice that seemed to come from the other world:
'In this house there is no one. They are all dead.'
'Then at least open the door for me yourself,' shouted Pinocchio, crying and imploring.
'I am dead also.'
'Dead? then what are you doing there at the window?'
'I am waiting for the bier to come to carry me away.'
Having said this she immediately disappeared, and the window was closed again without the slightest noise.
'Oh! beautiful Child with blue hair,' cried Pinocchio, 'open the door for pity's sake! Have compassion on a poor boy pursued by assas . . .'
But he could not finish the word, for he felt himself seized by the collar, and the same two horrible voices said to him threateningly:
