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<h2>
<a href="#startoftext">A Modern Telemachus, by Charlotte M. Yonge</a>
</h2>
<pre>
The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Modern Telemachus, by Charlotte M. Yonge,
Illustrated by W. J. Hennessy
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: A Modern Telemachus
Author: Charlotte M. Yonge
Release Date: December 29, 2007 [eBook #4271]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MODERN TELEMACHUS***
</pre>
<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p>
<p>Transcribed from the 1889 Macmillan and Co. edition by David
Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p>
<h1>A MODERN TELEMACHUS</h1>
<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">
<a href="images/p1b.jpg">
<img alt="‘Be still’ illustration"
src="images/p1s.jpg" />
</a></p>
<p style="text-align: center">‘Be still; I want to hear
what they are saying.’—P. 2.</p>
</blockquote>
<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">illustrated by
w. j. hennessy</span>.</p>
<p style="text-align: center">London<br />
MACMILLAN AND CO.<br />
<span class="smcap">and new york</span><br />
1889</p>
<p style="text-align: center"><i>All rights reserved</i></p>
<p style="text-align: center"><i>First Edition</i> (2 <i>Vols.
Crown</i> 8<i>vo</i>) 1886<br />
<i>Reprinted</i> 1887, 1889</p>
<h2>PREFACE</h2>
<p>The idea of this tale was taken from <i>The Mariners’
Chronicle</i>, compiled by a person named Scott early in the last
century—a curious book of narratives of maritime
adventures, with exceedingly quaint illustrations. Nothing
has ever shown me more plainly that truth is stranger than
fiction, for all that is most improbable here is the actual
fact.</p>
<p>The Comte de Bourke was really an Irish Jacobite, naturalised
in France, and married to the daughter of the Marquis de
Varennes, as well as in high favour with the Marshal Duke of
Berwick.</p>
<p>In 1719, just when the ambition of Elizabeth Farnese, the
second wife of Philip V. of Spain, had involved that country in a
war with England, France, and Austria, the Count was transferred
from the Spanish Embassy to that of Sweden, and sent for his wife
and two elder children to join him at a Spanish port.</p>
<p>This arrangement was so strange that I can only account for it
by supposing that as this was the date of a feeble Spanish
attempt on behalf of the Jacobites in Scotland, Comte de Bourke
may not have ventured by the direct route. Or it may not
have been etiquette for him to re-enter France when appointed
ambassador. At any rate, the poor Countess did take this
route to the South, and I am inclined to think the narrative must
be correct, as all the side-lights I have been able to gain
perfectly agree with it, often in an unexpected manner.</p>
<p>The suite and the baggage were just as related in the
story—the only liberty I have taken being the bestowal of
names. ‘M. Arture’ was really of the party, but
I have made him Scotch instead of Irish, and I have no knowledge
that the lackey was not French. The imbecility of the
Abbé is merely a deduction from his helplessness, but of
course this may have been caused by illness.</p>
<p>The meeting with M. de Varennes at Avignon, Berwick’s
offer of an escort, and the Countess’s dread of the
Pyrenees, are all facts, as well as her embarkation in the
Genoese tartane bound for Barcelona, and its capture by the
Algerine corsair commanded by a Dutch renegade, who treated her
well, and to whom she gave her watch.</p>
<p>Algerine history confirms what is said of his treatment.
Louis XIV. had bombarded the pirate city, and compelled the Dey
to receive a consul and to liberate French prisoners and French
property; but the lady having been taken in an Italian ship, the
Dutchman was afraid to set her ashore without first taking her to
Algiers, lest he should fall under suspicion. He would not
venture on taking so many women on board his own vessel, being
evidently afraid of his crew of more than two hundred Turks and
Moors, but sent seven men on board the prize and took it in
tow.</p>
<p>Curiously enough, history mentions the very tempest which
drove the tartane apart from her captor, for it also shattered
the French transports and interfered with Berwick’s Spanish
campaign.</p>
<p>The circumstances of the wreck have been closely
followed. ‘M. Arture’ actually saved
Mademoiselle de Bourke, and placed her in the arms of the
<i>maître d’hôtel</i>, who had reached a rock,
together with the Abbé, the lackey, and one out of the
four maids. The other three were all in the cabin with
their mistress and her son, and shared their fate.</p>
<p>The real ‘Arture’ tried to swim to the shore, but
never was seen again, so that his adventures with the little boy
are wholly imaginary. But the little girl’s conduct
is perfectly true. When in the steward’s arms she
declared that the savages might take her life, but never should
make her deny her faith.</p>
<p>The account of these captors was a great difficulty, till in
the old <i>Universal History</i> I found a description of Algeria
which tallied wonderfully with the narrative. It was taken
from a survey of the coast made a few years later by English
officials.</p>
<p>The tribe inhabiting Mounts Araz and Couco, and bordering on
Djigheli Bay, were really wild Arabs, claiming high descent, but
very loose Mohammedans, and savage in their habits. Their
name of Cabeleyzes is said—with what truth I know
not—to mean ‘revolted,’ and they held
themselves independent of the Dey. They were in the habit
of murdering or enslaving all shipwrecked travellers, except
subjects of Algiers, whom they released with nothing but their
lives.</p>
<p>All this perfectly explains the sufferings of Mademoiselle de
Bourke. The history of the plundering, the threats, the
savage treatment of the corpses, the wild dogs, the councils of
the tribe, the separation of the captives, and the child’s
heroism, is all literally true—the expedient of
Victorine’s defence alone being an invention. It is
also true that the little girl and the <i>maître
d’hôtel</i> wrote four letters, and sent them by
different chances to Algiers, but only the last ever arrived, and
it created a great sensation.</p>
<p>M. Dessault is a real personage, and the kindness of the Dey
and of the Moors was exactly as related, also the expedient of
sending the Marabout of Bugia to negotiate.</p>
<p>Mr. Thomas Thompson was really the English Consul at the time,
but his share in the matter is imaginary, as it depends on
Arthur’s adventures.</p>
<p>The account of the Marabout system comes from the <i>Universal
History</i>; but the arrival, the negotiations, and the desire of
the sheyk to detain the young French lady for a wife to his son,
are from the narrative. He really did claim to be an equal
match for her, were she daughter of the King of France, since he
was King of the Mountains.</p>
<p>The welcome at Algiers and the <i>Te Deum</i> in the
Consul’s chapel also are related in the book that serves me
for authority. It adds that Mademoiselle de Bourke finally
married a Marquis de B---, and lived much respected in Provence,
dying shortly before the Revolution.</p>
<p>I will only mention further that a rescued Abyssinian slave
named Fareek (happily not tongueless) was well known to me many
years ago in the household of the late Warden Barter of
Winchester College.</p>
<p>Since writing the above I have by the kindness of friends been
enabled to discover Mr. Scott’s authority, namely, a book
entitled <i>Voyage pour la Redemption des captifs aux Royaumes
d’Alger et de Tunis</i>, <i>fait en</i> 1720 <i>par les
P.P. François Comelin</i>, <i>Philemon de la Motte</i>,
<i>et Joseph Bernard</i>, <i>de l’Ordre de la Sainte
Trinité</i>, <i>dit Mathurine</i>. This Order was
established by Jean Matha for the ransom and rescue of prisoners
in the hands of the Moors. A translation of the adventures
of the Comtesse de Bourke and her daughter was published in the
<i>Catholic World</i>, New York, July 1881. It exactly
agrees with the narration in <i>The Mariners’ Chronicle</i>
except that, in the true spirit of the eighteenth century, Mr.
Scott thought fit to suppress that these ecclesiastics were at
Algiers at the time of the arrival of Mademoiselle de
Bourke’s letter, that they interested themselves actively
on her behalf, and that they wrote the narrative from the lips of
the <i>maître d’hôtel</i> (who indeed may
clearly be traced throughout). It seems also that the gold
cups were chalices, and that a complete set of altar equipments
fell a prey to the Cabeleyzes, whose name the good fathers
endeavour to connect with <i>Cabale</i>—with about as much
reason as if we endeavoured to derive that word from the ministry
of Charles II.</p>
<p>Had I known in time of the assistance of these benevolent
brethren I would certainly have introduced them with all due
honour, but, like the Abbé Vertot, I have to say, <i>Mon
histoire est écrite</i>, and what is
worse—printed. Moreover, they do not seem to have
gone on the mission with the Marabout from Bugia, so that their
presence really only accounts for the <i>Te Deum</i> with which
the redeemed captives were welcomed.</p>
<p>It does not seem quite certain whether M. Dessault was Consul
or Envoy; I incline to think the latter. The translation in
the <i>Catholic World</i> speaks of Sir Arthur, but Mr.
Scott’s ‘M. Arture’ is much more
<i>vraisemblable</i>. He probably had either a surname to
be concealed or else unpronounceable to French lips. Scott
must have had some further information of the after history of
Mademoiselle de Bourke since he mentions her marriage, which
could hardly have taken place when Père Comelin’s
book was published in 1720.</p>
<p style="text-align: right">C. M. YONGE.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER I—COMPANIONS OF THE VOYAGE</h2>
<blockquote><p> ‘Make mention thereto<br
/>
Touching my much loved father’s safe return,<br />
If of his whereabouts I may best hear.’</p>
<p style="text-align: right"><i>Odyssey</i> (<span
class="smcap">Musgrave</span>).</p>
</blockquote>
<p>‘Oh! brother, I wish they had named you
Télémaque, and then it would have been all
right!’</p>
<p>‘Why so, sister? Why should I be called by so ugly
a name? I like Ulysses much better; and it is also the name
of my papa.’</p>
<p>‘That is the very thing. His name is Ulysses, and
we are going to seek for him.’</p>
<p>‘Oh! I hope that cruel old Mentor is not coming to
tumble us down over a great rook, like Télémaque in
the picture.’</p>
<p>‘You mean Père le Brun?’</p>
<p>‘Yes; you know he always says he is our Mentor.
And I wish he would change into a goddess with a helmet and a
shield, with an ugly face, and go off in a cloud. Do you
think he will, Estelle?’</p>
<p>‘Do not be so silly, Ulick; there are no goddesses
now.’</p>
<p>‘I heard M. de la Mêde tell that pretty lady with
the diamond butterfly that she was his goddess; so there
are!’</p>
<p>‘You do not understand, brother. That was only
flattery and compliment. Goddesses were only in the Greek
mythology, and were all over long ago!’</p>
<p>‘But are we really going to see our papa?’</p>
<p>‘Oh yes, mamma told me so. He is made Ambassador
to Sweden, you know.’</p>
<p>‘Is that greater than Envoy to Spain?’</p>
<p>‘Very, very much greater. They call mamma Madame
l’Ambassadrice; and she is having three complete new
dresses made. See, there are <i>la bonne</i> and Laurent
talking. It is English, and if we go near with our cups and
balls we shall hear all about it. Laurent always knows,
because my uncle tells him.’</p>
<p>‘You must call him <i>La Juenesse</i> now he is made
mamma’s lackey. Is he not beautiful in his new
livery?’</p>
<p>‘Be still now, brother; I want to hear what they are
saying.’</p>
<p>This may sound somewhat sly, but French children, before
Rousseau had made them the fashion, were kept in the background,
and were reduced to picking up intelligence as best they could
without any sense of its being dishonourable to do so; and,
indeed, it was more neglect than desire of concealment that left
their uninformed.</p>
<p>This was in 1719, four years after the accession of Louis XV.,
a puny infant, to the French throne, and in the midst of the
Regency of the Duke of Orleans. The scene was a broad walk
in the Tuileries gardens, beneath a closely-clipped wall of
greenery, along which were disposed alternately busts upon
pedestals, and stone vases of flowers, while beyond lay formal
beds of flowers, the gravel walks between radiating from a
fountain, at present quiescent, for it was only ten o’clock
in the forenoon, and the gardens were chiefly frequented at that
hour by children and their attendants, who, like Estelle and
Ulysse de Bourke, were taking an early walk on their way home
from mass.</p>
<p>They were a miniature lady and gentleman of the period in
costume, with the single exception that, in consideration of
their being only nine and seven years old, their hair was free
from powder. Estelle’s light, almost flaxen locks
were brushed back from her forehead, and tied behind with a
rose-coloured ribbon, but uncovered, except by a tiny lace cap on
the crown of her head; Ulick’s darker hair was carefully
arranged in great curls on his back and shoulders, as like a
full-bottomed wig as nature would permit, and over it he wore a
little cocked hat edged with gold lace. He had a rich laced
cravat, a double-breasted waistcoat of pale blue satin, and
breeches to match, a brown velvet coat with blue embroidery on
the pockets, collar, and skirts, silk stockings to match, as well
as the knot of the tiny scabbard of the semblance of a sword at
his side, shoes with silver buckles, and altogether he might have
been a full-grown Comte or Vicomte seen through a diminishing
glass. His sister was in a full-hooped dress, with tight
long waist, and sleeves reaching to her elbows, the under skirt a
pale pink, the upper a deeper rose colour; but stiff as was the
attire, she had managed to give it a slight general air of
disarrangement, to get her cap a little on one side, a stray curl
loose on her forehead, to tear a bit of the dangling lace on her
arms, and to splash her robe with a puddle. He was in air,
feature, and complexion a perfect little dark Frenchman.
The contour of her face, still more its rosy glow, were more in
accordance with her surname, and so especially were the large
deep blue eyes with the long dark lashes and pencilled
brows. And there was a lively restless air about her full
of intelligence, as she manoeuvred her brother towards a stone
seat, guarded by a couple of cupids reining in sleepy-looking
lions in stone, where, under the shade of a lime-tree, her little
petticoated brother of two years old was asleep, cradled in the
lap of a large, portly, handsome woman, in a dark dress, a white
cap and apron, and dark crimson cloak, loosely put back, as it
was an August day. Native costumes were then, as now,
always worn by French nurses; but this was not the garb of any
province of the kingdom, and was as Irish as the brogue in which
she was conversing with the tall fine young man who stood at ease
beside her. He was in a magnificent green and gold livery
suit, his hair powdered, and fastened in a <i>queue</i>, the
whiteness contrasting with the dark brows, and the eyes and
complexion of that fine Irish type that it is the fashion to call
Milesian. He looked proud of his dress, which was viewed in
those days as eminently becoming, and did in fact display his
well-made figure and limbs to great advantage; but he looked
anxiously about, and his first inquiry on coming on the scene in
attendance upon the little boy had been—</p>
<p>‘The top of the morning to ye, mother! And where
is Victorine?’</p>
<p>‘Arrah, and what would ye want with Victorine?’
demanded the <i>bonne</i>. ‘Is not the old mother
enough for one while, to feast her eyes on her an’ Lanty
Callaghan, now he has shed the <i>marmiton’s</i> slough,
and come out in old Ireland’s colours, like a butterfly
from a palmer? La Jeunesse, instead of Laurent here, and
Laurent there.’</p>
<p>La Pierre and La Jeunesse were the stereotyped names of all
pairs of lackeys in French noble houses, and the title was a mark
of promotion; but Lanty winced and said, ‘Have done with
that, mother. You know that never the pot nor the kettle
has blacked my fingers since Master Phelim went to the good
fathers’ school with me to carry his books and insinse him
with the larning. ’Tis all one, as his own
body-servant that I have been, as was fitting for his own
foster-brother, till now, when not one of the servants, barring
myself and Maître Hébert, the steward, will follow
Madame la Comtesse beyond the four walls of Paris.
“Will you desert us too, Laurent?” says the
lady. “And is it me you mane, Madame,” says I,
“Sorrah a Callaghan ever deserted a Burke!”
“Then,” says she, “if you will go with us to
Sweden, you shall have two lackey’s suits, and a couple of
<i>louis d’or</i> to cross your pocket with by the year,
forbye the fee and bounty of all the visitors to M. le
Comte.” “Is it M. l’Abbé goes with
Madame?” says I. “And why not,” says
she. “Then,” says I, “’tis myself
that is mightily obliged to your ladyship, and am ready to put on
her colours and do all in reason in her service, so as I am free
to attend to Master Phelim, that is M. l’Abbé,
whenever he needs me, that am in duty bound as his own
foster-brother.” “Ah, Laurent,” says she,
“’tis you that are the faithful domestic. We
shall all stand in need of such good offices as we can do to one
another, for we shall have a long and troublesome, if not
dangerous journey, both before and after we have met M. le
Comte.”’</p>
<p>Estelle here nodded her head with a certain satisfaction,
while the nurse replied—</p>
<p>‘And what other answer could the son of your father
make—Heavens be his bed—that was shot through the
head by the masther’s side in the weary wars in Spain? and
whom could ye be bound to serve barring Master Phelim,
that’s lain in the same cradle with yees—’</p>
<p>‘Is not Victorine here, mother?’ still restlessly
demanded Lanty.</p>
<p>‘Never you heed Victorine,’ replied she.
‘Sure she may have a little arrand of her own, and ye might
have a word for the old mother that never parted with you
before.’</p>
<p>‘You not going, mother!’ he exclaimed.</p>
<p>‘’Tis my heart that will go with you and Masther
Phelim, my jewel; but Madame la Comtesse will have it that this
weeny little darlint’—caressing the child in her
lap—‘could never bear the cold of that bare and
dissolute place in the north you are bound for, and old Madame la
Marquise, her mother, would be mad entirely if all the children
left her; but our own lady can’t quit the little one
without leaving his own nurse Honor with him!’</p>
<p>‘That’s news to me intirely, mother,’ said
Lanty; ‘bad luck to it!’</p>
<p>Honor laughed that half-proud, half-sad laugh of mothers when
their sons outgrow them. ‘Fine talking! Much he
cares for the old mother if he can see the young girl go with
him.’</p>
<p>For Lanty’s eyes had brightened at sight of a slight
little figure, trim to the last degree, with a jaunty little cap
on her dark hair, gay trimmings to the black apron, dainty shoes
and stockings that came tripping down the path. His tongue
instantly changed to French from what he called English, as in
pathetic insinuating modulations he demanded how she could be
making him weary his very heart out.</p>
<p>‘Who bade you?’ she retorted. ‘I never
asked you to waste your time here!’</p>
<p>‘And will ye not give me a glance of the eyes that have
made a cinder of my poor heart, when I am going away into the
desolate north, among the bears and the savages and the
heretics?’</p>
<p>‘There will be plenty of eyes there to look at your fine
green and gold, for the sake of the Paris cut; though a great
lumbering fellow like you does not know how to show it
off!’</p>
<p>‘And if I bring back a heretic <i>bru</i> to break the
heart of the mother, will it not be all the fault of the cruelty
of Mademoiselle Victorine?’</p>
<p>Here Estelle, unable to withstand Lanty’s piteous
intonations, broke in, ‘Never mind, Laurent, Victorine goes
with us. She went to be measured for a new pair of slices
on purpose!’</p>
<p>‘Ah! I thought I should disembarrass myself of a
great troublesome Irishman!’</p>
<p>‘No!’ retorted the boy, ‘you knew Laurent
was going, for Maître Hébert had just come in to say
he must have a lackey’s suit!’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ said Estelle, ‘that was when you took
me in your arms and kissed me, and said you would follow Madame
la Comtesse to the end of the world.’</p>
<p>The old nurse laughed heartily, but Victorine cried out,
‘Does Mademoiselle think I am going to follow naughty
little girls who invent follies? It is still free to me to
change my mind. Poor Simon Claquette is gnawing his heart
out, and he is to be left <i>concierge</i>!’</p>
<p>The clock at the palace chimed eleven, Estelle took her
brother’s hand, Honor rose with little Jacques in her arms,
Victorine paced beside her, and Lanty as La Jeunesse followed,
puffing out his breast, and wielding his cane, as they all went
home to <i>déjeuner</i>.</p>
<p>Twenty-nine years before the opening of this narrative, just
after the battle of Boyne Water had ruined the hopes of the
Stewarts in Ireland, Sir Ulick Burke had attended James II. in
his flight from Waterford; and his wife had followed him,
attended by her two faithful servants, Patrick Callaghan, and his
wife Honor, carrying her mistress’s child on her bosom, and
her own on her back.</p>
<p>Sir Ulick, or Le Chevalier Bourke, as the French called him,
had no scruple in taking service in the armies of Louis
XIV. Callaghan followed him everywhere, while Honor
remained a devoted attendant on her lady, doubly bound to her by
exile and sorrow.</p>
<p>Little Ulick Burke’s foster-sister died, perhaps because
she had always been made second to him through all the hardships
and exposure of the journey. Other babes of both lady and
nurse had succumbed to the mortality which beset the children of
that generation, and the only survivors besides the eldest Burke
and one daughter were the two youngest of each mother, and they
had arrived so nearly at the same time that Honor Callaghan could
again be foster-mother to Phelim Burke, a sickly child, reared
with great difficulty.</p>
<p>The family were becoming almost French. Sir Ulick was an
intimate friend of one of the noblest men of the day, James
Fitz-James, Marshal Duke of Berwick, who united military talent,
almost equal to that of his uncle of Marlborough, to an
unswerving honour and integrity very rare in those evil
times. Under him, Sir Ulick fought in the campaigns that
finally established the House of Bourbon upon the throne of
Spain, and the younger Ulick or Ulysse, as his name had been
classicalised and Frenchified, was making his first campaign as a
mere boy at the time of the battle of Almanza, that solitary
British defeat, for which our national consolation is that the
French were commanded by an Englishman, the Duke of Berwick, and
the English by a Frenchman, the Huguenot Rubigné, Earl of
Galway. The first English charge was, however, fatal to the
Chevalier Bourke, who fell mortally wounded, and in the endeavour
to carry him off the field the faithful Callaghan likewise
fell. Sir Ulick lived long enough to be visited by the
Duke, and to commend his children to his friend’s
protection.</p>
<p>Berwick was held to be dry and stiff, but he was a faithful
friend, and well redeemed his promise. The eldest son,
young as he was, obtained as wife the daughter of the Marquis de
Varennes, and soon distinguished himself both in war and policy,
so as to receive the title of Comte de Bourke.</p>
<p>The French Church was called on to provide for the other two
children. The daughter, Alice, became a nun in one of the
Parisian convents, with promises of promotion. The younger
son, Phelim, was weakly in health, and of intellect feeble, if
not deficient, and was almost dependent on the devoted care and
tenderness of his foster-brother, Laurence Callaghan.
Nobody was startled when Berwick’s interest procured for
the dull boy of ten years old the Abbey of St. Eudoce in
Champagne. To be sure the responsibilities were not great,
for the Abbey had been burnt down a century and a half ago by the
Huguenots, and there had never been any monks in it since, so the
only effect was that little Phelim Burke went by the imposing
title of Monsieur l’Abbé de St. Eudoce, and his
family enjoyed as much of the revenues of the estates of the
Abbey as the Intendant thought proper to transmit to them.
He was, to a certain degree, ecclesiastically educated, having
just memory enough to retain for recitation the tasks that Lanty
helped him to learn, and he could copy the themes or translations
made for him by his faithful companion. Neither boy had the
least notion of unfairness or deception in this arrangement: it
was only the natural service of the one to the other, and if it
were perceived in the Fathers of the Seminary, whither Lanty
daily conducted the young Abbot, they winked at it. Nor,
though the quick-witted Lanty thus acquired a considerable amount
of learning, no idea occurred to him of availing himself of it
for his own advantage. It sat outside him, as it were, for
‘Masther Phelim’s’ use; and he no more thought
of applying it to his own elevation than he did of wearing the
<i>soutane</i> he brushed for his young master.</p>
<p>The Abbé was now five-and-twenty, had received the
tonsure, and had been admitted to minor Orders, but there was no
necessity for him to proceed any farther unless higher promotion
should be accorded to him in recompense of his brother’s
services. He was a gentle, amiable being, not at all fit to
take care of himself; and since the death of his mother, he had
been the charge of his brother and sister-in-law, or perhaps more
correctly speaking, of the Dowager Marquise de Varennes, for all
the branches of the family lived together in the Hotel de
Varennes at Paris, or its chateau in the country, and the fine
old lady ruled over all, her son and son-in-law being often
absent, as was the case at present.</p>
<p>A fresh European war had been provoked by the ambition of the
second wife of Philip V. of Spain, the Prince for whose cause
Berwick had fought. This Queen, Elizabeth Farnese, wanted
rank and dominion for her own son; moreover, Philip looked with
longing eyes at his native kingdom of France, all claim to which
he had resigned when Spain was bequeathed to him; but now that
only a sickly child, Louis XV., stood between him and the
succession in right of blood, he felt his rights superior to
those of the Duke of Orleans. Thus Spain was induced to
become hostile to France, and to commence the war known as that
of the Quadruple Alliance.</p>
<p>While there was still hope of accommodation, the Comte de
Bourke had been sent as a special envoy to Madrid, and there
continued even after the war had broken out, and the Duke of
Berwick, resigning all the estates he had received from the
gratitude of Philip V., had led an army across the frontier.</p>
<p>The Count had, however, just been appointed Ambassador to
Sweden, and was anxious to be joined by his family on the way
thither.</p>
<p>The tidings had created great commotion. Madame de
Varennes looked on Sweden as an Ultima Thule of frost and snow,
but knew that a lady’s presence was essential to the
display required of an ambassador. She strove, however, to
have the children left with her; but her daughter declared that
she could not part with Estelle, who was already a companion and
friend, and that Ulysse must be with his father, who longed for
his eldest son, so that only little Jacques, a delicate child,
was to be left to console his grandmother.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER II—A JACOBITE WAIF</h2>
<blockquote><p>‘Sac now he’s o’er the floods
sae gray,<br />
And Lord Maxwell has ta’en his good-night.’</p>
<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Lord
Maxwell’s</span> <i>Good-night</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Madame La Comtesse de Bourke was by no means a helpless fine
lady. She had several times accompanied her husband on his
expeditions, and had only not gone with him to Madrid because he
did not expect to be long absent, and she sorely rued the
separation.</p>
<p>She was very busy in her own room, superintending the packing,
and assisting in it, when her own clever fingers were more
effective than those of her maids. She was in her <i>robe
de chambre</i>, a dark blue wrapper, embroidered with white, and
put on more neatly than was always the case with French ladies in
<i>déshabille</i>. The hoop, long stiff stays, rich
brocade robe, and fabric of powdered hair were equally unsuitable
to ease or exertion, and consequently were seldom assumed till
late in the day, when the toilette was often made in public.</p>
<p>So Madame de Bourke’s hair was simply rolled out of her
way, and she appeared in her true colours, as a little brisk,
bonny woman, with no actual beauty, but very expressive light
gray eyes, furnished with intensely long black lashes, and a
sweet, mobile, lively countenance.</p>
<p>Estelle was trying to amuse little Jacques, and prevent him
from trotting between the boxes, putting all sorts of undesirable
goods into them; and Ulysse had collected his toys, and was
pleading earnestly that a headless wooden horse and a kite, twice
as tall as himself, of Lanty’s manufacture, might go with
them.</p>
<p>He was told that another <i>cerf-volant</i> should be made for
him at the journey’s end; but was only partially consoled,
and his mother was fain to compound for a box of woolly
lambs. Estelle winked away a tear when her doll was
rejected, a wooden, highly painted lady, bedizened in brocade,
and so dear to her soul that it was hard to be told that she was
too old for such toys, and that the Swedes would be shocked to
see the Ambassador’s daughter embracing a doll. She
had, however, to preserve her character of a reasonable child,
and tried to derive consolation from the permission to bestow
‘Mademoiselle’ upon the <i>concierge’s</i>
little sick daughter, who would be sure to cherish her duly.</p>
<p>‘But, oh mamma, I pray you to let me take my
book!’</p>
<p>‘Assuredly, my child. Let us see!
What? Télémaque? Not “Prince
Percinet and Princess Gracieuse?”’</p>
<p>‘I am tired of them, mamma.’</p>
<p>‘Nor Madame d’Aulnoy’s Fairy
Tales?’</p>
<p>‘Oh no, thank you, mamma; I love nothing so well as
Télémaque.’</p>
<p>‘Thou art a droll child!’ said her mother.</p>
<p>‘Ah, but we are going to be like
Télémaque.’</p>
<p>‘Heaven forfend!’ said the poor lady.</p>
<p>‘Yes, dear mamma, I am glad you are going with us
instead of staying at home to weave and unweave webs. If
Penelope had been like you, she would have gone!’</p>
<p>‘Take care, is not Jacques acting Penelope?’ said
Madame de Bourke, unable to help smiling at her little
daughter’s glib mythology, while going to the rescue of the
embroidery silks, in which her youngest son was entangling
himself.</p>
<p>At that moment there was a knock at the door, and a message
was brought that the Countess of Nithsdale begged the favour of a
few minutes’ conversation in private with Madame. The
Scottish title fared better on the lips of La Jeunesse than it
would have done on those of his predecessor. There was
considerable intimacy among all the Jacobite exiles in and about
Paris; and Winifred, Countess of Nithsdale, though living a very
quiet and secluded life, was held in high estimation among all
who recollected the act of wifely heroism by which she had
rescued her husband from the block.</p>
<p>Madame de Bourke bade the maids carry off the little Jacques,
and Ulysse followed; but Estelle, who had often listened with
rapt attention to the story of the escape, and longed to feast
her eyes on the heroine, remained in her corner, usefully
employed in disentangling the embroilment of silks, and with the
illustrations to her beloved Télémaque as a
resource in case the conversation should be tedious.
Children who have hundreds of picture-books to rustle through can
little guess how their predecessors could once dream over
one.</p>
<p>Estelle made her low reverence unnoticed, and watched with
eager eyes as the slight figure entered, clad in the stately
costume that was regarded as proper respect to her hostess; but
the long loose sacque of blue silk was faded, the
<i>feuille-morte</i> velvet petticoat frayed, the lace on the
neck and sleeves washed and mended; there were no jewels on the
sleeves, though the long gloves fitted exquisitely, no gems in
the buckles of the high-heeled shoes, and the only ornament in
the carefully rolled and powdered hair, a white rose. Her
face was thin and worn, with pleasant brown eyes. Estelle
could not think her as beautiful as Calypso inconsolable for
Ulysses, or Antiope receiving the boar’s a head.
‘I know she is better than either,’ thought the
little maid; ‘but I wish she was more like
Minerva.’</p>
<p>The Countesses met with the lowest of curtseys, and apologies
on the one side for intrusion, on the other for
<i>déshabille</i>, so they concluded with an embrace
really affectionate, though consideration for powder made it
necessarily somewhat theatrical in appearance.</p>
<p>These were the stiffest of days, just before formality had
become unbearable, and the reaction of simplicity had set in; and
Estelle had undone two desperate knots in the green and yellow
silks before the preliminary compliments were over, and Lady
Nithsdale arrived at the point.</p>
<p>‘Madame is about to rejoin <i>Monsieur son
Mari</i>.’</p>
<p>‘I am about to have that happiness.’</p>
<p>‘That is the reason I have been bold enough to derange
her.’</p>
<p>‘Do not mention it. It is always a delight to see
<i>Madame la Comtesse</i>.’</p>
<p>‘Ah! what will Madame say when she hears that it is to
ask a great favour of her.’</p>
<p>‘Madame may reckon on me for whatever she would
command.’</p>
<p>‘If you can grant it—oh! Madame,’
cried the Scottish Countess, beginning to drop her formality in
her eagerness, ‘we shall be for ever beholden to you, and
you will make a wounded heart to sing, besides perhaps saving a
noble young spirit.’</p>
<p>‘Madame makes me impatient to hear what she would have
of me,’ said the French Countess, becoming a little on her
guard, as the wife of a diplomatist, recollecting, too, that
peace with George I. might mean war with the Jacobites.</p>
<p>‘I know not whether a young kinsman of my Lord’s
has ever been presented to Madame. His name is Arthur
Maxwell Hope; but we call him usually by his Christian
name.’</p>
<p>‘A tall, dark, handsome youth, almost like a Spaniard,
or a picture by Vandyke? It seems to me that I have seen
him with M. le Comte.’ (Madame de Bourke could not
venture on such a word as Nithsdale.)</p>
<p>‘Madame is right. The mother of the boy is a
Maxwell, a cousin not far removed from my Lord, but he could not
hinder her from being given in marriage as second wife to Sir
David Hope, already an old man. He was good to her, but
when he died, the sons by the first wife were harsh and unkind to
her and to her son, of whom they had always been jealous.
The eldest was a creature of my Lord Stair, and altogether a
Whig; indeed, he now holds an office at the Court of the Elector
of Hanover, and has been created one of <i>his</i> peers.
(The scorn with which the gentle Winifred uttered those words was
worth seeing, and the other noble lady gave a little derisive
laugh.) ‘These half-brothers declared that Lady Hope
was nurturing the young Arthur in Toryism and disaffection, and
they made it a plea for separating him from her, and sending him
to an old minister, who kept a school, and who was very severe
and even cruel to the poor boy. But I am wearying
Madame.’</p>
<p>‘Oh no, I listen with the deepest interest.’</p>
<p>‘Finally, when the King was expected in Scotland, and
men’s minds were full of anger and bitterness, as well as
hope and spirit, the boy—he was then only fourteen years of
age—boasted of his grandfather’s having fought at
Killiecrankie, and used language which the tutor pronounced
treasonable. He was punished and confined to his room; but
in the night he made his escape and joined the royal army.
My husband was grieved to see him, told him he had no right to
political opinions, and tried to send him home in time to make
his peace before all was lost. Alas! no. The little
fellow did, indeed, pass out safely from Preston, but only to
join my Lord Mar. He was among the gentlemen who embarked
at Banff; and when my Lord, by Heaven’s mercy, had escaped
from the Tower of London, and we arrived at Paris, almost the
first person we saw was little Arthur, whom we thought to have
been safe at home. We have kept him with us, and I
contrived to let his mother know that he is living, for she had
mourned him as among the slain.’</p>
<p>‘Poor mother.’</p>
<p>‘You may well pity her, Madame. She writes to me
that if Arthur had returned at once from Preston, as my Lord
advised, all would have been passed over as a schoolboy frolic;
and, indeed, he has never been attainted; but there is nothing
that his eldest brother, Lord Burnside as they call him, dreads
so much as that it should be known that one of his family was
engaged in the campaign, or that he is keeping such ill company
as we are. Therefore, at her request, we have never called
him Hope, but let him go by our name of Maxwell, which is his by
baptism; and now she tells me that if he could make his way to
Scotland, not as if coming from Paris or Bar-le-Duc, but merely
as if travelling on the Continent, his brother would consent to
his return.’</p>
<p>‘Would she be willing that he should live under the
usurper?’</p>
<p>‘Madame, to tell you the truth,’ said Lady
Nithsdale, ‘the Lady Hope is not one to heed the question
of usurpers, so long as her son is safe and a good lad.
Nay, for my part, we all lived peaceably and happily enough under
Queen Anne; and by all I hear, so they still do at home under the
Elector of Hanover.’</p>
<p>‘The Regent has acknowledged him,’ put in the
French lady.</p>
<p>‘Well,’ said the poor exile, ‘I know my Lord
felt that it was his duty to obey the summons of his lawful
sovereign, and that, as he said when he took up arms, one can
only do one’s duty and take the consequences; but oh! when
I look at the misery and desolation that has come of it, when I
think of the wives not so happy as I am, when I see my dear Lord
wearing out his life in banishment, and think of our dear home
and our poor people, I am tempted to wonder whether it were
indeed a duty, or whether there were any right to call on brave
men without a more steadfast purpose not to abandon
them!’</p>
<p>‘It would have been very different if the Duke of
Berwick had led the way,’ observed Madame de Bourke.
‘Then my husband would have gone, but, being French
subjects, honour stayed both him and the Duke as long as the
Regent made no move.’ The good lady, of course,
thought that the Marshal Duke and her own Count must secure
victory; but Lady Nithsdale was intent on her own branch of the
subject, and did not pursue ‘what might have
been.’</p>
<p>‘After all,’ she said, ‘poor Arthur, at
fourteen, could have no true political convictions. He
merely fled because he was harshly treated, heard his grandfather
branded as a traitor, and had an enthusiasm for my husband, who
had been kind to him. It was a mere boy’s escapade,
and if he had returned home when my Lord bade him, it would only
have been remembered as such. He knows it now, and I
frankly tell you, Madame, that what he has seen of our exiled
court has not increased his ardour in the cause.’</p>
<p>‘Alas, no,’ said Madame de Bourke. ‘If
the Chevalier de St. George were other than he is, it would be
easier to act in his behalf.’</p>
<p>‘And you agree with me, Madame,’ continued the
visitor, ‘that nothing can be worse or more hopeless for a
youth than the life to which we are constrained here, with our
whole shadow of hope in intrigue; and for our men, no occupation
worthy of their sex. We women are not so ill off, with our
children and domestic affairs; but it breaks my heart to see
brave gentlemen’s lives thus wasted. We have done our
best for Arthur. He has studied with one of our good
clergy, and my Lord himself has taught him to fence; but we
cannot treat him any longer as a boy, and I know not what is to
be his future, unless we can return him to his own
country.’</p>
<p>‘Our army,’ suggested Madame de Bourke.</p>
<p>‘Ah! but he is Protestant.’</p>
<p>‘A heretic!’ exclaimed the lady, drawing herself
up. ‘But—’</p>
<p>‘Oh, do not refuse me on that account. He is a
good lad, and has lived enough among Catholics to keep his
opinions in the background. But you understand that it is
another reason for wishing to convey him, if not to Scotland, to
some land like Sweden or Prussia, where his faith would not be a
bar to his promotion.’</p>
<p>‘What is it you would have me do?’ said Madame de
Bourke, more coldly.</p>
<p>‘If Madame would permit him to be included in her
passport, as about to join the Ambassador’s suite, and thus
conduct him to Sweden; Lady Hope would find means to communicate
with him from thence, the poor young man would be saved from a
ruined career, and the heart of the widow and mother would bless
you for ever.</p>
<p>Madame de Bourke was touched, but she was a prudent woman, and
paused to ask whether the youth had shown any tendency to run
into temptation, from which Lady Nithsdale wished to remove
him.</p>
<p>‘Oh no,’ she answered; ‘he was a perfectly
good docile lad, though high-spirited, submissive to the Earl,
and a kind playfellow to her little girls; it was his very
excellence that made it so unfortunate that he should thus be
stranded in early youth in consequence of one boyish
folly.’</p>
<p>The Countess began to yield. She thought he might go as
secretary to her Lord, and she owned that if he was a brave young
man, he would be an addition to her little escort, which only
numbered two men besides her brother-in-law, the Abbé, who
was of almost as little account as his young nephew.
‘But I should warn you, Madame,’ added Madame de
Bourke, ‘that it may be a very dangerous journey. I
own to you, though I would not tell my poor mother, that my heart
fails me when I think of it, and were it not for the express
commands of their father, I would not risk my poor children on
it.’</p>
<p>‘I do not think you will find Sweden otherwise than a
cheerful and pleasant abode,’ said Lady Nithsdale.</p>
<p>‘Ah! if we were only in Sweden, or with my husband, all
would be well!’ replied the other lady; ‘but we have
to pass through the mountains, and the Catalans are always
ill-affected to us French.’</p>
<p>‘Nay; but you are a party of women, and belong to an
ambassador!’ was the answer.</p>
<p>‘What do those robbers care for that? We are all
the better prey for them! I have heard histories of Spanish
cruelty and lawlessness that would make you shudder! You
cannot guess at the dreadful presentiments that have haunted me
ever since I had my husband’s letter.’</p>
<p>‘There is danger everywhere, dear friend,’ said
Lady Nithsdale kindly; ‘but God finds a way for us through
all.’</p>
<p>‘Ah! you have experienced it,’ said Madame de
Bourke. ‘Let us proceed to the affairs. I only
thought I should tell you the truth.’</p>
<p>Lady Nithsdale answered for the courage of her
<i>protégé</i>, and it was further determined that
he should be presented to her that evening by the Earl, at the
farewell reception which Madame de Varennes was to hold on her
daughter’s behalf, when it could be determined in what
capacity he should be named in the passport.</p>
<p>Estelle, who had been listening with all her ears, and trying
to find a character in Fénelon’s romance to be
represented by Arthur Hope, now further heard it explained that
the party were to go southward to meet her father at one of the
Mediterranean ports, as the English Government were so suspicious
of Jacobites that he did not venture on taking the direct route
by sea, but meant to travel through Germany. Madame de
Bourke expected to meet her brother at Avignon, and to obtain his
advice as to her further route.</p>
<p>Estelle heard this with great satisfaction. ‘We
shall go to the Mediterranean Sea and be in danger,’ she
said to herself, unfolding the map at the beginning of her
Télémaque; ‘that is quite right!
Perhaps we shall see Calypso’s island.’</p>
<p>She begged hard to be allowed to sit up that evening to see
the hero of the escape from the Tower of London, as well as the
travelling companion destined for her, and she prevailed, for
mamma pronounced that she had been very sage and reasonable all
day, and the grandmamma, who was so soon to part with her, could
refuse her nothing. So she was full dressed, with hair
curled, and permitted to stand by the tall high-backed chair
where the old lady sat to receive her visitors.</p>
<p>The Marquise de Varennes was a small withered woman, with keen
eyes, and a sort of sparkle of manner, and power of setting
people at ease, that made her the more charming the older she
grew. An experienced eye could detect that she retained the
costume of the prime of Louis XIV., when headdresses were less
high than that which her daughter was obliged to wear. For
the two last mortal hours of that busy day had poor Madame de
Bourke been compelled to sit under the hands of the hairdresser,
who was building up, with paste and powder and the like, an
original conception of his, namely, a northern landscape, with
snow-laden trees, drifts of snow, diamond icicles, and even a
cottage beside an ice-bound stream. She could ill spare the
time, and longed to be excused; but the artist had begged so hard
to be allowed to carry out his brilliant and unique idea, this
last time of attending on Madame l’Ambassadrice, that there
was no resisting him, and perhaps her strange forebodings made
her less willing to inflict a disappointment on the poor
man. It would have been strange to contrast the fabric of
vanity building up outside her head, with the melancholy bodings
within it, as she sat motionless under the hairdresser’s
fingers; but at the end she roused herself to smile gratefully,
and give the admiration that was felt to be due to the
monstrosity that crowned her. Forbearance and Christian
patience may be exercised even on a toilette à la Louis
XV. Long practice enabled her to walk about, seat herself,
rise and curtsey without detriment to the edifice, or bestowing
the powder either on her neighbours or on the richly-flowered
white brocade she wore; while she received the compliments, one
after another, of ladies in even more gorgeous array, and
gentlemen in velvet coats, adorned with gold lace, cravats of
exquisite fabric, and diamond shoe buckles.</p>
<p>Phelim Burke, otherwise l’Abbé de St. Eudoce,
stood near her. He was a thin, yellow, and freckled youth,
with sandy hair and typical Irish features, but without their
drollery, and his face was what might have been expected in a
half-starved, half-clad gossoon in a cabin, rather than
surmounting a silken <i>soutane</i> in a Parisian salon; but he
had a pleasant smile when kindly addressed by his friends.</p>
<p>Presently Lady Nithsdale drew near, accompanied by a tall,
grave gentleman, and bringing with them a still taller youth,
with the stiffest of backs and the longest of legs, who, when
presented, made a bow apparently from the end of his spine, like
Estelle’s lamented Dutch-jointed doll when made to sit
down. Moreover, he was more shabbily dressed than any other
gentleman present, with a general outgrown look about his coat,
and darns in his silk stockings; and though they were made by the
hand of a Countess, that did not add to their elegance. And
as he stood as stiff as a ramrod or as a sentinel,
Estelle’s good breeding was all called into play, and her
mother’s heart quailed as she said to herself, ‘A
great raw Scot! What can be done with him?</p>
<p>Lord Nithsdale spoke for him, thinking he had better go as
secretary, and showing some handwriting of good quality.
‘Did he know any languages?’ ‘French,
English, Latin, and some Greek.’ ‘And,
Madame,’ added Lord Nithsdale, ‘not only is his
French much better than mine, as you would hear if the boy durst
open his mouth, but our broad Scotch is so like Swedish that he
will almost be an interpreter there.’</p>
<p>However hopeless Madame de Bourke felt, she smiled and
professed herself rejoiced to hear it, and it was further decided
that Arthur Maxwell Hope, aged eighteen, Scot by birth, should be
mentioned among those of the Ambassador’s household for
whom she demanded passports. Her position rendered this no
matter of difficulty, and it was wiser to give the full truth to
the home authorities; but as it was desirable that it should not
be reported to the English Government that Lord Burnside’s
brother was in the suite of the Jacobite Comte de Bourke, he was
only to be known to the public by his first name, which was not
much harder to French lips than Maxwell or Hope.</p>
<p>‘Tall and black and awkward,’ said Estelle,
describing him to her brother. ‘I shall not like
him—I shall call him Phalante instead of Arthur.’</p>
<p>‘Arthur,’ said Ulysse; ‘King Arthur was
turned into a crow!’</p>
<p>‘Well, this Arthur is like a crow—a great black
skinny crow with torn feathers.’</p>
<h2>CHAPTER III—ON THE RHONE</h2>
<blockquote><p>‘Fairer scenes the opening eye<br />
Of the day can scarce descry,<br />
Fairer sight he looks not on<br />
Than the pleasant banks of Rhone.’</p>
<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Archbishop
Trench</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Long legs may be in the abstract an advantage, but scarcely so
in what was called in France <i>une grande Berline</i>.
This was the favourite travelling carriage of the eighteenth
century, and consisted of a close carriage or coach proper, with
arrangements on the top for luggage, and behind it another seat
open, but provided with a large leathern hood, and in front
another place for the coachman and his companions. Each
seat was wide enough to hold three persons, and thus within sat
Madame de Bourke, her brother-in-law, the two children, Arthur
Hope, and Mademoiselle Julienne, an elderly woman of the artisan
class, <i>femme de chambre</i> to the Countess. Victorine,
who was attendant on the children, would travel under the hood
with two more maids; and the front seat would be occupied by the
coachman, Laurence Callaghan—otherwise La Jeunesse, and
Maître Hébert, the <i>maître
d’hôtel</i>. Fain would Arthur have shared
their elevation, so far as ease and comfort of mind and body
went, and the Countess’s wishes may have gone the same way;
but besides that it would have been an insult to class him with
the servants, the horses of the home establishment, driven by
their own coachman, took the party the first stage out of Paris;
and though afterwards the post-horses or mules, six in number,
would be ridden by their own postilions, there was such an amount
of luggage as to leave little or no space for a third person
outside.</p>
<p>It had been a perfect sight to see the carriage packed; when
Arthur, convoyed by Lord Nithsdale, arrived in the courtyard of
the Hôtel de Varennes. Madame de Bourke was taking
with her all the paraphernalia of an ambassador—a service
of plate, in a huge chest stowed under the seat, a portrait of
Philip V., in a gold frame set with diamonds, being included
among her jewellery—and Lord Nithsdale, standing by, could
not but drily remark, ‘Yonder is more than we brought with
us, Arthur.’</p>
<p>The two walked up and down the court together, unwilling to
intrude on the parting which, as they well knew, would be made in
floods of tears. Sad enough indeed it was, for Madame de
Varennes was advanced in years, and her daughter had not only to
part with her, but with the baby Jacques, for an unknown space of
time; but the self-command and restraint of grief for the sake of
each other was absolutely unknown. It was a point of honour
and sentiment to weep as much as possible, and it would have been
regarded as frigid and unnatural not to go on crying too much to
eat or speak for a whole day beforehand, and at least two
afterwards.</p>
<p>So when the travellers descended the steps to take their
seats, each face was enveloped in a handkerchief, and there were
passionate embraces, literal pressings to the breast, and violent
sobs, as each victim, one after the other, ascended the carriage
steps and fell back on the seat; while in the background, Honor
Callaghan was uttering Irish wails over the Abbé and
Laurence, and the lamentable sound set the little lap-dog and the
big watch-dog howling in chorus. Arthur Hope, probably as
miserable as any of them in parting with his friend and hero, was
only standing like a stake, and an embarrassed stake (if that be
possible), and Lord Nithsdale, though anxious for him, heartily
pitying all, was nevertheless haunted by a queer recollection of
Lance and his dog, and thinking that French dogs were not devoid
of sympathy, and that the part of Crab was left for Arthur.</p>
<p>However, the last embrace was given, and the ladies were all
packed in, while the Abbé with his breast heaving with
sobs, his big hat in one hand, and a huge silk
pocket-handkerchief in the other, did not forget his manners, but
waved to Arthur to ascend the steps first.
‘Secretary, not guest. You must remember that another
time,’ said Lord Nithsdale. ‘God bless you, my
dear lad, and bring you safe back to bonny Scotland, a true and
leal heart.’</p>
<p>Arthur wrung his friend’s hand once more, and
disappeared into the vehicle; Nurse Honor made one more rush, and
uttered another ‘Ohone’ over Abbé Phelim, who
followed into the carriage; the door was shut; there was a last
wail over ‘Lanty, the sunbeam of me heart,’ as he
climbed to the box seat; the harness jingled; coachman and
postilions cracked their whips, the impatient horses dashed out
at the <i>porte cochére</i>; and Arthur, after
endeavouring to dispose of his legs, looked about him, and saw,
opposite to him, Madame de Bourke lying back in the corner in a
transport of grief, one arm round her daughter, and her little
son lying across her lap, both sobbing and crying; and on one
side of him the Abbé, sunk in his corner, his yellow silk
handkerchief over his face; on the other, Mademoiselle Julienne,
who was crying too, but with more moderation, perhaps more out of
propriety or from infection than from actual grief: at any rate
she had more of her senses about her than any one else, and
managed to dispose of the various loose articles that had been
thrown after the travellers, in pockets and under cushions.
Arthur would have assisted, but only succeeded in treading on
various toes and eliciting some small shrieks, which disconcerted
him all the more, and made Mademoiselle Julienne look daggers at
him, as she relieved her lady of little Ulysse, lifting him to
her own knee, where, as he was absolutely exhausted with crying,
he fell asleep.</p>
<p>Arthur hoped the others would do the same, and perhaps there
was more dozing than they would have confessed; but whenever
there was a movement, and some familiar object in the streets of
Paris struck the eye of Madame, the Abbé, or Estelle,
there was a little cry, and they went off on a fresh score.</p>
<p>‘Poor wretched weak creatures!’ he said to
himself, as he thought the traditions of Scottish heroic women in
whose heroism he had gloated. And yet he was wrong: Madame
de Bourke was capable of as much resolute self-devotion as any of
the ladies on the other side of the Channel, but tears were a
tribute required by the times. So she gave way to
them—just as no doubt the women of former days saw nothing
absurd in bottling them.</p>
<p>Arthur’s position among all these weeping figures was
extremely awkward, all the more so that he carried his sword
upright between his legs, not daring to disturb the lachrymose
company enough to dispose of it in the sword case appropriated to
weapons. He longed to take out the little pocket Virgil,
which Lord Nithsdale had given him, so as to have some occupation
for his eyes, but he durst not, lest he should be thought rude,
till, at a halt at a cabaret to water the horses, the striking of
a clock reminded the Abbé that it was the time for reading
the Hours, and when the breviary was taken out, Arthur thought
his book might follow it.</p>
<p>By and by there was a halt at Corbeil, where was the nunnery
of Alice Bourke, of whom her brother and sister-in-law were to
take leave. They, with the children, were set down there,
while Arthur went on with the carriage and servants to the inn to
dine.</p>
<p>It was the first visit of Ulysse to the convent, and he was
much amazed at peeping at his aunt’s hooded face through a
grating. However, the family were admitted to dine in the
refectory; but poor Madame de Bourke was fit for nothing but to
lie on a bed, attended affectionately by her sister-in-law, Soeur
Ste. Madeleine.</p>
<p>‘O sister, sister,’ was her cry, ‘I must say
it to you—I would not to my poor mother—that I have
the most horrible presentiments I shall never see her again, nor
my poor child. No, nor my husband; I knew it when he took
leave of me for that terrible Spain.’</p>
<p>‘Yet you see he is safe, and you will be with him,
sister,’ returned the nun.</p>
<p>‘Ah! that I knew I should! But think of those
fearful Pyrenees, and the bandits that infest them—and all
the valuables we carry with us!’</p>
<p>‘Surely I heard that Marshal Berwick had offered you an
escort.’</p>
<p>‘That will only attract the attention of the brigands
and bring them in greater force. O sister, sister, my heart
sinks at the thought of my poor children in the hands of those
savages! I dream of them every night.’</p>
<p>‘The suite of an ambassador is sacred.’</p>
<p>‘Ah! but what do they care for that, the robbers?
I know destruction lies that way!’</p>
<p>‘Nay, sister, this is not like you. You always
were brave, and trusted heaven, when you had to follow
Ulick.’</p>
<p>‘Alas! never had I this sinking of heart, which tells me
I shall be torn from my poor children and never rejoin
him.’</p>
<p>Sister Ste. Madeleine caressed and prayed with the poor lady,
and did her utmost to reassure and comfort her, promising a
<i>neuvaine</i> for her safe journey and meeting with her
husband.</p>
<p>‘For the children,’ said the poor Countess.
‘I know I never shall see him more.’</p>
<p>However, the cheerfulness of the bright Irish-woman had done
her some good, and she was better by the time she rose to pursue
her journey. Estelle and Ulysse had been much petted by the
nuns, and when all met again, to the great relief of Arthur, he
found continuous weeping was not <i>de rigueur</i>. When
they got in again, he was able to get rid of his sword, and only
trod on two pair of toes, and got his legs twice tumbled
over.</p>
<p>Moreover, Madame de Bourke had recovered the faculty of making
pretty speeches, and when the weapon was put into the sword case,
she observed with a sad little smile, ‘Ah, Monsieur! we
look to you as our defender!’</p>
<p>‘And me too!’ cried little Ulysse, making a
violent demonstration with his tiny blade, and so nearly poking
out his uncle’s eye that the article was relegated to the
same hiding-place as ‘Monsieur Arture’s,’ and
the boy was assured that this was a proof of his manliness.</p>
<p>He had quite recovered his spirits, and as his mother and
sister were still exhausted with weeping, he was not easy to
manage, till Arthur took heart of grace, and offering him a perch
on his knee, let him look out at the window, explaining the
objects on the way, which were all quite new to the little
Parisian boy. Fortunately he spoke French well, with
scarcely any foreign accent, and his answers to the little
fellow’s eager questions interspersed with observations on
‘What they do in my country,’ not only kept Ulysse
occupied, but gained Estelle’s attention, though she was
too weary and languid, and perhaps, child as she was, too much
bound by the requirements of sympathy to manifest her interest,
otherwise than by moving near enough to listen.</p>
<p>That evening the party reached the banks of one of the canals
which connected the rivers of France, and which was to convey
them to the Loire and thence to the Rhone, in a huge
flat-bottomed barge, called a <i>coche d’eau</i>, a sort of
ark, with cabins, where travellers could be fairly comfortable,
space where the berlin could be stowed away in the rear, and a
deck with an awning where the passengers could disport
themselves. From the days of Sully to those of the
Revolution, this was by far the most convenient and secure mode
of transport, especially in the south of France. It was
very convenient to the Bourke party; who were soon established on
the deck. The lady’s dress was better adapted to
travelling than the full costume of Paris. It was what she
called <i>en Amazone</i>—namely, a clothe riding-habit
faced with blue, with a short skirt, with open coat and
waistcoat, like a man’s, hair unpowdered and tied behind,
and a large shady feathered hat. Estelle wore a miniature
of the same, and rejoiced in her freedom from the whalebone
stiffness of her Paris life, skipping about the deck with her
brother, like fairies, Lanty said, or, as she preferred to make
it, ‘like a nymph.’</p>
<p style="text-align: center">
<a href="images/p40b.jpg">
<img alt="The cohe d’eau" src="images/p40s.jpg" />
</a></p>
<p>The water coach moved only by day, and was already arrived
before the land one brought the weary party to the
meeting-place—a picturesque water-side inn with a high
roof, and a trellised passage down to the landing-place, covered
by a vine, hung with clusters of ripe grapes.</p>
<p>Here the travellers supped on omelettes and <i>vin
ordinaire</i>, and went off to bed—Madame and her child in
one bed, with the maids on the floor, and in another room the
Abbé and secretary, each in a <i>grabat</i>, the two
men-servants in like manner, on the floor. Such was the
privacy of the eighteenth century, and Arthur, used to waiting on
himself, looked on with wonder to see the Abbé like a baby
in the hands of his faithful foster-brother, who talked away in a
queer mixture of Irish-English and French all the time until they
knelt down and said their prayers together in Latin, to which
Arthur diligently closed his Protestant ears.</p>
<p>Early the next morning the family embarked, the carriage
having been already put on board; and the journey became very
agreeable as they glided slowly, almost dreamily along, borne
chiefly by the current, although a couple of horses towed the
barge by a rope on the bank, in case of need, in places where the
water was more sluggish, but nothing more was wanting in the
descent towards the Mediterranean.</p>
<p>The accommodation was not of a high order, but whenever there
was a halt near a good inn, Madame de Bourke and the children
landed for the night. And in the fine days of early autumn
the deck was delightful, and to dine there on the provisions
brought on board was a perpetual feast to Estelle and Ulysse.</p>
<p>The weather was beautiful, and there was a constant panorama
of fair sights and scenes. Harvest first, a perfectly new
spectacle to the children and then, as they went farther south,
the vintage. The beauty was great as they glided along the
pleasant banks of Rhone.</p>
<p>Tiers of vines on the hillsides were mostly cut and trimmed
like currant bushes, and disappointed Arthur, who had expected
festoons on trellises. But this was the special time for
beauty. The whole population, in picturesque costumes, were
filling huge baskets with the clusters, and snatches of their
merry songs came pealing down to the <i>coche d’eau</i>, as
it quietly crept along. Towards evening groups were seen
with piled baskets on their heads, or borne between them, youths
and maidens crowned with vines, half-naked children dancing like
little Bacchanalians, which awoke classical recollections in
Arthur and delighted the children.</p>
<p>Poor Madame de Bourke was still much depressed, and would sit
dreaming half the day, except when roused by some need of her
children, some question, or some appeal for her admiration.
Otherwise, the lovely heights, surmounted with tall towers,
extinguisher-capped, of castle, convent, or church, the clear
reaches of river, the beautiful turns, the little villages and
towns gleaming white among the trees, seemed to pass unseen
before her eyes, and she might be seen to shudder when the
children pressed her to say how many days it would be before they
saw their father.</p>
<p>An observer with a mind at ease might have been much
entertained with the airs and graces that the two maids, Rosette
and Babette, lavished upon Laurence, their only squire; for
Maître Hébert was far too distant and elderly a
person for their little coquetries. Rosette dealt in little
terrors, and, if he was at hand, durst not step across a plank
without his hand, was sure she heard wolves howling in the woods,
and that every peasant was ‘<i>ce barbare</i>;’ while
Babette, who in conjunction with Maître Hébert acted
cook in case of need, plied him with dainty morsels, which he was
only too apt to bestow on the beggars, or the lean and hungry lad
who attended on the horses. Victorine, on the other hand,
by far the prettiest and most sprightly of the three, affected
the most supreme indifference to him and his attentions, and
hardly deigned to give him a civil word, or to accept the
cornflowers and late roses he brought her from time to
time. ‘Mere weeds,’ she said. And the
grapes and Queen Claude plums he brought her were always
sour. Yet a something deep blue might often be seen peeping
above her trim little apron.</p>
<p>Not that Lanty had much time to disport himself in this
fashion, for the Abbé was his care, and was perfectly
happy with a rod of his arranging, with which to fish over the
side. Little Ulysse was of course fired with the same
emulation, and dangled his line for an hour together.
Estelle would have liked to do the same, but her mother and
Mademoiselle Julienne considered the sport not <i>convenable</i>
for a <i>demoiselle</i>. Arthur was once or twice induced
to try the Abbé’s rod, but he found it as mere a toy
as that of the boy; and the mere action of throwing it made his
heart so sick with the contrast with the ‘paidling in the
burns’ of his childhood, that he had no inclination to
continue the attempt, either in the slow canal or the broadening
river.</p>
<p>He was still very shy with the Countess, who was not in
spirits to set him at ease; and the Abbé puzzled him, as
is often the case when inexperienced strangers encounter
unacknowledged deficiency. The perpetual coaxing chatter,
and undisguised familiarity of La Jeunesse with the young
ecclesiastic did not seem to the somewhat haughty cast of his
young Scotch mind quite becoming, and he held aloof; but with the
two children he was quite at ease, and was in truth their great
resource.</p>
<p>He made Ulysse’s fishing-rod, baited it, and held the
boy when he used it—nay, he once even captured a tiny fish
with it, to the ecstatic pity of both children. He played
quiet games with them, and told them stories—conversed on
Télémaque with Estelle, or read to her from his one
book, which was Robinson Crusoe—a little black copy in pale
print, with the margins almost thumbed away, which he had carried
in his pocket when he ran away from school, and nearly knew by
heart.</p>
<p>Estelle was deeply interested in it, and varied in opinion
whether she should prefer Calypso’s island or
Crusoe’s, which she took for as much matter of fact as did,
a century later, Madame Talleyrand, when, out of civility to Mr.
Robinson, she inquired after ‘<i>ce bon
Vendredi</i>.’</p>
<p>She inclined to think she should prefer Friday to the
nymphs.</p>
<p>‘A whole quantity of troublesome womenfolk to fash
one,’ said Arthur, who had not arrived at the age of
gallantry.</p>
<p>‘You would never stay there!’ said Estelle;
‘you would push us over the rock like Mentor. I think
you are our Mentor, for I am sure you tell us a great deal, and
you don’t scold.’</p>
<p>‘Mentor was a cross old man,’ said Ulysse.</p>
<p>To which Estelle replied that he was a goddess; and Arthur
very decidedly disclaimed either character, especially the
pushing over rocks. And thus they glided on, spending a
night in the great, busy, bewildering city of Lyon, already the
centre of silk industry; but more interesting to the travellers
as the shrine of the martyrdoms. All went to pray at the
Cathedral except Arthur. The time was not come for heeding
church architecture or primitive history; and he only wandered
about the narrow crooked streets, gazing at the toy piles of
market produce, and looking at the stalls of merchandise, but as
one unable to purchase. His mother had indeed contrived to
send him twenty guineas, but he knew that he must husband them
well in case of emergencies, and Lady Nithsdale had sewn them all
up, except one, in a belt which he wore under his clothes.</p>
<p>He had arrived at the front of the Cathedral when the party
came out. Madame de Bourke had been weeping, but looked
more peaceful than he had yet seen her, and Estelle was much
excited. She had bought a little book, which she insisted
on her Mentor’s reading with her, though his Protestant
feelings recoiled.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ said Estelle, ‘but you are not
Christian.’</p>
<p>‘Yes, truly, Mademoiselle.’</p>
<p>‘And these died for the Christian faith. Do you
know mamma said it comforted her to pray there; for she was sure
that whatever happened, the good God can make us strong, as He
made the young girl who sat in the red-hot chair. We saw
her picture, and it was dreadful. Do read about her,
Monsieur Arture.’</p>
<p>They read, and Arthur had candour enough to perceive that this
was the simple primitive narrative of the death of martyrs
struggling for Christian truth, long ere the days of superstition
and division. Estelle’s face lighted with
enthusiasm.</p>
<p>‘Is it not noble to be a martyr?’ she asked.</p>
<p>‘Oh!’ cried Ulysse; ‘to sit in a red-hot
chair! It would be worse than to be thrown off a
rock! But there are no martyrs in these days,
sister?’ he added, pressing up to Arthur as if for
protection.</p>
<p>‘There are those who die for the right,’ said
Arthur, thinking of Lord Derwentwater, who in Jacobite eyes was a
martyr.</p>
<p>‘And the good God makes them strong,’ said
Estelle, in a low voice. ‘Mamma told me no one could
tell how soon we might be tried, and that I was to pray that He
would make us as brave as St. Blandina! What do you think
could harm us, Monsieur, when we are going to my dear
papa?’</p>
<p>It was Lanty who answered, from behind the Abbé, on
whose angling endeavours he was attending. ‘Arrah
then, nothing at all, Mademoiselle. Nothing in the four
corners of the world shall hurt one curl of your blessed little
head, while Lanty Callaghan is to the fore.’</p>
<p>‘Ah! but you are not God, Lanty,’ said Estelle
gravely; ‘you cannot keep things from happening.’</p>
<p>‘The Powers forbid that I should spake such
blasphemy!’ said Lanty, taking off his hat.
‘’Twas not that I meant, but only that poor Lanty
would die ten thousand deaths—worse than them as was thrown
to the beasts—before one of them should harm the tip of
that little finger of yours!’</p>
<p>Perhaps the same vow was in Arthur’s heart, though not
spoken in such strong terms.</p>
<p>Thus they drifted on till the old city of Avignon rose on the
eyes of the travellers, a dark pile of buildings where the
massive houses, built round courts, with few external windows,
recalled that these had once been the palaces of cardinals
accustomed to the Italian city feuds, which made every house
become a fortress.</p>
<p>On the wharf stood a gentleman in a resplendent uniform of
blue and gold, whom the children hailed with cries of joy and
outstretched arms, as their uncle. The Marquis de Varennes
was soon on board, embracing his sister and her children, and
conducting them to one of the great palaces, where he had rooms,
being then in garrison. Arthur followed, at a sign from the
lady, who presented him to her brother as ‘Monsieur
Arture’—a young Scottish gentleman who will do my
husband the favour of acting as his secretary.</p>
<p>She used the word <i>gentilhomme</i>, which conveyed the sense
of nobility of blood, and the Marquis acknowledged the
introduction with one of those graceful bows that Arthur hated,
because they made him doubly feel the stiffness of his own
limitation. He was glad to linger with Lanty, who was
looking in wonder at the grim buildings.</p>
<p>‘And did the holy Father live here?’ said
he. ‘Faith, and ’twas a quare taste he must
have had; I wonder now if there would be vartue in a bit of a
stone from his palace. It would mightily please my old
mother if there were.’</p>
<p>‘I thought it was the wrong popes that lived
here,’ suggested Arthur.</p>
<p>Lanty looked at him a moment as if in doubt whether to accept
a heretic suggestion, but the education received through the
Abbé came to mind, and he exclaimed—</p>
<p>‘May be you are in the right of it, sir; and I’d
best let the stones alone till I can tell which is the true and
which is the false. By the same token, little is the
difference it would make to her, unless she knew it; and if she
did, she’d as soon I brought her a hair of the old
dragon’s bristles.’</p>
<p>Lanty found another day or two’s journey bring him very
nearly in contact with the old dragon, for at Tarascon was the
cave in which St. Martha was said to have demolished the great
dragon of Provence with the sign of the cross. Madame de
Bourke and her children made a devout pilgrimage thereto; but
when Arthur found that it was the actual Martha of Bethany to
whom the legend was appended, he grew indignant, and would not
accompany the party. ‘It was a very different thing
from the martyrs of Lyon and Vienne! Their history was
credible, but this—’</p>
<p>‘Speak not so loud, my friend,’ said M. de
Varennes. ‘Their shrines are equally good to console
women and children.’</p>
<p>Arthur did not quite understand the tone, nor know whether to
be gratified at being treated as a man, or to be shocked at the
Marquis’s defection from his own faith.</p>
<p>The Marquis, who was able to accompany his sister as far as
Montpelier, was amused at her two followers, Scotch and Irish,
both fine young men—almost too fine, he averred.</p>
<p>‘You will have to keep a careful watch on them when you
enter Germany, sister,’ he said, ‘or the King of
Prussia will certainly kidnap them for his tall regiment of
grenadiers.’</p>
<p>‘O brother, do not speak of any more dangers: I see
quite enough before me ere I can even rejoin my dear
husband.’</p>
<p>A very serious council was held between the brother and
sister. The French army under Marshal Berwick had marched
across on the south side on the Pyrenees, and was probably by
this time in the county of Rousillon, intending to besiege
Rosas. Once with them all would be well, but between lay
the mountain roads, and the very quarter of Spain that had been
most unwilling to accept French rule.</p>
<p>The Marquis had been authorised to place an escort at his
sister’s service, but though the numbers might guard her
against mere mountain banditti, they would not be sufficient to
protect her from hostile troops, such as might only too possibly
be on the way to encounter Berwick. The expense and
difficulty of the journey on the mountain roads would likewise be
great, and it seemed advisable to avoid these dangers by going by
sea. Madame de Bourke eagerly acceded to this plan, her
terror of the wild Pyrenean passes and wilder inhabitants had
always been such that she was glad to catch at any means of
avoiding them, and she had made more than one voyage before.</p>
<p>Estelle was gratified to find they were to go by sea, since
Télémachus did so in a Phoenician ship, and, in
that odd dreamy way in which children blend fiction and reality,
wondered if they should come on Calypso’s island; and
Arthur, who had read the Odyssey, delighted her and terrified
Ulysse with the cave of Polyphemus. M. de Varennes could
only go with his sister as far as Montpelier. Then he took
leave of her, and the party proceeded along the shores of the
lagoons, in the carriage to the seaport of Cette, one of the old
Greek towns of the Gulf of Lyon, and with a fine harbour full of
ships. Maître Hébert was sent to take a
passage on board of one, while his lady and her party repaired to
an inn, and waited all the afternoon before he returned with
tidings that he could find no French vessel about to sail for
Spain, but that there was a Genoese tartane, bound for Barcelona,
on which Madame la Comtesse could secure a passage for herself
and her suite, and which would take her thither in twenty-four
hours.</p>
<p>The town was full of troops, waiting a summons to join Marshal
Berwick’s army. Several resplendent officers had
already paid their respects to Madame l’Ambassadrice, and
they concurred in the advice, unless she would prefer waiting for
the arrival of one of the French transports which were to take
men and provisions to the army in Spain.</p>
<p>This, however, she declined, and only accepted the services of
the gentlemen so far as to have her passports renewed, as was
needful, since they were to be conveyed by the vessel of an
independent power, though always an ally of France.</p>
<p>The tartane was a beautiful object, a one-decked,
single-masted vessel, with a long bowsprit, and a huge lateen
sail like a wing, and the children fell in love with her at first
sight. Estelle was quite sure that she was just such a ship
as Mentor borrowed for Télémachus; but the poor
maids were horribly frightened, and Babette might be heard
declaring she had never engaged herself to be at the mercy of the
waves, like a bit of lemon peel in a glass of <i>eau
sucrée</i>.</p>
<p>‘You may return,’ said Madame de Bourke.
‘I compel no one to share our dangers and
hardships.’</p>
<p>But Babette threw herself on her knees, and declared that
nothing should ever separate her from Madame! She was a
good creature, but she could not deny herself the luxury of the
sobs and tears that showed to all beholders the extent of her
sacrifice.</p>
<p>Madame de Bourke knew that there would be considerable
discomfort in a vessel so little adapted for passengers, and with
only one small cabin, which the captain, who spoke French,
resigned to her use. It would only, however, be for a short
time, and though it was near the end of October, the blue expanse
of sea was calm as only the Mediterranean can be, so that she
trusted that no harm would result to those who would have to
spend the night on dock.</p>
<p>It was a beautiful evening which the little Genoese vessel
left the harbour and Cette receded in the distance, looking
fairer the farther it was left behind. The children were
put to bed as soon as they could be persuaded to cease from
watching the lights in the harbour and the phosphorescent wake of
the vessel in the water.</p>
<p>That night and the next day were pleasant and peaceful; there
was no rough weather, and little sickness among the
travellers. Madame de Bourke congratulated herself on
having escaped the horrors of the Pyrenean journey, and the
Genoese captain assured her that unless the weather should change
rapidly, they would wake in sight of the Spanish coast the next
morning. If the sea were not almost too calm, they would be
there already. The evening was again so delightful that the
children were glad to hear that they would have again to return
by sea, and Arthur, who somewhat shrank from his presentation to
the Count, regretted that the end of the voyage was so near,
though Ulysse assured him that ‘<i>Mon papa</i> would love
him, because he could tell such charming stories,’ and
Lanty testified that ‘M. le Comte was a mighty friendly
gentleman.’</p>
<p>Arthur was lying asleep on deck, wrapped in his cloak, when he
was awakened by a commotion among the sailors. He started
up and found that it was early morning, the sun rising above the
sea, and the sailors all gazing eagerly in that direction.
He eagerly made his way to ask if they were in sight of land,
recollecting, however, as he made the first step, that Spain lay
to the west of them—not to the east.</p>
<p>He distinguished the cry from the Genoese sailors,
‘<i>Ii Moro—Il Moro</i>,’ in tones of horror
and consternation, and almost at the same moment received a shock
from Maître Hébert, who came stumbling against
him.</p>
<p>‘Pardon, pardon, Monsieur; I go to prepare Madame!
It’s the accursed Moors. Let me
pass—<i>miséricorde</i>, what will become of
us?’</p>
<p>Arthur struggled on in search of such of the crew as could
speak French, but all were in too much consternation to attend to
him, and he could only watch that to which their eyes were
directed, a white sail, bright in the morning light, coming up
with a rapidity strange and fearful in its precision, like a hawk
pouncing on its prey, for it did not depend on its sails alone,
but was propelled by oars.</p>
<p>The next moment Madame de Bourke was on deck, holding by the
Abbé’s arm, and Estelle, her hair on her shoulders,
clinging to her. She looked very pale, but her calmness was
in contrast to the Italian sailors, who were throwing themselves
with gestures of despair, screaming out vows to the Madonna and
saints, and shouting imprecations. The skipper came to
speak to her. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I
implore you to remain in your cabin. After the first, you
and all yours will be safe. They cannot harm a French
subject; alas! alas would it were so with us.’</p>
<p>‘How then will it be with you?’ she asked.</p>
<p>He made a gesture of deprecation.</p>
<p>‘For me it will be ruin; for my poor fellows slavery;
that is, if we survive the onset. Madame, I entreat of you,
take shelter in the cabin, yourself and all yours. None can
answer for what the first rush of these fiends may be!
<i>Diavoli</i>! <i>veri diavola</i>! Ah! for which of my
sins is it that after fifty voyages I should be condemned to lose
my all?’</p>
<p>A fresh outburst of screams from the crew summoned the
captain. ‘They are putting out the long-boat,’
was the cry; ‘they will board us!’</p>
<p>‘Madame! I entreat of you, shut yourself into the
cabin.’</p>
<p>And the four maids in various stages of
<i>déshabille</i>, adding their cries to those of the
sailors, tried to drag her in, but she looked about for
Arthur. ‘Come with us, Monsieur,’ she said
quietly, for after all her previous depressions and alarms, her
spirit rose to endurance in the actual stress of danger.
‘Come with us, I entreat of you,’ she said.
‘You are named in our passports, and the treaties are such
that neither French nor English subjects can be maltreated nor
enslaved by these wretches. As the captain says, the danger
is only in the first attack.’</p>
<p>‘I will protect you, Madame, with my life,’
declared Arthur, drawing his sword, as his cheeks and eyes
lighted.</p>
<p>‘Ah, put that away. What could you do but lose
your own?’ cried the lady. ‘Remember, you have
a mother—’</p>
<p>The Genoese captain here turned to insist that Madame and all
the women should shut themselves instantly into the cabin.
Estelle dragged hard at Arthur’s hand, with entreaties that
he would come, but he lifted her down the ladder, and then closed
the door on her, Lanty and he being both left outside.</p>
<p>‘To be shut into a hole like a rat in a trap when
there’s blows to the fore, is more than flesh could
stand,’ said Lanty, who had seized on a hand-spike and was
waving it about his head, true shillelagh fashion, by hereditary
instinct in one who had never behold a faction fight, in what
ought to have been his native land.</p>
<p>The Genoese captain looked at him as a madman, and shouted in
a confused mixture of French and Italian to lay down his
weapon.</p>
<p>‘<i>Quei cattivi—ces scelerats</i> were armed to
the teeth—would fire. All lie flat on the
deck.’</p>
<p>The gesture spoke for itself. With a fearful howl all
the Italians dropped flat; but neither Scotch nor Irish blood
brooked to follow their example, or perhaps fully perceived the
urgency of the need, till a volley of bullets were whistling
about their ears, though happily without injury, the mast and the
rigging having protected them, for the sail was riddled with
holes, and the smoke dimmed their vision as the report sounded in
their ears. In another second the turbaned, scimitared
figures were leaping on board. The Genoese still lay flat
offering no resistance, but Lanty and Arthur stood on either side
of the ladder, and hurled back the two who first approached; but
four or five more rushed upon them, and they would have been
instantly cut down, had it not been for a shout from the Genoese,
‘<i>Franchi</i>! <i>Franchi</i>!’ At that
magic word, which was evidently understood, the pirates only held
the two youths tightly, vituperating them no doubt in bad
Arabic,—Lanty grinding his teeth with rage, though scarcely
feeling the pain of the two sabre cuts he had received, and
pouring forth a volley of exclamations, chiefly, however,
directed against the white-livered spalpeens of sailors, who had
not lifted so much as a hand to help him. Fortunately no
one understood a word he said but Arthur, who had military
experience enough to know there was nothing for it but to stand
still in the grasp of his captor, a wiry-looking Moor, with a fez
and a striped sash round his waist.</p>
<p>The leader, a sturdy Turk in a dirty white turban, with a huge
sabre in his hand, was listening to the eager words, poured out
with many gesticulations by the Genoese captain, in a language
utterly incomprehensible to the Scot, but which was the <i>lingua
França</i> of the Mediterranean ports.</p>
<p>It resulted in four men being placed on guard at the hatchway
leading to the cabin, while all the rest, including Arthur,
Hébert, Laurence, were driven toward the prow, and made to
understand by signs that they must not move on peril of their
lives. A Tuck was placed at the helm, and the
tartane’s head turned towards the pirate captor; and all
the others, who were not employed otherwise, began to ransack the
vessel and feast on the provisions. Some hams were thrown
overboard, with shouts of evident scorn as belonging to the
unclean beast, but the wine was eagerly drank, and Maître
Hébert uttered a wail of dismay as he saw five Moors
gorging large pieces of his finest <i>pâté</i>.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER IV—WRECKED</h2>
<blockquote><p> ‘They had na sailed upon
the sea<br />
A day but barely three,<br />
When the lift grew dark and the wind blew cauld<br />
And gurly grew the sea.</p>
<p> ‘Oh where will I find a little wee
boy<br />
Will tak my helm in hand,<br />
Till I gae up to my top mast<br />
And see for some dry
land.’</p>
<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Sir Patrick
Spens</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>It was bad enough on the deck of the unfortunate Genoese
tartane, but far worse below, where eight persons were shut into
the stifling atmosphere of the cabin, deprived of the knowledge
of what was going on above, except from the terrific sounds they
heard. Estelle, on being shut into the cabin, announced
that the Phoenician ship was taken by the vessels of Sesostris,
but this did not afford any one else the same satisfaction as she
appeared to derive from it. Babette and Rosette were
echoing every scream of the crew, and quite certain that all
would be massacred, and little Ulysse, wakened by the hubbub,
rolled round in his berth and began to cry.</p>
<p>Madame de Bourke, very white, but quite calm, insisted on
silence and then said, ‘I do not think the danger is very
great to ourselves if you will keep silence and not attract
attention. But our hope is in Heaven. My brother,
will you lead our prayers? Recite our office.’
Obediently the Abbé fell on his knees, and his example was
followed by the others. His voice went monotonously on
throughout with the Latin. The lady, no doubt, followed in
her heart, and she made the responses as did the others,
fitfully; but her hands and eyes were busy, looking to the
priming of two small pistols, which she took out of her jewel
case, and the sight of which provoked fresh shrieks from the
maids. Mademoiselle Julienne meantime was dressing Ulysse,
and standing guard over him, Estelle watching all with eager
bright eyes, scarcely frightened, but burning to ask questions,
from which her uncle’s prayers debarred her.</p>
<p>At the volley of shot, Rosette was reduced to quiet by a
swoon, but Victorine, screaming that the wretches would have
killed Laurent, would have rushed on deck, had not her mistress
forcibly withheld her. There ensued a prodigious yelling
and howling, trampling and scuffling, then the sounds of strange
languages in vituperation or command, steps coming down the
ladder, sounds of altercation, retreat, splashes in the sea, the
feeling that the ship was put about—and ever the trampling,
the wild cries of exultation, which over and over again made the
prisoners feel choked with the horror of some frightful crisis
close at hand. And all the time they were in ignorance,
their little window in the stern showed them nothing but sea; and
even if Madame de Bourke’s determination had not hindered
Victorine from peeping out of the cabin, whether prison or
fortress, the Moorish sentries outside kept the door closed.</p>
<p>How long this continued was scarcely to be guessed. It
was hours by their own feelings; Ulysse began to cry from hunger,
and his mother gave him and Estelle some cakes that were within
reach. Mademoiselle Julienne begged her lady to share the
repast, reminding her that she would need all her strength.
The Abbé, too, was hungry enough, and some wine and
preserved fruits coming to light all the prisoners made a meal
which heartened most of them considerably; although the heat was
becoming terrible, as the sun rose higher in the sky, and very
little air could be obtained through the window, so that poor
Julienne could not eat, and Rosette fell into a heavy sleep in
the midst of her sighs. Even Estelle, who had got out her
Télémaque, like a sort of oracle in the course of
being verified, was asleep over it, when fresh noises and grating
sounds were board, new steps on deck, and there were steps and
voices. The Genoese captain was heard exclaiming,
‘Open, Madame! you can do so safely. This is the
Algerine captain, who is bound to protect you.’</p>
<p>The maids huddled together behind their lady, who stood
forward as the door opened to admit a stout, squarely-built man
in the typical dress of a Turk,—white turban, purple coat,
broad sash crammed with weapons, and ample trousers,—a
truculent-looking figure which made the maids shudder and embrace
one another with suppressed shrieks, but which somehow, even in
the midst of his Eastern salaam, gave the Countess a sense that
he was acting a comedy, and carried her involuntarily back to the
Moors whom she had seen in the <i>Cid</i> on the stage. And
looking again, she perceived that though brown and
weather-beaten, there was a certain Northern ruddiness inherent
in his complexion; that his eyes were gray, so far as they were
visible between the surrounding puckers; and his eyebrows,
moustache, and beard not nearly so dark as the hair of the
Genoese who stood cringing beside him as interpreter. She
formed her own conclusions and adhered to them, though he spoke
in bad Arabic to the skipper, who proceeded to explain that El
Reis Hamed would offer no injury to Madame la Comtesse, her suite
or property, being bound by treaty between the Dey and the King
of France, but that he required to see her passport. There
was a little blundering in the Italian’s French rendering,
and Madame de Bourke was quick to detect the perception of it in
the countenance of the Reis, stolid though it was. She felt
no doubt that he was a renegade of European birth, and watched,
with much anxiety as well as curiosity, his manner of dealing
with her passports, which she would not let out of her own
hand. She saw in a moment that though he let the Genoese
begin to interpret them, his eyes were following intelligently;
and she hazarded the observation, ‘You understand,
sir. You are Frank.’</p>
<p>He turned one startled glance towards the door to see if there
were any listeners, and answered, ‘Hollander,
Madame.’</p>
<p>The Countess had travelled with diplomatists all her life, and
knew a little of the vernacular of most languages, and it was in
Dutch—broken indeed, but still Dutch—that she
declared that she was sure that she might rely on his
protection—a security which in truth she was far from
feeling; for while some of these unfortunate men, renegades only
from weakness, yearned after their compatriots and their lost
home and faith, others out-heroded the Moors themselves in
ferocity, especially towards the Christian captives; nor was a
Dutchman likely to have any special tenderness in his
composition, above all towards the French. However, there
was a certain smile on the lips of Reis Hamed, and he answered
with a very hearty, ‘Ja! ja! Madame. Upon my
soul I will let no harm come to you or the pretty little ones,
nor the young vrouwkins either, if they will keep close.
You are safe by treaty. A Reis would have to pay a heavy
reckoning with Mehemed Dey if a French ambassador had to complain
of him, and you will bear me witness, Madame, that I have not
touched a hair of any of your heads!’</p>
<p>‘I am sure you wish me well, sir,’ said Madame de
Bourke in a dignified way, ‘but I require to be certified
of the safety of the rest of my suite, my steward, my lackey, and
my husband’s secretary, a young gentleman of noble
birth.’</p>
<p>‘They are safe, Madame. This Italian slave can
bear me witness that no creature has been harmed since my crew
boarded this vessel.’</p>
<p>‘I desire then that they may be released, as being named
in my passport.’</p>
<p>To this the Dutchman consented.</p>
<p>Whereupon the skipper began to wring his hands, and piteously
to beseech Madame to intercede for him, but the Dutchman cut him
short before she could speak. ‘Dog of an Italian, the
lady knows better! You and your fellows are our
prize—poor enough after all the trouble you have given us
in chasing you.’</p>
<p>Madame de Bourke spoke kindly to the poor man, telling him
that though she could do nothing for him now, it was possible
that she might when she should have rejoined her husband, and she
then requested the Reis to land her and her suite in his
long-boat on the Spanish coast, which could be seen in the
distance, promising him ample reward if he could do so.</p>
<p>To this he replied: ‘Madame, you ask what would be death
to me.’</p>
<p>He went on to explain that if he landed her on Christian
ground, without first presenting her and her passport to the Dey
and the French Consul, his men might represent him as acting in
the interests of the Christians, and as a traitor to the Algerine
power, by taking a bribe from a person belonging to a hostile
state, in which case the bowstring would be the utmost mercy he
could expect; and the reigning Dey, Mehemed, having been only
recently chosen, it was impossible to guess how he might deal
with such cases. Once at Algiers, he assured Madame de
Bourke that she would have nothing to fear, as she would be under
the protection of the French Consul; and she had no choice but to
submit, though much concerned for the continued anxiety to her
husband, as well as the long delay and uncertainty of finding
him.</p>
<p>Still, when she perceived that it was inevitable, she
complained no more, and the Dutchman went on with a certain bluff
kindness—as one touched by her courtesy—to offer her
the choice of remaining in the tartane or coming on board his
larger vessel. The latter he did not recommend, as he had a
crew of full two hundred Turks and Moors, and it would be
necessary to keep herself and all her women as closely as
possible secluded in the cabins; and even then, he added, that if
once seen he could hardly answer for some of those corsairs not
endeavouring to secure a fair young Frank girl for his harem; and
as his eye fell on Rosette, she bridled and hid herself behind
Mademoiselle Julienne.</p>
<p>He must, he said, remove all the Genoese, but he would send on
board the tartane only seven men on whom he could perfectly
depend for respectful behaviour, so that the captives would be
able to take the air on deck as freely as before. There was
no doubt that he was in earnest, and the lady accepted his offer
with thanks, all the stronger since she and all around her were
panting and sick for want of fresh air.</p>
<p>It was a great relief when he took her on deck with him that
she might identify the three men whom she claimed as belonging to
her suite. Arthur, Lanty, and Hébert, who, in their
vague knowledge of the circumstances, had been dreading the oar
for the rest of their lives, could hardly believe their good
fortune when she called them up to her, and the Abbé
gripped Lanty’s arm as if he would never let him go
again. The poor Italians seemed to feel their fate all the
harder for the deliverance of those three, and sobbed, howled,
and wept so piteously that Arthur wondered how strong men could
so give way, while Lanty’s tears sprang forth in sympathy,
and he uttered assurances and made signs that he would never
cease to pray for their rescue.</p>
<p>‘Though,’ as he observed, ‘they were poor
creatures that hadn’t the heart of a midge, when there was
such a chance of a fight while the haythen spalpeens were coming
on board.’</p>
<p>Here Lanty was called on to assist Hébert in
identifying his lady’s bales of goods, when all those of
the unfortunate Genoese were put on board the corsair’s
vessel. A sail-cloth partition was extended across the deck
by the care of the Dutchman, ‘who’—as Lanty
said—‘for a haythen apostate was a very dacent
man.’ He evidently had a strong compassion and
fellow-feeling for the Christian lady, and assured her that she
might safely take the air and sit on deck as much as she pleased
behind its shelter; and he likewise carefully selected the seven
of his crew whom he sent on board to work the ship, the chief
being a heavy-looking old Turk, with a chocolate-coloured visage
between a huge white beard and eyebrows, and the others mere
lads, except one, who, from an indefinable European air about
him, was evidently a renegade, and could speak a sort of French,
so as to hold communication with the captives, especially Lanty,
who was much quicker than any of the rest in picking up
languages, perhaps from having from his infancy talked French and
English (or rather Irish), and likewise learnt Latin with his
foster-brother. This man was the only one permitted to go
astern of the partition, in case of need, to attend to the helm;
but the vessel was taken in tow by the corsair, and needed little
management. The old Turk seemed to regard the Frankish
women like so many basilisks, and avoided turning a glance in
their direction, roaring at his crew if he only saw them
approaching the sail-cloth, and keeping a close watch upon the
lithe black-eyed youths, whose brown limbs carried them up the
mast with the agility of monkeys. There was one in
especial—a slight, well-made fellow about twenty, with a
white turban cleaner than the rest—who contrived to cast
wonderful glances from the masthead over the barrier at Rosette,
who actually smiled in return at <i>ce pauvre garçon</i>,
and smiled the more for Mademoiselle Julienne’s
indignation. Suddenly, however, a shrill shout made him
descend hastily, and the old Turk’s voice might be heard in
its highest key, no doubt shrieking out maledictions on all the
ancestry of the son of a dog who durst defile his eyes with
gazing at the shameless daughters of the Frank. Little
Ulysse was, however, allowed to disport himself wherever he
pleased; and after once, under Arthur’s protection, going
forward, he found himself made very welcome, and offered various
curiosities, such as shells, corals, and a curious dried little
hippocampus or seahorse.</p>
<p>This he brought back in triumph, to the extreme delight of his
sister’s classical mind. ‘Oh mamma,
mamma,’ she cried, ‘Ulysse really has got the
skeleton of a Triton. It is exactly like the stone
creatures in the Champs Elysées.’</p>
<p>There was no denying the resemblance, and it so increased the
confusion in Estelle’s mind between the actual and the
mythological, that Arthur told her that she was looking out for
the car of Amphitrite to arise from the waters. Anxiety and
trouble had made him much better acquainted with Madame de
Bourke, who was grateful to him for his kindness to her children,
and not without concern as to whether she should be able to
procure his release as well as her own at Algiers. For
Laurence Callaghan she had no fears, since he was born at Paris,
and a naturalised French subject like her husband and his
brother; but Arthur was undoubtedly a Briton, and unless she
could pass him off as one of her suite, it would depend on the
temper of the English Consul whether he should be viewed as a
subject or as a rebel, or simply left to captivity until his
Scottish relations should have the choice of ransoming him.</p>
<p>She took a good deal of pains to explain the circumstances to
him as well as to all who could understand them; for though she
hoped to keep all together, and to be able to act for them
herself, no one could guess how they might be separated, and she
could not shake off that foreboding of misfortune which had
haunted her from the first.</p>
<p>The kingdom of Algiers was, she told them, tributary to the
Turkish Sultan, who kept a guard of Janissaries there, from among
whom they themselves elected the Dey. He was supposed to
govern by the consent of a divan, but was practically as despotic
as any Eastern sovereign; and the Aga of the Janissaries was next
in authority to him. Piracy on the Mediterranean was, as
all knew, the chief occupation of the Turks and Moors of any
spirit or enterprise, a Turk being in authority in each vessel to
secure that the Sultan had his share, and that the capture was so
conducted as not to involve Turkey in dangerous wars with
European powers. Capture by the Moors had for several
centuries been one of the ordinary contingencies of a voyage, and
the misfortune that had happened to the party was not at all an
unusual one.</p>
<p>In 1687, however, the nuisance had grown to such a height that
Admiral Du Quesne bombarded the town of Algiers, and destroyed
all the fortifications, peace being only granted on condition
that a French Consul should reside at Algiers, and that French
ships and subjects should be exempt from this violence of the
corsairs.</p>
<p>The like treaties existed with the English, but had been very
little heeded by the Algerines till recently, when the possession
of Gibraltar and Minorca had provided harbours for British ships,
which exercised a salutary supervision over these Southern
sea-kings. The last Dey, Baba Hali, had been a wise and
prudent man, anxious to repress outrage, and to be on good terms
with the two great European powers; but he had died in the spring
of the current year, 1718, and the temper of his successor,
Mehemed, had not yet been proved.</p>
<p>Madame de Bourke had some trust in the Dutch Reis, renegade
though he was. She had given him her beautiful watch, set
with brilliants, and he had taken it with a certain gruff
reluctance, declaring that he did not want it,—he was ready
enough to serve her without such a toy.</p>
<p>Nevertheless the lady thought it well to impress on each and
all, in case of any separation or further disaster, that their
appeal must be to the French Consul, explaining minutely the
forms in which it should be made.</p>
<p>‘I cannot tell you,’ she said to Arthur,
‘how great a comfort it is to me to have with me a
gentleman, one of intelligence and education to whom I can
confide my poor children. I know you will do your utmost to
protect them and restore them to their father.’</p>
<p>‘With my very heart’s blood, Madame.’</p>
<p>‘I hope that may not be asked of you, Monsieur,’
she returned with a faint smile,—‘though I fear there
may be much of perplexity and difficulty in the way before again
rejoining him. You see where I have placed our
passports? My daughter knows it likewise; but in case of
their being taken from you, or any other accident happening to
you, I have written these two letters, which you had better bear
about your person. One is, as you see, to our Consul at
Algiers, and may serve as credentials; the other is to my
husband, to whom I have already written respecting
you.’</p>
<p>‘A thousand thanks, Madame,’ returned
Arthur. ‘But I hope and trust we may all reach M. le
Comte in safety together. You yourself said that you
expected only a brief detention before he could be communicated
with, and this captain, renegade though he be, evidently has a
respect for you.’</p>
<p>‘That is quite true,’ she returned, ‘and it
may only be my foolish heart that forebodes evil; nevertheless, I
cannot but recollect that <i>c’est l’imprévu
qui arrive</i>.’</p>
<p>‘Then, Madame, that is the very reason there should be
no misfortune,’ returned Arthur.</p>
<p>It was on the second day after the capture of the tartane that
the sun set in a purple angry-looking bank of cloud, and the sea
began to heave in a manner which renewed the earlier distresses
of the voyage to such as were bad sailors. The sails both
of the corsair and of the tartane were taken in, and it was plain
that a rough night was to be expected. The children were
lashed into their berths, and all prepared themselves to
endure. The last time Arthur saw Madame de Bourke’s
face, by the light of the lamp swinging furiously from the cabin
roof, as he assisted in putting in the dead lights, it bore the
same fixed expression of fortitude and resignation as when she
was preparing to be boarded by the pirates.</p>
<p>He remained on deck, but it was very perilous, for the vessel
was so low in the water that the waves dashed over it so wildly
that he could hardly help being swept away. It was pitch
dark, too, and the lantern of the other vessel could only just be
seen, now high above their heads, now sinking in the trouble of
the sea, while the little tartane was lifted up as though on a
mountain; and in a kind of giddy dream, he thought of falling
headlong upon her deck. Finally he found himself
falling. Was he washed overboard? No; a sharp blow
showed him that he had only fallen down the hatchway, and after
lying still a moment, he heard the voices of Lanty and
Hébert, and presently they were all tossed together by
another lurch of the ship.</p>
<p>It was a night of miseries that seemed endless, and when a
certain amount of light appeared, and Arthur and Lanty crawled
upon deck, the tempest was unabated. They found themselves
still dashed, as if their vessel were a mere cork, on the huge
waves; rushes of water coming over them, whether from sea or sky
there was no knowing, for all seemed blended together in one mass
of dark lurid gray; and where was the Algerine ship—so
lately their great enemy, now watched for as their guide and
guardian?</p>
<p>It was no place nor time for questions, even could they have
been heard or understood. It was scarcely possible even to
be heard by one another, and it was some time before they
convinced themselves that the large vessel had disappeared.
The cable must have parted in the night, and they were running
with bare poles before the gale; the seamanship of the man at the
helm being confined to avoiding the more direct blows of the
waves, on the huge crests of which the little tartane
rode—gallantly perhaps in mariners’ eyes, but very
wretchedly to the feelings of the unhappy landsmen within
her.</p>
<p>Arthur thought of St. Paul, and remembered with dismay that it
was many days before sun or moon appeared. He managed to
communicate his recollection to Lanty, who exclaimed, ‘And
he was a holy man, and he was a prisoner too. He will feel
for us if any man can in this sore strait! <i>Sancte
Paule</i>, <i>ora pro nobis</i>. An’ haven’t I
got the blessed scapulary about me neck that will bring me
through worse than this?’</p>
<p>The three managed to get down to tell the unfortunate inmates
of the cabin what was the state of things, and to carry them some
food, though at the expense of many falls and severe blows; and
almost all of them were too faint or nauseated to be able to
swallow such food as could survive the transport under such
circumstances. Yet high-spirited little Estelle entreated
to be carried on deck, to see what a storm was like. She
had read of them so often, and wanted to see as well as to
feel. She was almost ready to cry when Arthur assured her
it was quite impossible, and her mother added a grave order not
to trouble him.</p>
<p>Madame de Bourke looked so exhausted by the continual
buffeting and the closeness of the cabin, and her voice was so
weak, that Arthur grieved over the impossibility of giving her
any air. Julienne tried to make her swallow some <i>eau de
vie</i>; but the effort of steadying her hand seemed too much for
her, and after a terrible lurch of the ship, which lodged the
poor <i>bonne</i> in the opposite corner of the cabin, the lady
shook her head and gave up the attempt. Indeed, she seemed
so worn out that Arthur—little used to the sight of
fainting—began to fear that her forebodings of dying before
she could rejoin her husband were on the point of being
realised.</p>
<p>However, the gale abated towards evening, and the youth
himself was so much worn out that the first respite was spent in
sleep. When he awoke, the sea was much calmer, and the
eastern sun was rising in glory over it; the Turks, with their
prayer carpets in a line, were simultaneously kneeling and bowing
in prayer, with their faces turned towards it. Lanty
uttered an only too emphatic curse upon the misbelievers, and
Arthur vainly tried to make him believe that their ‘Allah
il Allah’ was neither addressed to Mohammed nor the
sun.</p>
<p>‘Sure and if not, why did they make their obeisance to
it all one as the Persians in the big history-book Master Phelim
had at school?’</p>
<p>‘It’s to the east they turn Lanty, not to the
sun.’</p>
<p>‘And what right have the haythen spalpeens to turn to
the east like good Christians?’</p>
<p>‘’Tis to their Prophet’s tomb they look, at
Mecca.’</p>
<p>‘There, an’ I tould you they were no better than
haythens,’ returned Lanty, ‘to be praying and
knocking their heads on the bare boards—that have as much
sense as they have—to a dead man’s tomb.’</p>
<p>Arthur’s Scotch mind thought the Moors might have had
the best of it in argument when he recollected Lanty’s
trust in his scapulary.</p>
<p>They tried to hold a conversation with the Reis, between
<i>lingua Franca</i> and the Provençal of the renegade;
and they came to the conclusion that no one had the least idea
where they were, or where they were going; the ship’s
compass had been broken in the boarding, and there was no chart
more available than the little map in the beginning of
Estelle’s precious copy of Télémaque.
The Turkish Reis did not trouble himself about it, but squatted
himself down with his chibouque, abandoning all guidance of the
ship, and letting her drift at the will of wind and wave, or, as
he said, the will of Allah. When asked where he thought she
was going, he replied with solemn indifference,
‘Kismet;’ and all the survivors of the crew—for
one had been washed overboard—seemed to share his
resignation.</p>
<p>The only thing he did seem to care for was that if the infidel
woman chose to persist in coming on deck, the canvas
screen—which had been washed overboard—should be
restored. This was done, and Madame de Bourke was assisted
to a couch that had been prepared for her with cloaks, where the
air revived her a little; but she listened with a faint smile to
the assurances of Arthur, backed by Hébert, that this
abandonment to fate gave the best chance. They might either
be picked up by a Christian vessel or go ashore on a Christian
coast; but Madame de Bourke did not build much on these
hopes. She knew too well what were the habits of wreckers
of all nations, to think that it would make much difference
whether they were driven on the coast of Sicily or of
Africa—‘barring,’ as Lanty said, ‘that
they should get Christian burial in the former case.’</p>
<p>‘We are in the hands of a good God. That at least
we know,’ said the Countess. ‘And He can hear
us through, whether for life in Paradise, or trial a little
longer here below.’</p>
<p>‘Like Blandina,’ observed Estelle.</p>
<p>‘Ah! my child, who knows whether trials like even that
blessed saint’s may not be in reserve even for your tender
age. When I think of these miserable men, who have
renounced their faith, I see what fearful ordeals there may be
for those who fall into the hands of those unbelievers.
Strong men have yielded. How may it not be with my poor
children?’</p>
<p>‘God made Blandina brave, mamma. I will pray that
He may make me so.’</p>
<p>Land was in sight at last. Purple mountains rose to the
south in wild forms, looking strangely thunderous and red in the
light of the sinking sun. A bay, with rocks jutting out far
into the sea, seemed to embrace them with its arms.
Soundings were made, and presently the Reis decided on
anchoring. It was a rocky coast, with cliffs descending
into the sea, covered with verdure, and the water beneath was
clear as glass.</p>
<p>‘Have we escaped the Syrtes to fall upon
Æneas’ cave?’ murmured Arthur to himself.</p>
<p>‘And if we could meet Queen Dido, or maybe Venus
herself, ’twould be no bad thing!’ observed Lanty,
who remembered his Virgil on occasion. ‘For
there’s not a drop of wather left barring <i>eau de
vie</i>, and if these Moors get at that, ’tis raving madmen
they would be.’</p>
<p>‘Do they know where we are?’ asked Arthur.</p>
<p>‘Sorrah a bit!’ returned Lanty, ‘tho’
’tis a pretty place enough. If my old mother was
here, ’tis her heart would warm to the
mountains.’</p>
<p>‘Is it Calypso’s Island?’ whispered Ulysse
to his sister.</p>
<p>‘See, what are they doing?’ cried Estelle.
‘There are people—don’t you see, white specks
crowding down to the water.’</p>
<p>There was just then a splash, and two bronzed figures were
seen setting forth from the tartane to swim to shore. The
Turkish Reis had despatched them, to ascertain whether the vessel
had drifted, and who the inhabitants might be.</p>
<p>A good while elapsed before one of these scouts
returned. There was a great deal of talk and gesticulating
round him, and Lanty, mingling with it, brought back word that
the place was the Bay of Golo, not far from Djigheli, and just
beyond the Algerine frontier. The people were Cabeleyzes, a
wild race of savage dogs, which means dogs according the Moors,
living in the mountains, and independent of the Dey. A
considerable number rushed to the coast, armed, and in great
numbers, perceiving the tartane to be an Italian vessel, and
expecting a raid by Sicilian robbers on their cattle; but the
Moors had informed them that it was no such thing, but a prize
taken in the name of the Dey of Algiers, in which an illustrious
French Bey’s harem was being conveyed to Algiers.
From that city the tartane was now about a day’s sail,
having been driven to the eastward of it during the storm.
‘The Turkish commander evidently does not like the
neighbourhood,’ said Arthur, ‘judging by his
gestures.’</p>
<p>‘Dogs and sons of dogs are the best names he has for
them,’ rejoined Lanty.</p>
<p>‘See! They have cut the cable! Are we not to
wait for the other man who swam ashore?’</p>
<p>So it was. A favourable wind was blowing, and the Reis,
being by no means certain of the disposition of the Cabeleyzes,
chose to leave them behind him as soon as possible, and make his
way to Algiers, which began to appear to his unfortunate
passengers like a haven of safety.</p>
<p>They were not, however, out of the bay when the wind suddenly
veered, and before the great lateen sail could be reefed, it had
almost caused the vessel to be blown over. There was a
pitching and tossing almost as violent as in the storm, and then
wind and current began carrying the tartane towards the rocky
shore. The Reis called the men to the oars, but their
numbers were too few to be availing, and in a very few minutes
more the vessel was driven hopelessly towards a mass of
rocks.</p>
<p>Arthur, the Abbé, Hébert, and Lanty were all
standing together at the head of the vessel. The poor
Abbé seemed dazed, and kept dreamily fingering his rosary,
and murmuring to himself. The other three consulted in a
low voice.</p>
<p>‘Were it not better to have the women here on
deck?’ asked Arthur.</p>
<p>‘<i>Eh</i>, <i>non</i>!’ sobbed Master
Hébert. ‘Let not my poor mistress see what is
coming on her and her little ones!’</p>
<p>‘Ah! and ’tis better if the innocent creatures
must be drowned, that it should be without being insensed of it
till they wake in our Lady’s blessed arms,’ added
Lanty. ‘Hark! and they are at their
prayers.’</p>
<p>But just then Victorine rushed up from below, and throwing her
arms round Lanty, cried, ‘Oh! Laurent, Laurent.
It is not true that it is all over with us, is it? Oh! save
me! save me!’</p>
<p>‘And if I cannot save you, mine own heart’s core,
we’ll die together,’ returned the poor fellow,
holding her fast. ‘It won’t last long,
Victorine, and the saints have a hold of my scapulary.’</p>
<p>He had scarcely spoken when, lifted upon a wave, the tartane
dashed upon the rocks, and there was at once a horrible shivering
and crashing throughout her—a frightful mingling of shrieks
and yells of despair with the wild roar of the waves that poured
over her. The party at the head of the vessel were
conscious of clinging to something, and when the first
burly-burly ceased a little they found themselves all together
against the bulwark, the vessel almost on her beam ends, wedged
into the rocks, their portion high and dry, but the stern, where
the cabin was, entirely under water.</p>
<p>Victorine screamed aloud, ‘My lady! my poor
lady.’</p>
<p>‘I see—I see something,’ cried Arthur, who
had already thrown off his coat, and in another moment he had
brought up Estelle in his arms, alive, sobbing and panting.
Giving her over to the steward, he made another dive, but then
was lost sight of, and returned no more, nor was anything to be
seen of the rest. Shut up in the cabin, Madame de Bourke,
Ulysse, and the three maids must have been instantly drowned, and
none of the crew were to be seen. Maître
Hébert hold the little girl in his arms, glad that, though
living, she was only half-conscious. Victorine, sobbing,
hung heavily on Lanty, and before he could free his hands he
perceived to his dismay that the Abbé, unassisted, was
climbing down from the wreck upon the rock, scarcely perhaps
aware of his danger.</p>
<p>Lanty tried to put Victorine aside, and called out,
‘Your reverence, wait—Masther Phelim, wait till I
come and help you.’ But the girl, frantic with
terror, grappled him fast, screaming to him not to let her
go—and at the same moment a wave broke over the
Abbé. Lanty, almost wild, was ready to leap into it
after him, thinking he must be sucked back with it, but behold!
he still remained clinging to the rock. Instinct seemed to
serve him, for he had stuck his knife into the rock and was
holding on by it. There seemed no foothold, and while Lanty
was deliberating how to go to his assistance, another wave washed
him off and bore him to the next rock, which was only separated
from the mainland by a channel of smoother water. He tried
to catch at a floating plank, but in vain; however, an oar next
drifted towards him, and by it he gained the land, but only to be
instantly surrounded by a mob of Cabeleyzes, who seemed to be
stripping off his garments. By this time many were swimming
towards the wreck; and Estelle, who had recovered breath and
senses, looked over Hébert’s shoulder at them.
‘The savages! the infidels!’ she said.
‘Will they kill me? or will they try to make me renounce my
faith? They shall kill me rather than make me
yield.’</p>
<p>‘Ah! yes, my dear <i>demoiselle</i>, that is
right. That is the only way. It is my resolution
likewise,’ returned Hébert. ‘God give us
grace to persist.’</p>
<p>‘My mamma said so,’ repeated the child.
‘Is she drowned, Maître Hébert?’</p>
<p>‘She is happier than we are, my dear young
lady.’</p>
<p>‘And my little brother too! Ah! then I shall
remember that they are only sending me to them in
Paradise.’</p>
<p>By this time the natives were near the wreck, and Estelle,
shuddering, clung closer to Hébert; but he had made up his
mind what to do. ‘I must commit you to these men,
Mademoiselle,’ he said; ‘the water is rising—we
shall perish if we remain here.’</p>
<p>‘Ah! but it would not hurt so much to be drowned,’
said Estelle, who had made up her mind to Blandina’s
chair.</p>
<p>‘I must endeavour to save you for your father,
Mademoiselle, and your poor grandmother! There! be a good
child! Do not struggle.’</p>
<p>He had attracted the attention of some of the swimmers, and he
now flung her to them. One caught her by an arm, another by
a leg, and she was safely taken to the shore, where at once a
shoe and a stocking were taken from her, in token of her becoming
a captive; but otherwise her garments were not meddled with; in
which she was happier than her uncle, whom she found crouched up
on a rock, stripped almost to the skin, so that he shrank from
her, when she sprang to his side amid the Babel of wild men and
women, who were shouting in exultation and wonder over his big
flapped hat, his <i>soutane</i> and bands, pointing at his white
limbs and yellow hair—or, what amazed them even more,
Estelle’s light, flaxen locks, which hung soaked around
her. She felt a hand pulling them to see whether anything
so strange actually grew on her head, and she turned round to
confront them with a little gesture of defiant dignity that
evidently awed them, for they kept their hands off her, and did
not interfere as she stood sentry over her poor shivering
uncle.</p>
<p>Lanty was by this time trying to drag Victorine over the rocks
and through the water. The poor Parisienne was very
helpless, falling, hurting herself, and screaming continually;
and trebly, when a couple of natives seized upon her, and dragged
her ashore, where they immediately snatched away her mantle and
cap, pulled off her gold chain and cross, and tore out her
earrings with howls of delight.</p>
<p>Lanty, struggling on, was likewise pounced upon, and bereft of
his fine green and gold livery coat and waistcoat, which, though
by no means his best, and stained with the sea water, were
grasped with ecstasy, quarrelled over, and displayed in
triumph. The steward had secured a rope by which he
likewise reached the shore, only to become the prey of the
savages, who instantly made prize of his watch and purse, as well
as of almost all his garments. The five unfortunate
survivors would fain have remained huddled together, but the
natives pointing to some huts on the hillside, urged them thither
by the language of shouts and blows.</p>
<p>‘Faith and I’m not an ox,’ exclaimed Lanty,
as if the fellow could have understood him, ‘and is it to
the shambles you’re driving me?’</p>
<p>‘Best not resist! There’s nothing for it but
to obey them,’ said the steward, ‘and at least there
will be shelter for the child.’</p>
<p>No objection was made to his lifting her in his arms, and he
carried her, as the party, half-drowned, nearly starved and
exhausted, stumbled on along the rocky paths which cut their feet
cruelly, since their shoes had all been taken from them.
Lanty gave what help he could to the Abbé and Victorine,
who were both in a miserable plight, but ere long he was obliged
to take his turn in carrying Estelle, whose weight had become too
much for the worn out Hébert. He was alarmed to
find, on transferring her, that her head sank on his shoulder as
if in a sleep of exhaustion, which, however, shielded her from
much terror. For, as they arrived at a cluster of five or
six tents, built of clay and the branches of trees, out rushed a
host of women, children, and large fierce dogs, all making as
much noise as they were capable of. The dogs flew at the
strange white forms, no doubt utterly new to them.
Victorine was severely bitten, and Lanty, trying to rescue her,
had his leg torn.</p>
<p>These two were driven into one hut; Estelle, who was evidently
considered as the greatest prize, was taken into another and
rather better one, together with the steward and the
Abbé. The Moors, who had swum ashore, had probably
told them that she was the Frankish Bey’s daughter; for
this, miserable place though it was, appeared to be the best hut
in the hamlet, nor was she deprived of her clothes. A sort
of bournouse or haik, of coarse texture and very dirty, was given
to each of the others, and some rye cakes baked in the
ashes. Poor little Estelle turned away her head at first,
but Hébert, alarmed at her shivering in her wet clothes,
contrived to make her swallow a little, and then took off the
soaked dress, and wrapped her in the bournouse. She was by
this time almost unconscious from weariness, and made no
resistance to the unaccustomed hands, or the disgusting
coarseness and uncleanness of her wrapper, but dropped asleep the
moment he laid her down, and he applied himself to trying to dry
her clothes at a little fire of sticks that had been lighted
outside the open space, round which the huts stood.</p>
<p>The Abbé too had fallen asleep, as Hébert
managed to assure poor Lanty, who rushed out of the other tent,
nearly naked, and bloodstained in many places, but more concerned
at his separation from his foster-brother than at anything else
that had befallen him. Men, women, children, and dogs were
all after him, supposing him to be trying to escape, and he was
seized upon and dragged back by main force, but not before the
steward had called out—</p>
<p>‘M. l’Abbé sleeps—sleeps
sound—he is not hurt! For Heaven’s sake,
Laurent, be quiet—do not enrage them! It is the only
hope for him, as for Mademoiselle and the rest of us.’</p>
<p>Lanty, on hearing of the Abbé’s safety, allowed
himself to be taken back, making himself, however, a passive dead
weight on his captor’s hands.</p>
<p>‘Arrah,’ he muttered to himself, ‘if ye will
have me, ye shall have the trouble of me, bad luck to you.
’Tis little like ye are to the barbarous people St. Paul
was thrown with; but then what right have I to expect the
treatment of a holy man, the like of him? If so be, I can
save that poor orphan that’s left, and bring off Master
Phelim safe, and save poor Victorine from being taken for some
dirty spalpeen’s wife, when he has half a dozen more to the
fore—’tis little it matters what becomes of Lanty
Callaghan; they might give him to their big brutes of dogs, and
mighty lean meat they would find him!’</p>
<p>So came down the first night upon the captives.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER V—CAPTIVITY</h2>
<blockquote><p>‘Hold fast thy hope and Heaven will not<br
/>
Forsake thee in thine hour.<br />
Good angels will be near thee,<br />
And evil ones will fear thee,<br />
And Faith will give thee power.’</p>
<p style="text-align: right"><span
class="smcap">Southey</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The whole northern coast of Africa is inhabited by a medley of
tribes, all owning a kind of subjection to the Sultan, but more
in the sense of Pope than of King. The part of the coast
where the tartane had been driven on the rocks was beneath Mount
Araz, a spur of the Atlas, and was in the possession of the Arab
tribe called Cabeleyze, which is said to mean ‘the
revolted.’ The revolt had been from the Algerine
power, which had never been able to pursue them into the
fastnesses of the mountains, and they remained a wild independent
race, following all those Ishmaelite traditions and customs that
are innate in the blood of the Arab.</p>
<p>When Estelle awoke from her long sleep of exhaustion, she was
conscious of a stifling atmosphere, and moreover of the crow of a
cock in her immediate vicinity, then of a dog growling, and a
lamb beginning to bleat. She raised herself a little, and
beheld, lying on the ground around her, dark heaps with human
feet protruding from them. These were interspersed with
sheep, goats, dogs, and fowls, all seen by the yellow light of
the rising sun which made its way in not only through the
doorless aperture, but through the reeds and branches which
formed the walls.</p>
<p>Close as the air was, she felt the chill of the morning and
shivered. At the same moment she perceived poor
Maître Hébert covering himself as best he could with
a dirty brown garment, and bending over her with much solicitude,
but making signs to make as little noise as possible, while he
whispered, ‘How goes it with Mademoiselle?’</p>
<p>‘Ah,’ said Estelle, recollecting herself,
‘we are shipwrecked. We shall have to confess our
faith! Where are the rest?’</p>
<p>‘There is M. l’Abbé,’ said
Hébert, pointing to a white pair of the bare feet.
‘Poor Laurent and Victorine have been carried
elsewhere.’</p>
<p>‘And mamma? And my brother?’</p>
<p>‘Ah! Mademoiselle, give the good God thanks that
he has spared them our trial.’</p>
<p>‘Mamma! Ah, she was in the cabin when the water
came in? But my brother! I had hold of his hand, he
came out with me. I saw M. Arture swim away with him.
Yes, Maître Hébert, indeed I did.’</p>
<p>Hébert had not the least hope that they could be saved,
but he would not grieve the child by saying so, and his present
object was to get her dressed before any one was awake to watch,
and perhaps appropriate her upper garments. He was a
fatherly old man, and she let him help her with her fastenings,
and comb out her hair with the tiny comb in her
<i>étui</i>. Indeed, <i>friseurs</i> were the rule
in France, and she was not unused to male attendants at the
toilette, so that she was not shocked at being left to his
care.</p>
<p>For the rest, the child had always dwelt in an imaginary
world, a curious compound of the Lives of the Saints and of
Télémaque. Martyrs and heroes alike had been
shipwrecked, taken captive, and tormented; and there was a
certain sense of realised day-dream about her, as if she had
become one of the number and must act up to her part. She
asked Hébert if there were a Sainte Estelle, what was the
day of the month, and if she should be placed in the Calendar if
she never complained, do what these barbarians might to
her. She hoped she should hold out, for she would like to
be able to help all whom she loved, poor papa and all. But
it was hard that mamma, who was so good, could not be a martyr
too; but she was a saint in Paradise all the same, and thus
Estelle made her little prayer in hope. There was no
conceit or over confidence in the tone, though of course the poor
child little knew what she was ready to accept; but it was a
spark of the martyr’s trust that gleamed in her eye, and
gave her a sense of exaltation that took off the sharpest edge of
grief and fear.</p>
<p>By this time, however, the animals were stirring, and with
them the human beings who had lain down in their clothes.
Peace was over; the Abbé awoke, and began to call for
Laurent and his clothes and his beads; but this aroused the
master of the house, who started up, and threatening with a huge
stick, roared at him what must have been orders to be quiet.</p>
<p>Estelle indignantly flew between and cried, ‘You shall
not hurt my uncle.’</p>
<p>The commanding gesture spoke for itself; and, besides, poor
Phelim cowered behind her with an air that caused a word and sign
to pass round, which the captives found was equivalent to
innocent or imbecile; and the Mohammedan respect and tenderness
for the demented spared him all further violence or molestation,
except that he was lost and miserable without the attentions of
his foster-brother; and indeed the shocks he had undergone seemed
to have mobbed him of much of the small degree of sense he had
once possessed.</p>
<p>Coming into the space before the doorway, Estelle found
herself the object of universal gaze and astonishment, as her
long fair hair gleamed in the sunshine, every one coming to touch
it, and even pull it to see if it was real. She was a good
deal frightened, but too high-spirited to show it more than she
could help, as the dark-skinned, bearded men crowded round with
cries of wonder. The other two prisoners likewise appeared:
Victorine looking wretchedly ill, and hardly able to hold up her
head; Lanty creeping towards the Abbé, and trying to
arrange his remnant of clothing. There was a short respite,
while the Arabs, all turning eastwards, chanted their morning
devotions with a solemnity that struck their captives. The
scene was a fine one, if there had been any heart to
admire. The huts were placed on the verge of a fine forest
of chestnut and cork trees—and beyond towered up mountain
peaks in every variety of dazzling colour—red and purple
beneath, glowing red and gold where the snowy peaks caught the
morning sun, lately broken from behind them. The slopes
around were covered with rich grass, flourishing after the summer
heats, and to which the herds were now betaking themselves,
excepting such as were detained to be milked by the women, who
came pouring out of some of the other huts in dark blue garments;
and in front, still shadowed by the mountain, lay the bay, deep,
beautiful, pellucid green near the land, and shut in by fantastic
and picturesque rocks—some bare, some clothed with splendid
foliage, winter though it was—while beyond lay the
exquisite blue stretching to the horizon. Little recked the
poor prisoners of the scene so fair; they only saw the remnant of
the wreck below, the sea that parted them from hope, the savage
rocks behind, the barbarous people around, the squalor and dirt
of the adowara, as the hamlet was called.</p>
<p style="text-align: center">
<a href="images/p96b.jpg">
<img alt="Estelle" src="images/p96s.jpg" />
</a></p>
<p>Comparatively, the Moor who had swum ashore to reconnoitre
seemed like a friend when he came forward and saluted Estelle and
the Abbé respectfully. Moreover the <i>lingua
Franca</i> Lanty had picked up established a very imperfect
double system of interpretation by the help of many
gestures. This was Lanty’s explanation to the rest:
in French, of course, but, like all his speech, Irish-English in
construction.</p>
<p>‘This Moor, Hassan, wants to stand our friend in his own
fashion, but he says they care not the value of an empty
mussel-shell for the French, and no more for the Dey of Algiers
than I do for the Elector of Hanover. He has told them that
M. l’Abbé and Mademoiselle are brother and daughter
to a great Bey—but it is little they care for that.
Holy Virgin, they took Mademoiselle for a boy! That is why
they are gazing at her so impudently. Would that I could
give them a taste of my cane! Do you see those broken
walls, and a bit of a castle on yonder headland jutting out into
the sea? They are bidding Hassan say that the French built
that, and garrisoned it with the help of the Dey; but there fell
out a war, and these fellows, or their fathers, surprised it,
sacked it, and carried off four hundred prisoners into
slavery. Holy Mother defend us! Here are all the
rogues coming to see what they will do with us!’</p>
<p>For the open space in front of the huts, whence all the
animals had now been driven, was becoming thronged with figures
with the haik laid over their heads, spear or blunderbuss in
hand, fine bearing, and sometimes truculent, though handsome,
browse countenances. They gazed at the captives, and
uttered what sounded like loud hurrahs or shouts; but after
listening to Hassan, Lanty turned round trembling.
‘The miserables! Some are for sacrificing us outright
on the spot, but this decent man declares that he will make them
sensible that their prophet was not out-and-out as bad as
that. Never you fear, Mademoiselle.’</p>
<p>‘I am not afraid,’ said Estelle, drawing up her
head. ‘We shall be martyrs.’</p>
<p>Lanty was engaged in listening to a moan from his
foster-brother for food, and Hébert joined in observing
that they might as well be sacrificed as starved to death;
whereupon the Irishman’s words and gesticulations induced
the Moor to make representations which resulted in some dry
pieces of <i>samh</i> cake, a few dates, and a gourd of water
being brought by one of the women; a scanty amount for the
number, even though poor Victorine was too ill to touch anything
but the water; while the Abbé seemed unable to understand
that the servants durst not demand anything better, and devoured
her share and a quarter of Lanty’s as well as his
own. Meantime the Cabeleyzes had all ranged themselves in
rows, cross-legged on the ground, opposite to the five
unfortunate captives, to sit in judgment on them. As they
kept together in one group, happily in the shade of a hut,
Victorine, too faint and sick fully to know what was going on,
lay with her head on the lap of her young mistress, who sat with
her bright and strangely fearless eyes confronting the wild
figures opposite.</p>
<p>Her uncle, frightened, though not comprehending the extent of
his danger, crouched behind Lanty, who with Hébert stood
somewhat in advance, the would-be guardians of the more helpless
ones.</p>
<p>There was an immense amount of deafening shrieking and
gesticulating among the Arabs. Hassan was responding, and
finally turned to Lanty, when the anxious watchers could perceive
signs as if of paying down coin made interrogatively.
‘Promise them anything, everything,’ cried
Hébert; ‘M. le Comte would give his last
sou—so would Madame la Marquise—to save
Mademoiselle.’</p>
<p>‘I have told him so,’ said Laurence presently;
‘I bade him let them know it is little they can make of us,
specially now they have stripped us as bare as themselves, the
rascals! but that their fortunes would be made—and little
they would know what to do with them—if they would only
send M. l’Abbé and Mademoiselle to Algiers safe and
sound. There! he is trying to incense them. Never
fear, Master Phelim, dear, there never was a rogue yet, black or
white, or the colour of poor Madame’s frothed chocolate,
who did not love gold better than blood, unless indeed
’twas for the sweet morsel of revenge; and these, for all
their rolling eyes and screeching tongues, have not the ghost of
a quarrel with us.’</p>
<p>‘My beads, my breviary,’ sighed the
Abbé. ‘Get them for me, Lanty.’</p>
<p>‘I wish they would end it quickly,’ said
Estelle. ‘My head aches so, and I want to be with
mamma. Poor Victorine! yours is worse,’ she added,
and soaked her handkerchief in the few drops of water left in the
gourd to lay it on the maid’s forehead.</p>
<p>The howling and shrieking betokened consultation, but was
suddenly interrupted by some half-grown lads, who came running in
with their hands full of what Lanty recognised to his horror as
garments worn by his mistress and fellow-servants, also a big
kettle and a handspike. They pointed down to the sea, and
with yells of haste and exultation all the wild conclave started
up to snatch, handle, and examine, then began rushing headlong to
the beach. Hassan’s explanations were scarcely needed
to show that they were about to ransack the ship, and he
evidently took credit to himself for having induced them to spare
the prisoners in case their assistance should be requisite to
gain full possession of the plunder.</p>
<p>Estelle and Victorine were committed to the charge of a
forbidding-looking old hag, the mother of the sheyk of the party;
the Abbé was allowed to stray about as he pleased, but the
two men were driven to the shore by the eloquence of the
club. Victorine revived enough for a burst of tears and a
sobbing cry, ‘Oh, they will be killed! We shall never
see them again!’</p>
<p>‘No,’ said Estelle, with her quiet yet childlike
resolution, ‘they are not going to kill any of us
yet. They said so. You are so tired, poor
Victorine! Now all the hubbub is over, suppose you lie
still and sleep. My uncle,’ as he roamed round her,
mourning for his rosary, ‘I am afraid your beads are lost;
but see here, these little round seeds, I can pierce them if you
will gather some more for me, and make you another set.
See, these will be the Aves, and here are shells in the grass for
the Paters.’</p>
<p>The long fibre of grass served for the string, and the sight
of the Giaour girl’s employment brought round her all the
female population who had not repaired to the coast. Her
first rosary was torn from her to adorn an almost naked baby; but
the Abbé began to whimper, and to her surprise the mother
restored it to him. She then made signs that she would
construct another necklace for the child, and she was rewarded by
a gourd being brought to her full of milk, which she was able to
share with her two companions, and which did something to revive
poor Victorine. Estelle was kept threading these necklaces
and bracelets all the wakeful hours of the day—for every
one fell asleep about noon—though still so jealous a watch
was kept on her that she was hardly allowed to shift her position
so as to get out of the sun, which even at that season was
distressingly scorching in the middle of the day.</p>
<p>Parties were continually coming up from the beach laden with
spoils of all kinds from the wreck, Lanty, Hébert, and a
couple of negroes being driven up repeatedly, so heavily
burthened as to be almost bent double. All was thrown down
in a heap at the other end of the adowara, and the old sheyk kept
guard over it, allowing no one to touch it. This went on
till darkness was coming on, when, while the cattle were being
collected for the night, the prisoners were allowed an interval,
in which Hébert and Lanty told how the natives, swimming
like ducks, had torn everything out of the wreck: all the bales
and boxes that poor Maître Hébert had secured with
so much care, and many of which he was now forced himself to open
for the pleasure of these barbarians.</p>
<p>That, however, was not the worst. Hébert
concealed from his little lady what Lanty did not spare
Victorine. ‘And there—enough to melt the heart
of a stone—there lay on the beach poor Madame la Comtesse,
and all the three. Good was it for you, Victorine, my
jewel, that you were not in the cabin with them.’</p>
<p>‘I know not,’ said the dejected Victorine;
‘they are better off than we?’</p>
<p>‘You would not say so, if you had seen what I
have,’ said Lanty, shuddering. ‘The
dogs!—they cut off Madame’s poor white fingers to get
at her rings, and not with knives either, lest her blessed flesh
should defile them, they said, and her poor face was an
angel’s all the time. Nay, nor that was not the
worst. The villainous boys, what must they do but pelt the
poor swollen bodies with stones! Ay, well you may scream,
Victorine. We went down on our knees, Maître
Hébert and I, to pray they might let us give them burial,
but they mocked us, and bade Hassan say they never bury
dogs. I went round the steeper path, for all the load at my
back, or I should have been flying at the throats of the cowardly
vultures, and then what would have become of M.
l’Abbé?’</p>
<p>Victorine trembled and wept bitterly for her companions, and
then asked if Lanty had seen the corpse of the little
Chevalier.</p>
<p>‘Not a sight of him or M. Arthur either,’
returned Lanty; ‘only the ugly face of the old Turk captain
and another of his crew, and them they buried decently, being
Moslem hounds like themselves; while my poor lady that is a saint
in heaven—’ and he, too, shed tears of hot grief and
indignation, recovering enough to warn Victorine by no means to
let the poor young girl know of this additional horror.</p>
<p>There was little opportunity, for they had been appropriated
by different masters: Estelle, the Abbé, and Hébert
to the sheyk, or headman of the clan; and Lanty and Victorine to
a big, strong, fierce-looking fellow, of inferior degree but
greater might.</p>
<p>This time Estelle was to be kept for the night among the
sheyk’s women, who, though too unsophisticated to veil
their faces, had a part of the hut closed off with a screen of
reeds, but quite as bare as the outside. Hébert, who
could not endure to think of her sleeping on the ground, and saw
a large heap of grass or straw provided for a little brown cow,
endeavoured to take an armful for her. Unluckily it
belonged to Lanty’s master, Eyoub, who instantly flew at
him in a fury, dragged him to a log of wood, caught up an axe,
and had not Estelle’s screams brought up the sheyk, with
Hassan and one or two other men, the poor Maître
d’Hôtel’s head would have been off. There
was a sharp altercation between the sheyk and Eyoub, while
Estelle held the faithful servant’s hand, saying,
‘You did it for me! Oh, Hébert, do not make
them angry again. It would be beautiful to die for
one’s faith, but not for a handful of hay.’</p>
<p>‘Ah! my dear <i>demoiselle</i>, what would my poor
ladies say to see you sleeping on the bare ground in a filthy
hut?’</p>
<p>‘I slept well last night,’ returned Estelle;
‘indeed, I do not mind! It is only the more like the
dungeon at Lyon, you know! And I pray you, Hébert,
do not get yourself killed for nothing too soon, or else we shall
not all stand out and confess together, like St. Blandina and St.
Ponticus and St Epagathius.’</p>
<p>‘Alas, the dear child! The long names run off her
tongue as glibly as ever,’ sighed Hébert, who,
though determined not to forsake his faith, by no means partook
her enthusiasm for martyrdom. Hassan, however, having
explained what the purpose had been, Hébert was pardoned,
though the sheyk scornfully observed that what was good enough
for the daughters of a Hadji was good enough for the unclean
child of the Frankish infidels.</p>
<p>The hay might perhaps have spared a little stiffness, but it
would not have ameliorated the chief annoyances—the
closeness, the dirt, and the vermin. It was well that it
was winter, or the first of these would have been far worse, and,
fortunately for Estelle, she was one of those whom suffocating
air rather lulls than rouses.</p>
<p>Eyoub’s hovel did not rejoice in the refinement of a
partition, but his family, together with their animals, lay on
the rocky floor as best they might; and Victorine’s fever
came on again, so that she lay in great misery, greeted by a
growl from a great white dog whenever she tried to relieve her
restless aching limbs by the slightest movement, or to reach one
of the gourds of water laid near the sleepers, like Saul’s
cruse at his pillow.</p>
<p>Towards morning, however, Lanty, who had been sitting with his
back against the wall, awoke from the sleep well earned by acting
as a beast of burthen. The dog growled a little, but
Lanty—though his leg still showed its teeth-marks—had
made friends with it, and his hand on its head quieted it
directly, so that he was able cautiously to hand a gourd to
Victorine. The Arabs were heavy sleepers, and the two were
able to talk under their breath; as, in reply to a kind word from
Lanty, poor Victorine moaned her envy of the fate of Rosette and
Babette; and he, with something of their little mistress’s
spirit, declared that he had no doubt but that ‘one way or
the other they should be out of it: either get safe home, or be
blessed martyrs, without even a taste of purgatory.’</p>
<p>‘Ah! but there’s worse for me,’ sighed
Victorine. ‘This demon brought another to stare in my
face—I know he wants to make me his wife! Kill me
first, Laurent.’</p>
<p>‘It is I that would rather espouse you, my jewel,’
returned a tender whisper.</p>
<p>‘How can you talk of such things at such a
moment?’</p>
<p>‘’Tis a pity M. l’Abbé is not a
priest,’ sighed Lanty. ‘But, you know,
Victorine, who is the boy you always meant to take.’</p>
<p>‘You need not be so sure of that,’ she said, the
coy coquetry not quite extinct.</p>
<p>‘Come, as you said, it is no time for fooling.
Give me your word and troth to be my wife so soon as we have the
good luck to come by a Christian priest by our Lady’s help,
and I’ll outface them all—were it Mohammed the
Prophet himself, that you are my espoused and betrothed, and woe
to him that puts a finger on you.’</p>
<p>‘You would only get yourself killed.’</p>
<p>‘And would not I be proud to be killed for your
sake? Besides, I’ll show them cause not to kill me if
I have the chance. Trust me, Victorine, my darling—it
is but a chance among these murdering villains, but it is the
only one; and, sure, if you pretended to turn the back of your
hand to me when there were plenty of Christian men to compliment
you, yet you would rather have poor Lanty than a thundering rogue
of a pagan Mohammedan.’</p>
<p>‘I hope I shall die,’ sighed poor Victorine
faintly. ‘It will only be your death!’</p>
<p>‘That is my affair,’ responded Lanty.
‘Come, here’s daylight coming in; reach me your hand
before this <i>canaille</i> wakes, and here’s this good
beast of a dog, and yonder grave old goat with a face like
Père Michel’s for our witnesses—and by good
luck, here’s a bit of gilt wire off my shoulder-knot that
I’ve made into a couple of rings while I’ve been
speaking.’</p>
<p>The strange betrothal had barely taken place before there was
a stir, and what was no doubt a yelling imprecation on the
‘dog Giaours’ for the noise they made.</p>
<p>The morning began as before, with the exception that Estelle
had established a certain understanding with a little
chocolate-coloured cupid of a boy of the size of her brother, and
his lesser sister, by letting them stroke her hair, and showing
them the mysteries of cat’s cradle. They shared their
gourd of goat’s-milk with her, but would not let her give
any to her companions. However, the Abbé had only to
hold out his hand to be fed, and the others were far too anxious
to care much about their food.</p>
<p>A much larger number of Cabeleyzes came streaming into the
forum of the adowara, and the prisoners were all again placed in
a row, while the new-comers passed before them, staring hard, and
manifestly making personal remarks which perhaps it was well that
they did not understand. The sheyk and Eyoub evidently
regarded them as private property, stood in front, and permitted
nobody to handle them, which was so far a comfort.</p>
<p>Then followed a sort of council, with much gesticulation, in
which Hassan took his share. Then, followed by the sheyk,
Eyoub, and some other headmen, he advanced, and demanded that the
captives should become true believers. This was eked out
with gestures betokening that thus they would be free, in that
case; while, if they refused, the sword and the smouldering flame
were pointed to, while the whole host loudly shouted
‘Islam!’</p>
<p>Victorine trembled, sobbed, tried to hide herself; but Estelle
stood up, her young face lighted up, her dark eyes gleaming, as
if she were realising a daydream, as she shook her head, cried
out to Lanty, ‘Tell him, No—never!’ and held to
her breast a little cross of sticks that she had been forming to
complete her uncle’s rosary. Her gesture was
understood. A man better clad than the rest, with a turban
and a broad crimson sash, rushed up to her, seized her by the
hair, and waved his scimitar over her head. The child felt
herself close to her mother. She looked up in his face with
radiant eyes and a smile on her lips. It absolutely daunted
the fellow: his arm dropped, and he gazed at her like some
supernatural creature; and the sheyk, enraged at the interference
with his property, darted forth to defend it, and there was a
general wrangling.</p>
<p>Seconded by their interpreter, Hassan, who knew that the Koran
did not prescribe the destruction of Christians, Hébert
and Lanty endeavoured to show that their conversion was out of
the question, and that their slaughter would only be the loss of
an exceedingly valuable ransom, which would be paid if they were
handed over safe and sound and in good condition.</p>
<p>There was no knowing what was the effect of this, for the
council again ended in a rush to secure the remaining pillage of
the wreck. Hébert and Lanty dreaded what they might
see, but to their great relief those poor remains had
disappeared. They shuddered as they remembered the
hyenas’ laughs and the jackals’ howls they had heard
at nightfall; but though they hoped that the sea had been
merciful, they could even have been grateful to the animals that
had spared them the sight of conscious insults.</p>
<p>The wreck was finally cleared, and among the fragments were
found several portions of books. These the Arabs
disregarded, being too ignorant even to read their own Koran, and
yet aware of the Mohammedan scruple which forbids the destruction
of any scrap of paper lest it should bear the name of
Allah. Lanty secured the greater part of the
Abbé’s breviary, and a good many pages of
Estelle’s beloved Télémaque; while the
steward gained possession of his writing case, and was permitted
to retain it when the Cabeleyzes, glutted with plunder, had
ascertained that it contained nothing of value to them.</p>
<p>After everything had been dragged up to the adowara, there
ensued a sort of auction or division of the plunder. Poor
Maître Hébert was doomed to see the boxes and bales
he had so diligently watched broken open by these
barbarians,—nay, he had to assist in their own dissection
when the secrets were too much for the Arabs. There was the
King of Spain’s portrait rent from its costly setting and
stamped upon as an idolatrous image. The miniature of the
Count, worn by the poor lady, had previously shared the same
fate, but that happily was out of sight and knowledge. Here
was the splendid plate, presented by crowned heads, howled over
by savages ignorant of its use. The silver they seemed to
value; but there were three precious gold cups which the salt
water had discoloured, so that they were taken for copper and
sold for a very small price to a Jew, who somehow was attracted
to the scene, ‘like a raven to the slaughter,’ said
Lanty.</p>
<p>This man likewise secured some of the poor lady’s store
of rich dresses, but a good many more were appropriated to make
sashes for the men, and the smaller articles, including
stockings, were wound turban fashion round the children’s
heads.</p>
<p>Lanty could not help observing, ‘And if the saints are
merciful to us, and get us out of this, we shall have stories to
tell that will last our lives!’ as he watched the solemn
old chief smelling to the perfumes, swallowing the rouge as
splendid medicine, and finally fingering a snuff-box, while half
a dozen more crowded round to assist in the opening, and in
another moment sneezing, weeping, tingling, dancing frantically
about, vituperating the Christian’s magic.</p>
<p>This gave Lanty an idea. A little round box lay near,
which, as he remembered, contained a Jack-in-the-box, or
Polichinelle, which the poor little Chevalier had bought at the
fair at Tarascon. This he contrived to secrete and hand to
Victorine. ‘Keep the secret,’ he said,
‘and you will find your best guardian in that bit of a
box.’ And when that very evening an Arab showed some
intentions of adding her to his harem, Victorine bethought
herself of the box, and unhooked in desperation. Up sprang
Punch, long-nosed and fur-capped, right in the bearded face.</p>
<p>Back the man almost fell; ‘Shaitan, Shaitan!’ was
the cry, as the inhabitants tumbled pell-mell out of the hovel,
and Victorine and Punch remained masters of the situation.</p>
<p>She heard Lanty haranguing in broken Arabic and <i>lingua
Franca</i>, and presently he came in, shaking with suppressed
laughter. ‘If ever we get home,’ said he,
‘we’ll make a pilgrimage to Tarascon! Blessings
on good St. Martha that put that sweet little imp in my
way! The rogues think he is the very genie that the
fisherman let out of the bottle in Mademoiselle’s book of
the Thousand and One Nights, and thought to see him towering over
the whole place. And a fine figure he would be with his
hook nose and long beard. They sent me to beg you fairly to
put up your little Shaitan again. I told them that Shaitan,
as they call him, is always in it when there’s meddling
between an espoused pair—which is as true as though the
Holy Father at Rome had said it—and as long as they were
civil, Shaitan would rest; but if they durst molest you, there
was no saying where he would be, if once you had to let him
out! To think of the virtue of that ugly face and bit of a
coil of wire!’</p>
<p>Meantime Hébert, having ascertained that both the Jew
and Hassan were going away, the one to Constantina, the other to
Algiers, wrote, and so did Estelle, to the Consul at Algiers,
explaining their position and entreating to be ransomed.
Though only nine years old, Estelle could write a very fair
letter, and the amazement of the Arabs was unbounded that any
female creature should wield a pen. Marabouts and merchants
were known to read the Koran, but if one of the goats had begun
to write, their wonder could hardly have been greater; and such
crowds came to witness the extraordinary operation that she could
scarcely breathe or see.</p>
<p>It seemed to establish her in their estimation as a sort of
supernatural being, for she was always treated with more
consideration than the rest of the captives, never deprived of
the clothes she wore, and allowed to appropriate a few of the
toilette necessaries that were quite incomprehensible to those
around her.</p>
<p>She learnt the names for bread, chestnuts, dates, milk, and
water, and these were never denied to her; and her little
ingenuities in nursery games won the goodwill of the women and
children around her, though others used to come and make ugly
faces at her, and cry out at her as an unclean thing. The
Abbé was allowed to wander about at will, and keep his
Hours, with Estelle to make the responses, and sometimes
Hébert. He was the only one that might visit the
other two captives; Lanty was kept hard at work over the crop of
chestnuts that the clan had come down from their mountains to
gather in; and poor Victorine, who was consumed by a low fever,
and almost too weak to move, lay all day in the dreary and dirty
hut, expecting, but dreading death.</p>
<p>Some days later there was great excitement, shouting, and
rage. It proved that the Bey of Constantina had sent to
demand the party, threatening to send an armed force to compel
their surrender; but, alas! the hope of a return to comparative
civilisation was instantly quashed, for the sheyk showed himself
furious. He and Eyoub stood brandishing their scimitars,
and with eyes flashing like a panther’s in the dark,
declaring that they were free, no subjects of the Dey nor the Bey
either; and that they would shed the blood of every one of the
captives rather than yield them to the dogs and sons of dogs at
Constantina.</p>
<p>This embassy only increased the jealousy with which the
prisoners were guarded. None of them were allowed to stir
without a man with a halbert, and they had the greatest
difficulty in entrusting a third letter to the Moor in command of
the party. Indeed, it was only managed by Estelle’s
coaxing of the little Abou Daoud, who was growing devoted to her,
and would do anything for the reward of hearing her sing life
<i>Malbrook s’en va-t’-n guerre</i>.</p>
<p>It might have been in consequence of this threat of the Bey,
much as they affected to despise it, that the Cabeleyzes prepared
to return to the heights of Mount Araz, whence they had only
descended during the autumn to find fresh pasture for their
cattle, and to collect dates and chestnuts from the forest.</p>
<p>‘Alas!’ said Hubert, ‘this is worse than
ever. As long as we were near the sea, I had hope, but now
all trace of us will be lost, even if the Consul should send
after us.’</p>
<p>‘Never fear, Maître Hubert,’ said Estelle;
‘you know Télémaque was a prisoner and tamed
the wild peasants in Egypt.’</p>
<p>‘Ah! the poor demoiselle, she always seems as if she
were acting a comedy.’</p>
<p>This was happily true. Estelle seemed to be in a curious
manner borne through the dangers and discomforts of her
surroundings by a strange dreamy sense of living up to her part,
sometimes as a possible martyr, sometimes as a figure in the
mythological or Arcadian romance that had filtered into her
nursery.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER VI—A MOORISH VILLAGE</h2>
<blockquote><p>‘Our laws and our worship on thee thou shalt
take,<br />
And this shalt thou first do for Zulema’s sake.’</p>
<p style="text-align: right"><span
class="smcap">Scott</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>When Arthur Hope dashed back from the party on the prow of the
wrecked tartane in search of little Ulysse, he succeeded in
grasping the child, but at the same moment a huge breaker washed
him off the slipperily-sloping deck, and after a scarce conscious
struggle he found himself, still retaining his clutch of the boy,
in the trough between it and another. He was happily an
expert swimmer, and holding the little fellow’s clothes in
his teeth, he was able to avoid the dash, and to rise on another
wave. Then he perceived that he was no longer near the
vessel, but had been carried out to some little distance, and his
efforts only succeeded in keeping afloat, not in approaching the
shore. Happily a plank drifted so near him that he was able
to seize it and throw himself across it, thus obtaining some
support, and being able to raise the child farther above the
water.</p>
<p>At the same time he became convinced that a strong current,
probably from a river or stream, was carrying him out to sea,
away from the bay. He saw the black heads of two or three
of the Moorish crew likewise floating on spars, and yielding
themselves to the stream, and this made him better satisfied to
follow their example. It was a sort of rest, and gave him
time to recover from the first exhaustion to convince himself
that the little boy was not dead, and to lash him to the plank
with a handkerchief.</p>
<p>By and by—he knew not how soon—calls and shouts
passed between the Moors; only two seemed to survive, and they no
longer obeyed the direction of the current, but turned resolutely
towards the land, where Arthur dimly saw a green valley opening
towards the sea. This was a much severer effort, but by
this time immediate self-preservation had become the only
thought, and happily both wind and the very slight tide were
favourable, so that, just as the sun sank beneath the western
waves, Arthur felt foothold on a sloping beach of white sand,
even as his powers became exhausted. He struggled up out of
reach of the sea, and then sank down, exhausted and
unconscious.</p>
<p>His first impression was of cries and shrieks round him, as he
gasped and panted, then saw as in a dream forms flitting round
him, and then—feeling for the child and missing
him—he raised himself in consternation, and the movement
was greeted by fresh unintelligible exclamations, while a not
unkindly hand lifted him up. It belonged to a man in a sort
of loose white garment and drawers, with a thin dark-bearded
face; and Arthur, recollecting that the Spanish word
<i>niño</i> passed current for child in <i>lingua
Franca</i>, uttered it with an accent of despairing
anxiety. He was answered with a volley of words that he
only understood to be in a consoling tone, and the speaker
pointed inland. Various persons, among whom Arthur saw his
recent shipmates, seemed to be going in that direction, and he
obeyed his guide, though scarcely able to move from exhaustion
and cold, the garments he had retained clinging about him.
Some one, however, ran down towards him with a vessel containing
a draught of sour milk. This revived him enough to see
clearly and follow his guides. After walking a distance,
which appeared to him most laborious, he found himself entering a
sort of village, and was ushered through a courtyard into a kind
of room. In the centre a fire was burning; several figures
were busy round it, and in another moment he perceived that they
were rubbing, chafing, and otherwise restoring his little
companion.</p>
<p>Indeed Ulysse had just recovered enough to be terribly
frightened, and as his friend’s voice answered his screams,
he sprang from the kind brown hands, and, darting on Arthur,
clung to him with face hidden on his shoulder. The women
who had been attending to him fell back as the white stranger
entered, and almost instantly dry clothes were brought, and while
Arthur was warming himself and putting them on, a little table
about a foot high was set, the contents of a cauldron of a kind
of soup which had been suspended over the fire were poured into a
large round green crock, and in which all were expected to dip
their spoons and fingers. Little Ulysse was exceedingly
amazed, and observed that <i>ces gens</i> were not <i>bien
élevés</i> to eat out of the dish; but he was too
hungry to make any objection to being fed with the wooden spoon
that had been handed to Arthur; and when the warm soup, and the
meat floating in it, had refreshed them, signs were made to them
to lie down on a mat within an open door, and both were worn out
enough to sleep soundly.</p>
<p>It was daylight when Arthur was awakened by poor little Ulysse
sitting up and crying out for his <i>bonne</i>, his mother, and
sister, ‘Oh! take me to them,’ he cried; ‘I do
not like this dark place.’</p>
<p>For dark the room was, being windowless, though the golden
sunlight could be seen beyond the open doorway, which was under a
sort of cloister or verandah overhung by some climbing
plant. Arthur, collecting himself, reminded the child how
the waves had borne them away from the rest, with earnest
soothing promises of care, and endeavouring to get back to the
rest. ‘Say your prayers that God will take care of
you and bring you back to your sister,’ Arthur added, for
he did not think it possible that the child’s mother should
have been saved from the waves; and his heart throbbed at
thoughts of his promise to the poor lady.</p>
<p>‘But I want my <i>bonne</i>,’ sighed Ulysse;
‘I want my clothes. This is an ugly <i>robe de
nuit</i>, and there is no bed.’</p>
<p>‘Perhaps we can find your clothes,’ said
Arthur. ‘They were too wet to be kept on last
night.’</p>
<p>So they emerged into the court, which had a kind of farmyard
appearance; women with rows of coins hanging over their brows
were milking cows and goats, and there was a continuous confusion
of sound of their voices, and the lowing and bleating of
cattle. At the appearance of Arthur and the boy, there was
a general shout, and people seemed to throng in to gaze at them,
the men handsome, stately, and bearded, with white full drawers,
and a bournouse laid so as first to form a flat hood over the
head, and then belted in at the waist, with a more or less
handsome sash, into which were stuck a spoon and knife, and in
some cases one or two pistols. They did not seem
ill-disposed, though their language was perfectly
incomprehensible. Ulysse’s clothes were lying dried
by the hearth and no objection was made to his resuming
them. Arthur made gestures of washing or bathing, and was
conducted outside the court, to a little stream of pure water
descending rapidly to the sea. It was so cold that Ulysse
screamed at the touch, as Arthur, with more spectators than he
could have desired, did his best to perform their
toilettes. He had divested himself of most of his own
garments for the convenience of swimming, but his pockets were
left and a comb in them; and though poor Mademoiselle Julienne
would have been shocked at the result of his efforts, and the
little silken laced suit was sadly tarnished with sea water,
Ulysse became such an astonishing sight that the children danced
round him, the women screamed with wonder, and the men said
‘Mashallah!’ The young Scotsman’s height
was perhaps equally amazing, for he saw them pointing up to his
head as if measuring his stature.</p>
<p>He saw that he was in a village of low houses, with walls of
unhewn stone, enclosing yards, and set in the midst of
fruit-trees and gardens. Though so far on in the autumn
there was a rich luxuriant appearance; roots and fruits, corn and
flax, were laid out to dry, and girls and boys were driving the
cattle out to pasture. He could not doubt that he had
landed among a settled and not utterly uncivilised people, but he
was too spent and weary to exert himself, or even to care for
much beyond present safety; and had no sooner returned to his
former quarters, and shared with Ulysse a bowl of curds, than
they both feel asleep again in the shade of the gourd plant
trained on a trellised roof over the wall.</p>
<p>When he next awoke, Ulysse was very happily at play with some
little brown children, as if the sports of childhood defied the
curse of Babel, and a sailor from the tartane was being greeted
by the master of the house. Arthur hoped that some
communication would now be possible, but, unfortunately, the man
knew very little of the <i>lingua Franca</i> of the
Mediterranean, and Arthur knew still less. However, he made
out that he was the only one of the shipwrecked crew who had
managed to reach the land, and that this was a village of
Moors—settled agricultural Moors, not Arabs, good
Moslems—who would do him no harm. This, and he
pointed to a fine-looking elderly man, was the sheyk of the
village, Abou Ben Zegri, and if the young Giaours would conform
to the true faith all would be <i>salem</i> with them.
Arthur shook his head, and tried by word and sign to indicate his
anxiety for the rest of his companions. The sailor threw up
his hands, and pointed towards the sea, to show that he believed
them to be all lost; but Arthur insisted that five—marking
them off on his fingers—were on <i>gebal</i>, a rock, and
emphatically indicated his desire of reaching them. The
Moor returned the word ‘Cabeleyzes,’ with gestures
signifying throat-cutting and slavery, also that these present
hosts regarded them as banditti. How far off they were it
was not possible to make out, for of course Arthur’s own
sensations were no guide; but he knew that the wreck had taken
place early in the afternoon, and that he had come on shore in
the dusk, which was then at about five o’clock. There
was certainly a promontory, made by the ridge of a hill, and also
a river between him and any survivors there might be.</p>
<p>This was all that he could gather, and he was not sure of even
thus much, but he was still too much wearied and battered for any
exertion of thought or even anxiety. Three days’
tempest in a cockle-shell of a ship, and then three hours’
tossing on a plank, had left him little but the desire of repose,
and the Moors were merciful and let him alone. It was a
beautiful place—that he already knew. A Scot, and
used to the sea-coast, his eye felt at home as it ranged to the
grand heights in the dim distance, with winter caps of snow, and
shaded in the most gorgeous tints of colouring forests beneath,
slopes covered with the exquisite green of young wheat.
Autumn though it was, the orange-trees, laden with fruit, the
cork-trees, ilexes, and fan-palms, gave plenty of greenery,
shading the gardens with prickly pear hedges; and though many of
the fruit-trees had lost their leaves, fig, peach, and olive, and
mulberry, caper plants, vines with foliage of every tint of red
and purple, which were trained over the trellised courts of the
houses, made everything have a look of rural plenty and peace,
most unlike all that Arthur had ever heard or imagined of the
Moors, who, as he owned to himself, were certainly not all savage
pirates and slave-drivers. The whole within was surrounded
by a stone wall, with a deep horse-shoe-arched gateway, the
fields and pastures lying beyond with some more slightly-walled
enclosures meant for the protection of the flocks and herds at
night.</p>
<p>He saw various arts going on. One man was working in
iron over a little charcoal fire, with a boy to blow up his
bellows, and several more were busied over some pottery, while
the women alternated their grinding between two mill stones, and
other domestic cares, with spinning, weaving, and beautiful
embroidery. To Arthur, who looked on, with no one to speak
to except little Ulysse, it was strangely like seeing the life of
the Israelites in the Old Testament when they dwelt under their
own vines and fig-trees—like reading a chapter in the
Bible, as he said to himself, as again and again he saw some
allusion to Eastern customs illustrated. He was still more
struck—when, after the various herds of kine, sheep, and
goats, with one camel, several asses, and a few slender-limbed
Barbary horses had been driven in for the night—by the
sight of the population, as the sun sank behind the mountains,
all suspending whatever they were about, spreading their prayer
carpets, turning eastwards, performing their ablutions, and
uttering their brief prayer with one voice so devoutly that he
was almost struck with awe.</p>
<p>‘Are they saying their prayers?’ whispered Ulysse,
startled by the instant change in his play-fellows, and as Arthur
acquiesced, ‘Then they are good.’</p>
<p>‘If it were the true faith,’ said Arthur, thinking
of the wide difference between this little fellow and Estelle;
but though not two years younger, Ulysse was far more childish
than his sister, and when she was no longer present to lead him
with her enthusiasm, sank at once to his own level. He
opened wide his eyes at Arthur’s reply, and said, ‘I
do not see their idols.’</p>
<p>‘They have none,’ said Arthur, who could not help
thinking that Ulysse might look nearer home for idols—but
chiefly concerned at the moment to keep the child quiet, lest he
should bring danger on them by interruption.</p>
<p>They were sitting in the embowered porch of the sheyk’s
court when, a few seconds after the villagers had risen up from
their prayer, they saw a figure enter at the village gateway, and
the sheyk rise and go forward. There were low bending in
salutation, hands placed on the breast, then kisses exchanged,
after which the Sheyk Abou Ben Zegri went out with the stranger,
and great excitement and pleasure seemed to prevail among the
villagers, especially the women. Arthur heard the word
‘Yusuf’ often repeated, and by the time darkness had
fallen on the village, the sheyk ushered the guest into his
court, bringing with him a donkey with some especially precious
load—which was removed; after which the supper was served
as before in the large low apartment, with a handsomely tiled
floor, and an opening in the roof for the issue of the smoke from
the fire, which became agreeable in the evening at this
season. Before supper, however, the stranger’s feet
and hands were washed by a black slave in Eastern fashion; and
then all, as before, sat on mats or cushions round the central
bowl, each being furnished with a spoon and thin flat soft piece
of bread to dip into the mess of stewed kid, flakes of which
might be extracted with the fingers.</p>
<p>The women, who had fastened a piece of linen across their
faces, ran about and waited on the guests, who included three or
four of the principal men of the village, as well as the
stranger, who, as Arthur observed, was not of the uniform brown
of the rest, but had some colour in his cheeks, light eyes, and a
ruddy beard, and also was of a larger frame than these Moors,
who, though graceful, lithe, and exceedingly stately and
dignified, hardly reached above young Hope’s own
shoulder. Conversation was going on all the time, and
Arthur soon perceived that he was the subject of it. As
soon as the meal was over, the new-comer addressed him, to his
great joy, in French. It was the worst French
imaginable—perhaps more correctly <i>lingua Franca</i>,
with a French instead of an Arabic foundation, but it was more
comprehensible than that of the Moorish sailor, and bore some
relation to a civilised language; besides which there was
something indescribably familiar in the tone of voice, although
Arthur’s good French often missed of being
comprehended.</p>
<p>‘Son of a great man? Ambassador,
French!’ The greatness seemed impressed, but whether
ambassador was understood was another thing, though it was
accepted as relating to the boy.</p>
<p>‘Secretary to the Ambassador’ seemed to be an
equal problem. The man shook his head, but he took in
better the story of the wreck, though, like the sailor, he shook
his head over the chance of there being any survivors, and
utterly negatived the idea of joining them. The great point
that Arthur tried to convey was that there would be a very
considerable ransom if the child could be conveyed to Algiers,
and he endeavoured to persuade the stranger, who was evidently a
sort of travelling merchant, and, as he began to suspect, a
renegade, to convey them thither; but he only got shakes of the
head as answers, and something to the effect that they were a
good deal out of the Dey’s reach in those parts, together
with what he feared was an intimation that they were altogether
in the power of Sheyk Abou Ben Zegri.</p>
<p>They were interrupted by a servant of the merchant, who came
to bring him some message as well as a pipe and tobacco.
The pipe was carried by a negro boy, at sight of whom Ulysse gave
a cry of ecstasy, ‘Juba! Juba!
Grandmother’s Juba! Why do not you speak to
me?’ as the little black, no bigger than Ulysse himself,
grinned with all his white teeth, quite uncomprehending.</p>
<p>‘Ah! my poor laddie,’ exclaimed Arthur in his
native tongue, which he often used with the boy, ‘it is
only another negro. You are far enough from
home.’</p>
<p>The words had an astonishing effect on the merchant. He
turned round with the exclamation, ‘Ye’ll be frae
Scotland!’</p>
<p>‘And so are you!’ cried Arthur, holding out his
hand.</p>
<p>‘Tak tent, tak tent,’ said the merchant hastily,
yet with a certain hesitation, as though speaking a long
unfamiliar tongue. ‘The loons might jalouse our being
overfriendly thegither.’</p>
<p>Then he returned to the sheyk, to whom he seemed to be making
explanations, and presenting some of his tobacco, which probably
was of a superior quality in preparation to what was grown in the
village. They solemnly smoked together and conversed, while
Arthur watched them anxiously, relieved that he had found an
interpreter, but very doubtful whether a renegade could be a
friend, even though he were indeed a fellow-countryman.</p>
<p>It was not till several pipes had been consumed, and the
village worthies had, with considerable ceremony, taken leave,
that the merchant again spoke to Arthur. ‘I’ll
see ye the morn; I hae tell’d the sheyk we are frae the
same parts. Maybe I can serve you, if ye ken what’s
for your guid, but I canna say mair the noo.’</p>
<p>The sheyk escorted him out of the court, for he slept in one
of the two striped horse-hair tents, which had been spread within
the enclosures belonging to the village, around which were
tethered the mules and asses that carried his wares. Arthur
meanwhile arranged his little charge for the night.</p>
<p>He felt that among these enemies to their faith he must do
what was in his power to keep up that of the child, and not allow
his prayers to be neglected; but not being able to repeat the
Latin forms, and thinking them unprofitable to the boy himself,
he prompted the saying of the Creed and Lord’s Prayer in
English, and caused them to be repeated after him, though very
sleepily and imperfectly.</p>
<p>All the men of the establishment seemed to take their
night’s rest on a mat, wrapped in a bournouse, wherever
they chanced to find themselves, provided it was under shelter;
the women in some <i>penetralia</i> beyond a doorway, though they
were not otherwise secluded, and only partially veiled their
faces at sight of a stranger. Arthur had by this time made
out that the sheyk, who was a very handsome man over middle-age,
seemed to have two wives; one probably of his own age, and though
withered up into a brown old mummy, evidently the ruler at home,
wearing the most ornaments, and issuing her orders in a shrill,
cracked tone. There was a much younger and handsome one,
the mother apparently of two or three little girls from ten or
twelve years old to five, and there was a mere girl, with
beautiful melancholy gazelle-like eyes, and a baby in her
arms. She wore no ornaments, but did not seem to be classed
with the slaves who ran about at the commands of the elder
dame.</p>
<p>However, his own position was a matter of much more anxious
care, although he had more hope of discovering what it really
was.</p>
<p>He had, however, to be patient. The sunrise orisons were
no sooner paid than there was a continual resort to the tent of
the merchant, who was found sitting there calmly smoking his long
pipe, and ready to offer the like, also a cup of coffee, to all
who came to traffic with him. He seemed to have a
miscellaneous stock of coffee, tobacco, pipes, preparations of
sugar, ornaments in gold and silver, jewellery, charms, pistols,
and a host of other articles in stock, and to be ready to
purchase or barter these for the wax, embroidered handkerchiefs,
yarn, and other productions and manufactures of the place.
Not a single purchase could be made on either side without a
tremendous haggling, shouting, and gesticulating, as if the
parties were on the verge of coming to blows; whereas all was in
good fellowship, and a pleasing excitement and diversion where
time was of no value to anybody. Arthur began to despair of
ever gaining attention. He was allowed to wander about as
he pleased within the village gates, and Ulysse was apparently
quite happy with the little children, who were beautiful and
active, although kept dirty and ragged as a protection from the
evil eye.</p>
<p>Somehow the engrossing occupation of every one, especially of
the only two creatures with whom he could converse, made Arthur
more desolate than ever. He lay down under an ilex, and his
heart ached with a sick longing he had not experienced since he
had been with the Nithsdales, for his mother and his
home—the tall narrow-gabled house that had sprung up close
to the grim old peel tower, the smell of the sea, the tinkling of
the burn. He fell asleep in the heat of the day, and it was
to him as if he were once more sitting by the old shepherd on the
braeside, hearing him tell the old tales of Johnnie Armstrong or
Willie o’ the wudspurs.</p>
<p>Actually a Scottish voice was in his ears, as he looked up and
saw the turbaned head of Yusuf the merchant bending over him, and
saying—‘Wake up, my bonny laddie; we can hae our
crack in peace while these folks are taking their noonday
sleep. Awed, and where are ye frae, and how do you
ca’ yersel’?’</p>
<p>‘I am from Berwickshire,’ responded the youth, and
as the man started—‘My name is Arthur Maxwell Hope of
Burnside.’</p>
<p>‘Eh! No a son of auld Sir Davie?’</p>
<p>‘His youngest son.’</p>
<p>The man clasped his hands, and uttered a strange sound as if
in the extremity of amazement, and there was a curious
unconscious change of tone, as he said—‘Sir
Davie’s son! Ye’ll never have heard tell of
Partan Jeannie?’ he added.</p>
<p>‘A very old fishwife,’ said Arthur, ‘who
used to come her rounds to our door? Was she of kin to
you?’</p>
<p>‘My mither, sir. Mony’s the time I hae
peepit out on the cuddie’s back between the creels at the
door of the braw house of Burnside, and mony’s the bannock
and cookie the gude lady gied me. My minnie’ll no be
living thae noo,’ he added, not very tenderly.</p>
<p>‘I should fear not,’ said Arthur. ‘I
had not seen or heard of her for some time before I left home,
and that is now three years since. She looked very old
then, and I remember my mother saying she was not fit to come her
rounds.’</p>
<p>‘She wasna that auld,’ returned the merchant
gravely; ‘but she had led sic a life as falls to the lot of
nae wife in this country.’</p>
<p>Arthur had almost said, ‘Whose fault was that?’
but he durst not offend a possible protector, and softened his
words into, ‘It is strange to find you here, and a
Mohammedan too.’</p>
<p>‘Hoots, Maister Arthur, let that flea stick by the
wa’. We maun do at Rome as Rome does, as ye’ll
soon find’—and disregarding Arthur’s
exclamation—‘and the bit bairn, I thocht ye said he
was no Scot, when I was daundering awa’ at the French
yestreen.’</p>
<p>‘No, he is half-Irish, half-French, eldest son of Count
Burke, a good Jacobite, who got into trouble with the Prince of
Orange, and is high in the French service.’</p>
<p>‘And what gars your father’s son to be
<i>secretaire</i>, as ye ca’d it, to Frenchman or Irishman
either?’</p>
<p>‘Well, it was my own fault. I was foolish enough
to run away from school to join the rising for our own
King’s—’</p>
<p>‘Eh, sirs! And has there been a rising on the
Border side against the English pock puddings? Oh, gin I
had kenned it!’</p>
<p>Yusuf’s knowledge of English politics had been dim at
the best, and he had apparently left Scotland before even Queen
Anne was on the throne. When he understood Arthur’s
story, he communicated his own. He had been engaged in a
serious brawl with some English fishers, and in fear of the
consequences had fled from Eyemouth, and after casting about as a
common sailor in various merchant ships, had been captured by a
Moorish vessel, and had found it expedient to purchase his
freedom by conversion to Islam, after which his Scottish
shrewdness and thrift had resulted in his becoming a prosperous
itinerant merchant, with his headquarters at Bona. He
expressed himself willing and anxious to do all he could for his
young countryman; but it would be almost impossible to do so
unless Arthur would accept the religion of his captors; and he
explained that the two boys were the absolute property of the
tribe, who had discovered and rescued them when going to the
seashore to gather kelp for the glass work practised by the Moors
in their little furnaces.</p>
<p>‘Forsake my religion? Never!’ cried Arthur
indignantly.</p>
<p>‘Saftly, saftly,’ said Yusuf; ‘nae doot ye
trow as I did that they are a’ mere pagans and savage
heathens, worshipping Baal and Ashtaroth, but I fand myself quite
mista’en. They hae no idols, and girn at the blinded
Papists as muckle as auld Deacon Shortcoats
himsel’.’</p>
<p>‘I know that,’ threw in Arthur.</p>
<p>‘Ay, and they are a hantle mair pious and devout than
ever a body I hae seen in Eyemouth, or a’ the country side
to boot; forbye, my minnie’s auld auntie, that sat graning
by the ingle, and ay banned us when we came ben. The
meneester himsel’ dinna gae about blessing and praying over
ilka sma’ matter like the meenest of us here, and for
a’ the din they make at hame about the honorable Sabbath,
wha thinks of praying five times the day? While as for
being the waur for liquor, these folks kenna the very taste of
it. Put yon sheyk down on the wharf at Eyemouth, and what
wad he say to the Christian folk there?’</p>
<p>A shock of conviction passed over Arthur, though he tried to
lose it in indignant defence; but Yusuf did not venture to stay
any longer with him, and bidding him think over what had been
said, since slavery or Islam were the only alternatives, returned
to the tents of merchandise.</p>
<p>First thoughts with the youth had of course been of horror at
the bare idea of apostacy, and yet as he watched his Moorish
hosts, he could not but own to himself that he never had dreamt
that to be among them would be so like dwelling under the oak of
Mamre, in the tents of Abraham. From what he remembered of
Partan Jeannie’s reputation as a being only tolerated and
assisted by his mother, on account of her extreme misery and
destitution, he could believe that the ne’er-do-weel son,
who must have forsaken her before he himself was born, might have
really been raised in morality by association with the grave,
faithful, and temperate followers of Mohammed, rather than the
scum of the port of Eyemouth.</p>
<p>For himself and the boy, what did slavery mean? He hoped
to understand better from Yusuf, and at any rate to persuade the
man to become the medium of communication with the outside world,
beyond that ‘dissociable ocean,’ over which his
wistful gaze wandered. Then the ransom of the little
Chevalier de Bourke would be certain, and, if there were any
gratitude in the world, his own. But how long would this
take, and what might befall them in the meantime?</p>
<p>Ulysse all this time seemed perfectly happy with the small
Moors, who all romped together without distinction of rank, of
master, slave or colour, for Yusuf’s little negro was
freely received among them. At night, however,
Ulysse’s old home self seemed to revive; he crept back to
Arthur, tired and weary, fretting for mother, sister, and home;
and even after he had fallen asleep, waking again to cry for
Julienne. Poor Arthur, he was a rough nurse, but pity kept
him patient, and he was even glad to see that the child had not
forgotten his home.</p>
<p>Meantime, ever since the sunset prayer, there had been smoking
of pipes and drinking of coffee, and earnest discussion between
the sheyk and the merchant, and by and by Yusuf came and sat
himself down by Arthur, smiling a little at the young man’s
difficulty in disposing of those long legs upon the ground.</p>
<p>‘Ye’ll have to learn this and other things,
sir,’ said he, as he crossed his own under him, Eastern
fashion; but his demeanour was on the whole that of the fisher to
the laird’s son, and he evidently thought that he had a
grand proposal to make, for which Master Arthur ought to be
infinitely obliged.</p>
<p>He explained to Arthur that Sheyk Abou Ben Zegri had never had
more than two sons, and that both had been killed the year before
in trying to recover their cattle from the Cabeleyzes, ‘a
sort of Hieland caterans.’</p>
<p>The girl whom Arthur had noticed was the widow of the elder of
the two, and the child was only a daughter. The sheyk had
been much impressed by Arthur’s exploit in swimming or
floating round the headland and saving the child, and regarded
his height as something gigantic. Moreover, Yusuf had
asserted that he was son to a great Bey in his own country, and
in consequence Abou Ben Zegri was willing to adopt him as his
son, provided he would embrace the true faith, and marry Ayesha,
the widow.</p>
<p>‘And,’ said Yusuf, ‘these women are no that
ill for wives, as I ken owre weel’—and he
sighed. ‘I had as gude and douce a wee wifie at Bona
as heart culd wish, and twa bonny bairnies; but when I cam’
back frae my rounds, the plague had been there before me.
They were a’ gone, even Ali, that had just began to
ca’ me Ab, Ab, and I hae never had heart to gang back to
the town house. She was a gude wife—nae flying, nae
rampauging. She wad hae died wi’ shame to be likened
to thae randy wives at hame. Ye might do waur than
tak’ such a fair offer, Maister Arthur.’</p>
<p>‘You mean it all kindly,’ said Arthur, touched;
‘but for nothing—no, for nothing, can a Christian
deny his Lord, or yield up his hopes for hereafter.’</p>
<p>‘As for that,’ returned Yusuf, ‘the
meneester and Beacon Shortcoats, and my auld auntie, and the lave
of them, aye ca’ed me a vessel of destruction. That
was the best name they had for puir Tam. So what odds culd
it mak, if I took up with the Prophet, and I was ower lang leggit
to row in a galley? Forbye, here they say that a man who
prays and gies awmous, and keeps frae wine, is sicker to win to
Paradise and a’ the houris. I had rather it war my
puir Zorah than any strange houri of them a’; but any way,
I hae been a better man sin’ I took up wi’ them than
ever I was as a cursing, swearing, drunken, fechting sailor lad
wha feared neither God nor devil.’</p>
<p>‘That was scarce the fault of the Christian
faith,’ said Arthur.</p>
<p>‘Aweel, the first answer in the Shorter Carritch was
a’ they ever garred me learn, and that is what we here say
of Allah. I see no muckle to choose, and I <i>ken</i> ane
thing,—it is a hell on earth at ance gin ye gang not alang
wi’ them. And that’s sicker, as ye’ll
find to your cost, sir, gin ye be na the better
guided.’</p>
<p>‘With hope, infinite hope beyond,’ said Arthur,
trying to fortify himself. ‘No, I cannot, cannot deny
my Lord—my Lord that bought me!’</p>
<p>‘We own Issa Ben Mariam for a Prophet,’ said
Yusuf.</p>
<p>‘But He is my only Master, my Redeemer, and God.
No, come what may, I can never renounce Him,’ said Arthur
with vehemence.</p>
<p>‘Wed, awed,’ said Yusuf, ‘maybe ye’ll
see in time what’s for your gude. I’ll tell the
sheyk it would misbecome your father’s son to do sic a deed
owre lichtly, and strive to gar him wait while I am in these
parts to get your word, and nae doot it will be wiselike at the
last.’</p>
<h2>CHAPTER VII—MASTER AND SLAVE</h2>
<blockquote><p>‘I only heard the reckless waters roar,<br
/>
Those waves that would not hear me from the shore;<br />
I only marked the glorious sun and sky<br />
Too bright, too blue for my captivity,<br />
And felt that all which Freedom’s bosom cheers,<br />
Must break my chain before it dried my tears.’</p>
<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Byron</span>
(<i>The Corsair</i>).</p>
</blockquote>
<p>At the rate at which the traffic in Yusuf’s tent
proceeded, Arthur Hope was likely to have some little time for
deliberation on the question presented to him whether to be a
free Moslem sheyk or a Christian slave.</p>
<p>Not only had almost every household in El Arnieh to chaffer
with the merchant for his wares and to dispose of home-made
commodities, but from other adowaras and from hill-farms Moors
and Cabyles came in with their produce of wax, wool or silk, to
barter—if not with Yusuf, with the inhabitants of El
Arnieh, who could weave and embroider, forge cutlery, and make
glass from the raw material these supplied. Other Cabyles,
divers from the coast, came up, with coral and sponges, the
latter of which was the article in which Yusuf preferred to deal,
though nothing came amiss to him that he could carry, or that
could carry itself—such as a young foal; even the little
black boy had been taken on speculation—and so indeed had
the big Abyssinian, who, though dumb, was the most useful, ready,
and alert of his five slaves. Every bargain seemed to
occupy at least an hour, and perhaps Yusuf lingered the longer in
order to give Arthur more time for consideration; or it might be
that his native tongue, once heard, exercised an irresistible
fascination over him. He never failed to have what he
called a ‘crack’ with his young countryman at the
hour of the siesta, or at night, perhaps persuading the sheyk
that it was controversial, though it was more apt to be on
circumstances of the day’s trade or the news of the
Border-side. Controversy indeed there could be little with
one so ignorant as kirk treatment in that century was apt to
leave the outcasts of society, nor had conversion to Islam given
him much instruction in its tenets; so that the conversation
generally was on earthly topics, though it always ended in
assurances that Master Arthur would suffer for it if he did not
perceive what was for his good. To which Arthur replied to
the effect that he must suffer rather than deny his faith; and
Yusuf, declaring that a wilful man maun have his way, and that he
would rue it too late, went off affronted, but always returned to
the charge at the next opportunity.</p>
<p>Meantime Arthur was free to wander about unmolested and pick
up the language, in which, however, Ulysse made far more rapid
progress, and could be heard chattering away as fast, if not as
correctly, as if it were French or English. The delicious
climate and the open-air life were filling the little fellow with
a strength and vigour unknown to him in a Parisian salon, and he
was in the highest spirits among his brown playfellows, ceasing
to pine for his mother and sister; and though he still came to
Arthur for the night, or in any trouble, it was more and more
difficult to get him to submit to be washed and dressed in his
tight European clothes, or to say his prayers. He was
always sleepy at night and volatile in the morning, and could not
be got to listen to the little instructions with which Arthur
tried to arm him against Mohammedanism into which the poor little
fellow was likely to drift as ignorantly and unconsciously as
Yusuf himself.</p>
<p>And what was the alternative? Arthur himself never
wavered, nor indeed actually felt that he had a choice; but the
prospect before him was gloomy, and Yusuf did not soften
it. The sheyk would sell him, and he would either be made
to work in some mountain-farm, or put on board a galley; and
Yusuf had sufficient experience of the horrors of the latter to
assure him emphatically that the gude leddy of Burnside would
break her heart to think of her bonny laddie there.</p>
<p>‘It would more surely break her heart to think of her
son giving up his faith,’ returned Arthur.</p>
<p>As to the child, the opinion of the tribe seemed to be that he
was just fit to be sent to the Sultan to be bred as a
Janissary. ‘He will come that gate to be as great a
man as in his ain countree,’ said Yusuf; ‘wi’
horse to ride, and sword to bear, and braws to wear, like King
Solomon in all his glory.’</p>
<p>‘While his father and mother would far rather he were
lying dead with her under the waves in that cruel bay,’
returned Arthur.</p>
<p>‘Hout, mon, ye dinna ken what’s for his gude, nor
for your ain neither,’ retorted Yusuf.</p>
<p>‘Good here is not good hereafter.’</p>
<p>‘The life of a dog and waur here,’ muttered Yusuf;
‘ye’ll mind me when it is too late.’</p>
<p>‘Nay, Yusuf, if you will only take word of our condition
to Algiers, we shall—at least the boy—be assuredly
redeemed, and you would win a high reward.’</p>
<p>‘I am no free to gang to Algiers,’ said
Yusuf. ‘I fell out with a loon there, one of those
Janissaries that gang hectoring aboot as though the world were
not gude enough for them, and if I hadna made the best of my way
out of the toon, my pow wad be a worricow on the wa’s of
the tower.’</p>
<p>‘There are French at Bona, you say. Remember, I
ask you to put yourself in no danger, only to bear the tidings to
any European,’ entreated Arthur.</p>
<p>‘And how are they to find ye?’ demanded
Yusuf. ‘Abou Ben Zegri will never keep you here after
having evened his gude-daughter to ye. He’ll sell you
to some corsair captain, and then the best that could betide ye
wad be that a shot frae the Knights of Malta should make quick
work wi’ ye. Or look at the dumbie there,
Fareek. A Christian, he ca’s himsel’, too,
though ’tis of a by ordinar’ fashion, such as Deacon
Shortcoats would scarce own. I coft him dog cheap at Tunis,
when his master, the Vizier, had had his tongue cut out—for
but knowing o’ some deed that suld ne’er have been
done—and his puir feet bastinadoed to a jelly. Gin
a’ the siller in the Dey’s treasury ransomed ye, what
gude would it do ye after that?’</p>
<p>‘I cannot help that—I cannot forsake my God.
I must trust Him not to forsake me.’</p>
<p>And, as usual, Yusuf went off angrily muttering, ‘He
that will to Cupar maun to Cupar.’</p>
<p>Perhaps Arthur’s resistance had begun more for the sake
of honour, and instinctive clinging to hereditary faith, without
the sense of heroism or enthusiasm for martyrdom which sustained
Estelle, and rather with the feeling that inconstancy to his
faith and his Lord would be base and disloyal. But, as the
long days rolled on, if the future of toil and dreary misery
developed itself before him, the sense of personal love and aid
towards the Lord and Master whom he served grew upon him.
Neither the gazelle-eyed Ayesha nor the prosperous village life
presented any great temptation. He would have given them
all for one bleak day of mist on a Border moss; it was the
appalling contrast with the hold of a Moorish galley that at
times startled him, together with the only too great probability
that he should be utterly incapable of saving poor little Ulysse
from unconscious apostacy.</p>
<p>Once Yusuf observed, that if he would only make outward
submission to Moslem law, he might retain his own belief and
trust in the Lord he seemed so much to love, and of whom he said
more good than any Moslem did of the Prophet.</p>
<p>‘If I deny Him, He will deny me,’ said Arthur.</p>
<p>‘And will na He forgive ane as is hard pressed?’
asked Yusuf.</p>
<p>‘It is a very different thing to go against the light,
as I should be doing,’ said Arthur, ‘and what it
might be for that poor bairn, whom Cod preserve.’</p>
<p>‘And wow! sir. ’Tis far different wi’
you that had the best of gude learning frae the gude
leddy,’ muttered Yusuf. ‘My minnie aye needit
me to sort the fish and gang her errands, and wad scarce hae sent
me to scule, gin I wad hae gane where they girned at me for
Partan Jeannie’s wean, and gied me mair o’ the tawse
than of the hornbook. Gin the Lord, as ye ca’ Him,
had ever seemed to me what ye say He is to you, Maister Arthur, I
micht hae thocht twice o’er the matter. But
there’s nae ganging back the noo. A Christian’s
life they harm na, though they mak’ it a mere weariness to
him; but for him that quits the Prophet, tearing the flesh
wi’ iron cleeks is the best they hae for him.’</p>
<p>This time Yusuf retreated, not as usual in anger, but as if
the bare idea he had broached was too terrible to be dwelt
upon. He had by the end of a fortnight completed all his
business at El Arnieh, and Arthur, having by this time picked up
enough of the language to make himself comprehensible, and to
know fully what was set before him, was called upon to make his
decision, so that either he might be admitted by regular ritual
into the Moslem faith, and adopted by the sheyk, or else be
advertised by Yusuf at the next town as a strong young slave.</p>
<p>Sitting in the gate among the village magnates, like an elder
of old, Sheyk Abou Ben Zegri, with considerable grace and
dignity, set the choice before the Son of the Sea in most
affectionate terms, asking of him to become the child of his old
age, and to heal the breach left by the swords of the robbers of
the mountains.</p>
<p>The old man’s fine dark eyes filled with tears, and
there was a pathos in his noble manner that made Arthur greatly
grieved to disappoint him, and sorry not to have sufficient
knowledge of the language to qualify more graciously the resolute
reply he had so often rehearsed to himself, expressing his hearty
thanks, but declaring that nothing could induce him to forsake
the religion of his fathers.</p>
<p>‘Wilt thou remain a dog of an unbeliever, and receive
the treatment of dogs?’</p>
<p>‘I must,’ said Arthur.</p>
<p>‘The youth is a goodly youth,’ said the sheyk;
‘it is ill that his heart is blind. Once again, young
man, Issa Ben Mariam and slavery, or Mohammed and
freedom?’</p>
<p>‘I cannot deny my Lord Christ.’</p>
<p>There was a pause. Arthur stood upright, with lips
compressed, hands clasped together, while the sheyk and his
companions seemed struck by his courage and high spirit.
Then one of them—a small, ugly fellow, who had some
pretensions to be considered the sheyk’s next
heir—cried, ‘Out on the infidel dog!’ and set
the example of throwing a handful of dust at him. The crowd
who watched around were not slow to follow the example, and
Arthur thought he was actually being stoned; but the missiles
were for the most part not harmful, only disgusting, blinding,
and confusing. There was a tremendous hubbub of
vituperation, and he was at last actually stunned by a blow,
waking to find himself alone, and with hands and feet bound, in a
dirty little shed appropriated to camels. Should he ever be
allowed to see poor little Ulysse again, or to speak to Yusuf, in
whom lay their only faint hope of redemption? He was
helpless, and the boy was at the mercy of the Moors. Was he
utterly forsaken?</p>
<p>It was growing late in the day, and he had had no food for
many hours. Was he to be neglected and starved? At
last he heard steps approaching, and the door was opened by the
man who had led the assault on him, who addressed him as
‘Son of an old ass—dog of a slave,’ bade him
stand up and show his height, at the same time cutting the cords
that bound him. It was an additional pang that it was to
Yusuf that he was thus to exhibit himself, no doubt in order that
the merchant should carry a description of him to some likely
purchaser. He could not comprehend the words that passed,
but it was very bitter to be handled like a horse at a
fair—doubly so that he, a Hope of Burnside, should thus be
treated by Partan Jeannie’s son.</p>
<p>There ensued outside the shrieking and roaring which always
accompanied a bargain, and which lasted two full hours.
Finally Yusuf looked into the hut, and roughly said in Arabic,
‘Come over to me, dog; thou art mine. Kiss the shoe
of thy master’—adding in his native tongue,
‘For ance, sir. It maun be done before these
loons.’</p>
<p>Certainly the ceremony would have been felt as less
humiliating towards almost anybody else, but Arthur endured it;
and then was led away to the tents beyond the gate.</p>
<p>‘There, sir,’ said Yusuf, ‘it ill sorts your
father’s son to be in sic a case, but it canna be
helpit. I culd na leave behind the bonny Scots tongue, let
alane the gude Leddy Hope’s son.’</p>
<p>‘You have been very good to me, Yusuf,’ said
Arthur, his pride much softened by the merchant’s evident
sense of the situation. ‘I know you mean me well, but
the boy—’</p>
<p>‘Hoots! the bairn is happy eno’. He will
come to higher preferment than even you or I. Why, mon, an
Aga of the Janissaries is as good as the Deuk
himsel’.’</p>
<p>‘Yusuf, I am very grateful—I believe you must have
paid heavily to spare me from ill usage.’</p>
<p>‘Ye may say that, sir. Forty piastres of Tunis,
and eight mules, and twa pair of silver-mounted pistols.
The extortionate rogue wad hae had the little dagger, but I stood
out against that.’</p>
<p>‘I see, I am deeply beholden,’ said Arthur;
‘but it would be tenfold better if you would take him
instead of me!’</p>
<p>‘What for suld I do that? He is nae countryman of
mine—one side French and the other Irish. He is
naught to me.’</p>
<p>‘He is heir to a noble house,’ waged Arthur.
‘They will reward you amply for saving him.’</p>
<p>‘Mair like to girn at me for a Moor. Na, na!
Hae na I dune enough for ye, Maister Arthur—giving half my
beasties, and more than half my silver? Canna ye be content
without that whining bairn?’</p>
<p>‘I should be a forsworn man to be content to leave the
child, whose dead mother prayed me to protect him, and those who
will turn him from her faith. See, now, I am a man, and can
guard myself, by the grace of God; but to leave the poor child
here would be letting these men work their will on him ere any
ransom could come. His mother would deem it giving him up
to perdition. Let me remain here, and take the helpless
child. You know how to bargain. His price might be my
ransom.’</p>
<p>‘Ay, when the jackals and hyenas have picked your banes,
or you have died under the lash, chained to the oar, as I hae
seen, Maister Arthur.’</p>
<p>‘Better so than betray the dead woman’s
trust. How no—’</p>
<p>For there was a pattering of feet, a cry of ‘Arthur,
Arthur!’ and sobbing, screaming, and crying, Ulysse threw
himself on his friend’s breast. He was pursued by one
or two of the hangers-on of the sheyk’s household, and the
first comer seized him by the arm; but he clung to Arthur,
screamed and kicked, and the old nurse who had come hobbling
after coaxed in vain. He cried out in a mixture of Arabic
and French that he <i>would</i> sleep with Arthur—Arthur
must put him to bed; no one should take him away.</p>
<p>‘Let him stay,’ responded Yusuf; ‘his time
will come soon enough.’</p>
<p>Indulgence to children was the rule, and there was an easy
good-nature about the race, which made them ready to defer the
storm, and acquiesce in the poor little fellow remaining for
another evening with that last remnant of his home to whom he
always reverted at nightfall.</p>
<p>He held trembling by Arthur till all were gone, then looked
about in terror, and required to be assured that no one was
coming to take him away.</p>
<p>‘They shall not,’ he cried. ‘Arthur,
you will not leave me alone? They are all gone—Mamma,
and Estelle, and <i>la bonne</i>, and Laurent, and my uncle, and
all, and you will not go.’</p>
<p>‘Not now, not to-night, my dear little mannie,’
said Arthur, tears in his eyes for the first time throughout
these misfortunes.</p>
<p>‘Not now! No, never!’ said the boy hugging
him almost to choking. ‘That naughty Ben Kader said
they had sold you for a slave, and you were going away; but I
knew I should find you—you are not a slave!—you are
not black—’</p>
<p>‘Ah! Ulysse, it is too true; I
am—’</p>
<p>‘No! no! no!’ the child stamped, and hung on him
in a passion of tears. ‘You shall not be a
slave. My papa shall come with his soldiers and set you
free.’</p>
<p>Altogether the boy’s vehemence, agitation, and terror
were such that Arthur found it impossible to do anything but
soothe and hush him, as best might be, till his sobs subsided
gradually, still heaving his little chest even after he fell
asleep in the arms of his unaccustomed nurse, who found himself
thus baffled in using this last and only opportunity of trying to
strengthen the child’s faith, and was also hindered from
pursuing Yusuf, who had left the tent. And if it were
separation that caused all this distress, what likelihood that
Yusuf would encumber himself with a child who had shown such
powers of wailing and screaming?</p>
<p>He durst not stir nor speak for fear of wakening the boy, even
when Yusuf returned and stretched himself on his mat, drawing a
thick woollen cloth over him, for the nights were chill.
Long did Arthur lie awake under the strange sense of slavery and
helplessness, and utter uncertainty as to his fate, expecting, in
fact, that Yusuf meant to keep him as a sort of tame animal to
talk Scotch; but hoping to work on him in time to favour an
escape, and at any rate to despatch a letter to Algiers, as a
forlorn hope for the ultimate redemption of the poor little
unconscious child who lay warm and heavy across his breast.
Certainly, Arthur had never so prayed for aid, light, and
deliverance as now!</p>
<h2>CHAPTER VIII—THE SEARCH</h2>
<blockquote><p>‘The lights begin to twinkle from the
rocks,<br />
The long day wanes, the slow moon climbs. The deep<br />
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.’</p>
<p style="text-align: right"><span
class="smcap">Tennyson</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Arthur fell asleep at last, and did not waken till after
sunrise, nor did Ulysse, who must have been exhausted with crying
and struggling. When they did awaken, Arthur thinking with
heavy heart that the moment of parting was come, he saw indeed
the other three slaves busied in making bales of the merchandise;
but the master, as well as the Abyssinian, Fareek, and the little
negro were all missing. Bekir, who was a kind of foreman,
and looked on the new white slave with some jealousy, roughly
pointed to some coarse food, and in reply to the question whether
the merchant was taking leave of the sheyk, intimated that it was
no business of theirs, and assumed authority to make his new
fellow-slave assist in the hardest of the packing.</p>
<p>Arthur had no heart to resist, much as it galled him to be
ordered about by this rude fellow. It was only a taste, as
he well knew, of what he had embraced, and he was touched by poor
little Ulysse’s persistency in keeping as close as
possible, though his playfellows came down and tried first to
lure, then to drag him away, and finally remained to watch the
process of packing up. Though Bekir was too disdainful to
reply to his fellow-slave’s questions, Arthur picked up
from answers to the Moors who came down that Yusuf had
recollected that he had not finished his transactions with a
little village of Cabyle coral and sponge-fishers on the coast,
and had gone down thither, taking the little negro, to whom the
headman seemed to have taken a fancy, so as to become a possible
purchaser, and with the Abyssinian to attend to the mules.</p>
<p>A little before sundown Yusuf returned. Fareek lifted
down a pannier covered by a crimson and yellow kerchief, and
Yusuf declared, with much apparent annoyance, that the child was
sick, and that this had frustrated the sale. He was asleep,
must be carried into the tent, and not disturbed: for though the
Cabyles had not purchased him, there was no affording to loose
anything of so much value. Moreover, observing Ulysse still
hovering round the Scot, he said, ‘You may bide here the
night, laddie, I ha tell’t the sheyk;’ and he
repeated the same to the slaves in Arabic, dismissing them to
hold a parting feast on a lamb stuffed with pistachio nuts,
together with their village friends.</p>
<p>Then drawing near to Arthur, he said, ‘Can ye gar yon
wean keep a quiet sough, if we make him pass for the little
black?’</p>
<p>Arthur started with joy, and stammered some words of intense
relief and gratitude.</p>
<p>‘The deed’s no dune yet,’ said Yusuf,
‘and it is ower like to end in our leaving a’ our
banes on the sands! But a wilfu’ man maun have his
way,’ he repeated; ‘so, sir, if it be your wull,
ye’d better speak to the bairn, for we must make a
blackamoor of him while there is licht to do it, or Bekir, whom I
dinna lippen to, comes back frae the feast.’</p>
<p>Ulysse, being used to Irish-English, had little understanding
of Yusuf’s broad Scotch; but he was looking anxiously from
one to the other of the speakers, and when Arthur explained to
him that the disguise, together with perfect silence, was the
only hope of not being left behind among the Moors, and the best
chance of getting back to his home and dear ones again, he
perfectly understood. As to the blackening, for which Yusuf
had prepared a mixture to be laid on with a feather, it was
perfectly enchanting to <i>faire la comedie</i>. He laughed
so much that he had to be peremptorily hushed, and they were
sensible of the danger that in case of a search he might betray
himself to his Moorish friends; and Arthur tried to make him
comprehend the extreme danger, making him cry so that his cheeks
had to be touched up. His eyes and hair were dark, and the
latter was cut to its shortest by Yusuf, who further managed to
fasten some tufts of wool dipped in the black unguent to the
kerchief that bound his head. The childish features had
something of the Irish cast, which lent itself to the
transformation, and in the scanty garments of the little negro
Arthur owned that he should never have known the small French
gentleman. Arthur was full of joy—Yusuf gruff, brief,
anxious, like one acting under some compulsion most unwillingly,
and even despondently, but apparently constrained by a certain
instinctive feudal feeling, which made him follow the desires of
the young Border laird’s son.</p>
<p>All had been packed beforehand, and there was nothing to be
done but to strike the tents, saddle the mules, and start.
Ulysse, still very sleepy, was lifted into the pannier, almost at
the first streak of dawn, while the slaves were grumbling at
being so early called up; and to a Moor who wakened up and
offered to take charge of the little Bey, Yusuf replied that the
child had been left in the sheyk’s house.</p>
<p>So they were safely out at the outer gate, and proceeding
along a beautiful path leading above the cliffs. The mules
kept in one long string, Bekir with the foremost, which was thus
at some distance from the hindmost, which carried Ulysse and was
attended by Arthur, while the master rode his own animals and
gave directions. The fiction of illness was kept up, and
when the bright eyes looked up in too lively a manner, Yusuf
produced some of the sweets, which were always part of his stock
in trade, as a bribe to quietness.</p>
<p>At sunrise, the halt for prayer was a trial to Arthur’s
intense anxiety, and far more so was the noontide one for
sleep. He even ventured a remonstrance, but was answered,
‘Mair haste, worse speed. Our lives are no worth a
boddle till the search is over.’</p>
<p>They were on the shady side of a great rock overhung by a
beautiful creeping plant, and with a spring near at hand, and
Yusuf, in leisurely fashion, squatted down, caused Arthur to lift
out the child, who was fast asleep again, and the mules to be
allowed to feed, and distributed some dried goat’s flesh
and dates; but Ulysse, somewhat to Arthur’s alarm, did not
wake sufficiently to partake.</p>
<p>Looking up in alarm, he met a sign from Yusuf and presently a
whisper, ‘No hurt done—’tis safer
thus—’</p>
<p>And by this time there were alarming sounds on the air.
The sheyk and two of the chief men of El Arnieh were on horseback
and armed with matchlocks; and the whole ‘<i>posse</i> of
the village were following on foot, with yells and vituperations
of the entire ancestry of the merchant, and far more complicated
and furious threats than Arthur could follow; but he saw Yusuf go
forward to meet them with the utmost cool courtesy.</p>
<p>They seemed somewhat discomposed: Yusuf appeared to condole
with them on the loss, and, waving his hands, put all his baggage
at their service for a search, letting them run spears through
the bales, and overturn the baskets of sponges, and search behind
every rock. When they approached the sleeping boy, Arthur,
with throbbing heart, dimly comprehended that Yusuf was repeating
the story of the disappointment of a purchase caused by his
illness, and lifting for a moment the covering laid over him to
show the bare black legs and arms. There might also have
been some hint of infection which, in spite of all Moslem belief
in fate, deterred Abou Ben Zegri from an over-close
inspection. Yusuf further invented a story of having put
the little Frank in charge of a Moorish woman in the adowara; but
added he was so much attached to the Son of the Sea, that most
likely he had wandered out in search of him, and the only wise
course would be to seek him before he was devoured by any of the
wild beasts near home.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, there was a courteous and leisurely smoking of
pipes and drinking of coffee before the sheyk and his followers
turned homewards. To Arthur’s alarm and surprise,
however, Yusuf did not resume the journey, but told Bekir that
there would hardly be a better halting-place within their powers,
as the sun was already some way on his downward course; and
besides, it would take some time to repack the goods which had
been cast about in every direction during the search. The
days were at their shortest, though that was not very short,
closing in at about five o’clock, so that there was not
much time to spare. Arthur began to feel some alarm at the
continued drowsiness of the little boy, who only once muttered
something, turned round, and slept again.</p>
<p>‘What have you done to him?’ asked Arthur
anxiously.</p>
<p>‘The poppy,’ responded Yusuf. ‘Never
fash yoursel’. The bairn willna be a hair the waur,
and ’tis better so than that he shuld rax a’ our
craigs.’</p>
<p>Yusuf’s peril was so much the greater, that it was
impossible to object to any of his precautions, especially as he
might take offence and throw the whole matter over; but it was
impossible not to chafe secretly at the delay, which seemed
incomprehensible. Indeed, the merchant was avoiding private
communication with Arthur, only assuming the master, and ordering
about in a peremptory fashion which it was very hard to
digest.</p>
<p>After the sunset orisons had been performed, Yusuf regaled his
slaves with a donation of coffee and tobacco, but with a warning
to Arthur not to partake, and to keep to windward of them.
So too did the Abyssinian, and the cause of the warning was soon
evident, as Bekir and his companion nodded, and then sank into a
slumber as sound as that of the little Frenchman. Indeed,
Arthur himself was weary enough to fall asleep soon after
sundown, in spite of his anxiety, and the stars were shining like
great lamps when Yusuf awoke him. One mule stood equipped
beside him, and held by the Abyssinian. Yusuf pointed to
the child, and said, ‘Lift him upon it.’</p>
<p>Arthur obeyed, finding a pannier empty on one side to receive
the child, who only muttered and writhed instead of
awaking. The other side seemed laden. Yusuf led the
animal, retracing their way, while fire-flies flitted around with
their green lights, and the distant laughter of hyenas gave
Arthur a thrill of loathing horror. Huge bats fluttered
round, and once or twice grim shapes crossed their path.</p>
<p>‘Uncanny beasties,’ quoth Yusuf; ‘but they
will soon be behind us.’</p>
<p>He turned into a rapidly-sloping path. Arthur felt a
fresh salt breeze in his face, and his heart leapt up with
hope.</p>
<p>In about an hour and a half they had reached a cove, shut in
by dark rocks which in the night looked immeasurable, but on the
white beach a few little huts were dimly discernible, one with a
light in it. The sluggish dash of waves could be heard on
the shore; there was a sense of infinite space and breadth before
them; and Jupiter sitting in the north-west was like an enormous
lamp, casting a pathway of light shimmering on the waters to lead
the exiles home.</p>
<p>Three or four boats were drawn up on the beach; a man rose up
from within one, and words in a low voice were exchanged between
him and Yusuf; while Fareek, grinning so that his white teeth
could be seen in the starlight, unloaded the mule, placing its
packs, a long Turkish blunderbuss, and two skins of water, in the
boat, and arranging a mat on which Arthur could lay the sleeping
child.</p>
<p>Well might the youth’s heart bound with gratitude, as,
unmindful of all the further risks and uncertainties to be
encountered, he almost saw his way back to Burnside!</p>
<h2>CHAPTER IX—ESCAPE</h2>
<blockquote><p>‘Beside the helm he sat, steering expert,<br
/>
Nor sleep fell ever on his eyes that watch’d<br />
Intent the Pleiads, tardy in decline,<br />
Bootes and the Bear, call’d else the Wain,<br />
Which in his polar prison circling, looks<br />
Direct towards Orion, and alone<br />
Of these sinks never to the briny deep.’</p>
<p style="text-align: right"><i>Odyssey</i> (<span
class="smcap">Cowper</span>).</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The boat was pushed off, the Abyssinian leapt into it; Arthur
paused to pour out his thankfulness to Yusuf, but was met with
the reply, ‘Hout awa’! Time enugh for
that—in wi’ ye.’ And fancying there was
some alarm, he sprang in, and to his amazement found Yusuf
instantly at his side, taking the rudder, and giving some order
to Fareek, who had taken possession of a pair of oars; while the
waters seemed to flash and glitter a welcome at every dip.</p>
<p>‘You are coming! you are coming!’ exclaimed
Arthur, clasping the merchant’s hand, almost beside himself
with joy.</p>
<p>‘Sma’ hope wad there be of a callant like
yersel’ and the wean there winning awa’ by yer
lane,’ growled Yusuf.</p>
<p>‘You have given up all for us.’</p>
<p>‘There wasna muckle to gie,’ returned the sponge
merchant. ‘Sin’ the gudewife and her bit
bairnies at Bona were gane, I hadna the heart to gang
thereawa’, nor quit the sound o’ the bonny Scots
tongue. I wad as soon gang to the bottom as to the toom
house. For dinna ye trow yersells ower sicker e’en
the noo.’</p>
<p>‘Is there fear of pursuit?’</p>
<p>‘No mickle o’ that. The folk here are what
they ca’ Cabyles, a douce set, not forgathering with Arabs
nor wi’ Moors. I wad na gang among them till the
search was over to-day; but yesterday I saw yon carle, and coft
the boatie frae him for the wee blackamoor and the mule.
The Moors at El Aziz are not seafaring; and gin the morn they
jalouse what we have done, we have the start of them. Na,
I’m not feared for them; but forbye that, this is no the
season for an open boatie wi’ a crew of three and a
wean. Gin we met an Algerian or Tunisian cruiser, as we are
maist like to do, a bullet or drooning wad be ower gude in their
e’en for us—for me, that is to say. They wad
spare the bairn, and may think you too likely a lad to hang on
the walls like a split corbie on the woodsman’s
lodge.’</p>
<p>‘Well, Yusuf, my name is Hope, you know,’ said
Arthur. ‘God has brought us so far, and will scarce
leave us now. I feel three times the man that I was when I
lay down this evening. Do we keep to the north, where we
are sure to come to a Christian land in time?’</p>
<p>‘Easier said than done. Ye little ken what the
currents are in this same sea, or deed ye’ll soon ken when
we get into them.’</p>
<p>Arthur satisfied himself that they were making for the north
by looking at the Pole Star, so much lower than he was used to
see it in Scotland that he hardly recognised his old friend; but,
as he watched the studded belt of the Hunter and the glittering
Pleiades, the Horatian dread of <i>Nimbosus Orion</i> occurred to
him as a thought to be put away.</p>
<p>Meantime there was a breeze from the land, and the sail was
hoisted. Yusuf bade both Arthur and Fareek lie down to
sleep, for their exertions would be wanted by and by, since it
would not be safe to use the sail by daylight. It was very
cold—wild blasts coming down from the mountains; but Arthur
crept under the woollen mantle that had been laid over Ulysse,
and was weary enough to sleep soundly. Both were awakened
by the hauling down of the mast; and the little boy, who had
quite slept off the drug, scrambling out from under the covering,
was astonished beyond measure at finding himself between the
glittering, sparkling expanse of sea and the sky, where the sun
had just leapt up in a blaze of gold.</p>
<p>The white summits of Atlas were tipped with rosy light,
beautiful to behold, though the voyagers had much rather have
been out of sight of them.</p>
<p>‘How much have we made, Yusuf?’ began Arthur.</p>
<p>‘Tam Armstrong, so please you, sir! Yusuf’s
dead and buried the noo; and if I were farther beyant the grip of
them that kenned him, my thrapple would feel all the
sounder!’</p>
<p>This day was, he further explained, the most perilous one,
since they were by no means beyond the track of vessels plying on
the coast; and as a very jagged and broken cluster of rocks lay
near, he decided on availing themselves of the shelter they
afforded. The boat was steered into a narrow channel
between two which stood up like the fangs of a great tooth, and
afforded a pleasant shade; but there was such a screaming and
calling of gulls, terns, cormorants, and all manner of other
birds, as they entered the little strait, and such a cloud of
them hovered and whirled overhead, that Tam uttered imprecations
on their skirling, and bade his companions lie close and keep
quiet till they had settled again, lest the commotion should
betray that the rocks were the lair of fugitives.</p>
<p>It was not easy to keep Ulysse quiet, for he was in raptures
at the rush of winged creatures, and no less so at the wonderful
sea-anemones and starfish in the pools, where long streamers of
weed of beautiful colours floated on the limpid water.</p>
<p>Nothing reduced him to stillness but the sight of the dried
goat’s flesh and dates that Tam Armstrong produced, and for
which all had appetites, which had to be checked, since no one
could tell how long it would be before any kind of haven could be
reached.</p>
<p>Arthur bathed himself and his charge in a pool, after Tam had
ascertained that no many-armed squid or cuttlefish lurked within
it. And while Ulysse disported himself like a little fish,
Arthur did his best to restore him to his natural complexion, and
tried to cleanse the little garments, which showed only too
plainly the lack of any change, and which were the only Frank or
Christian clothes among them, since young Hope himself had been
almost stripped when he came ashore, and wore the usual garb of
Yusuf’s slaves.</p>
<p>Presently Fareek made an imperative sign to hush the
child’s merry tongue; and peering forth in intense anxiety,
the others perceived a lateen sail passing perilously near, but
happily keeping aloof from the sharp reef of rocks around their
shelter. Arthur had forgotten the child’s prayers and
his own, but Ulysse connected them with dressing, and the alarm
of the passing ship had recalled them to the young man’s
mind, though he felt shy as he found that Tam Armstrong was not
asleep, but was listening and watching with his keen gray eyes
under their grizzled brows. Presently, when Ulysse was
dropping to sleep again, the ex-merchant began to ask questions
with the intelligence of his shrewd Scottish brains.</p>
<p>The stern Calvinism of the North was wont to consign to utter
neglect the outcast border of civilisation, where there were no
decent parents to pledge themselves; and Partan Jeannie’s
son had grown up well-nigh in heathen ignorance among fisher lads
and merchant sailors, till it had been left for him to learn
among the Mohammedans both temperance and devotional
habits. His whole faith and understanding would have been
satisfied for ever; but there had been strange yearnings within
him ever since he had lost his wife and children, and these had
not passed away when Arthur Hope came in his path. Like
many another renegade, he could not withstand the attraction of
his native tongue; and in this case it was doubled by the feudal
attachment of the district to the family of Burnside, and a
grateful remembrance of the lady who had been one of the very few
persons who had ever done a kindly deed by the little
outcast. He had broken with all his Moslem ties for Arthur
Hope’s sake; and these being left behind, he began to make
some inquiries about that Christian faith to which he must needs
return—if return be the right word in the case of one who
knew it so little when he had abjured it.</p>
<p>And Arthur had not been bred to the grim reading of the
doctrine of predestination which had condemned poor Tam, even
before he had embraced the faith of the Prophet. Boyish,
and not over thoughtful, the youth, when brought face to face
with apostacy, had been ready to give life or liberty rather than
deny his Lord; and deepened by that great decision, he could hold
up that Lord and Redeemer in colours that made Tam see that his
clinging to his faith was not out of mere honour and constancy,
but that Mohammed had been a poor and wretched substitute for Him
whom the poor fellow had denied, not knowing what he did.</p>
<p>‘Weel!’ he said, ‘gin the Deacon and the
auld aunties had tellt me as mickle about Him, thae Moors might
ha’ preached their thrapples sair for Tam.
Mashallah! Maister Arthur, do ye think, noo, He can forgie
a puir carle for turning frae Him an’ disowning
Him?’</p>
<p>‘I am sure of it, Tam. He forgives all who come to
Him—and you—you did it in ignorance.’</p>
<p>‘And you trow na that I am a vessel of wrath, as they
aye said?’</p>
<p>‘No, no, no, Tam. How could that be with one who
has done what you have for us? There is good in
you—noble goodness, Tam; and who could have put it there
but God, the Holy Spirit? I believe myself He was leading
you all the time, though you did not know it; making you a better
man first, and now, through this brave kindness to us, bringing
you back to be a real true Christian and know Him.’</p>
<p>Arthur felt as if something put the words into his mouth, but
he felt them with all his heart, and the tears were in his
eyes.</p>
<p>At sundown Tam grew restless. Force of habit impelled
him to turn to Mecca and make his devotions as usual, and after
nearly kneeling down on the flat stone, he turned to Arthur and
said, ‘I canna wed do without the bit prayer, sir.</p>
<p>‘No, indeed, Tam. Only let it be in the right
Name.’</p>
<p>And Arthur knelt down beside him and said the Lord’s
Prayer—then, under a spell of bashfulness, muttered special
entreaty for protection and safety.</p>
<p>They were to embark again now that darkness would veil their
movements, but the wind blew so much from the north that they
could not raise the sail. The oars were taken by Tam and
Fareek at first, but when they came into difficult currents
Arthur changed places with the former.</p>
<p>And thus the hours passed. The Mediterranean may be in
our eyes a European lake, but it was quite large enough to be a
desert of sea and sky to the little crew of an open boat, even
though they were favoured by the weather. Otherwise,
indeed, they must have perished in the first storm. They
durst not sail except by night, and then only with northerly
winds, nor could there be much rest, since they could not lay to,
and drift with the currents, lest they should be carried back to
the African coast. Only one of the three men could sleep at
a time, and that by one of the others taking both oars, and in
time this could not but become very exhausting. It was true
that all the coasts to the north were of Christian lands; but in
their Moorish garments and in perfect ignorance of Italian,
strangers might fare no better in Sardinia or Sicily than in
Africa, and Spain might be no better; but Tam endeavoured to keep
a north-westerly course, thinking from what Arthur had said that
in this direction there was more chance of being picked up by a
French vessel. Would their strength and provisions hold
out? Of this there was serious doubt. Late in the
year as it was, the heat and glare were as distressing by day as
was the cold by night, and the continued exertion of rowing
produced thirst, which made it very difficult to husband the
water in the skins. Tam and Fareek were both tough, and
inured to heat and privation; but Arthur, scarce yet come to his
full height, and far from having attained proportionate
robustness and muscular strength, could not help flagging,
though, whenever steering was of minor importance, Tam gave him
the rudder, moved by his wan looks, for he never complained, even
when fragments of dry goat’s flesh almost choked his
parched mouth. The boy was never allowed to want for
anything save water; but it was very hard to hear him fretting
for it. Tam took the goatskin into his own keeping, and
more than once uttered a rough reproof, and yet Arthur saw him
give the child half his own precious ration when it must have
involved grievous suffering. The promise about giving the
cup of cold water to a little one could not but rise to his
lips.</p>
<p>‘Cauld! and I wish it were cauld!’ was all the
response Tam made; but his face showed some gratification.</p>
<p>This was no season for traffic, and they had barely seen a
sail or two in the distance, and these only such as the
experienced eyes of the ex-sponge merchant held to be
dangerous. Deadly lassitude began to seize the young Scot;
he began scarcely to heed what was to become of them, and had not
energy to try to console Ulysse, who, having in an unwatched
moment managed to swallow some sea water, was crying and wailing
under the additional misery he had inflicted on himself.
The sun beat down with noontide force, when on that fourth day,
turning from its scorching, his languid eye espied a sail on the
northern horizon.</p>
<p>‘See,’ he cried; ‘that is not the way of the
Moors.’</p>
<p>‘Bismillah! I beg your pardon, sir,’ cried
Tam, but said no more, only looked intently.</p>
<p>Gradually, gradually the spectacle rose on their view fuller
and fuller, not the ruddy wings of the Algerine or Italian, but
the square white castle-like tiers of sails rising one above
another, bearing along in a south-easterly direction.</p>
<p>‘English or French,’ said Tam, with a long breath,
for her colours and build were not yet discernible.
‘Mashallah! I beg pardon. I mean, God grant she
pass us not by!’</p>
<p>The mast was hastily raised, with Tam’s turban unrolled,
floating at the top of it; and while he and Fareek plied their
oars with might and main, he bade Arthur fire off at intervals
the blunderbuss, which had hitherto lain idle at the bottom of
the boat.</p>
<p>How long the intense suspense lasted they knew not ere Arthur
cried, ‘They are slackening sail! Thank God.
Tam, you have saved us! English!’</p>
<p>‘Not so fast!’ Tam uttered an Arabic and then a
Scottish interjection.</p>
<p>Their signal had been seen by other eyes. An
unmistakable Algerine, with the crescent flag, was bearing down
on them from the opposite direction.</p>
<p>‘Rascals. Do they not dread the British
flag?’ cried Arthur. ‘Surely that will protect
us?’</p>
<p>‘They are smaller and lighter, and with their galley
slaves can defy the wind, and loup off like a flea in a
blanket,’ returned Tam, grimly. ‘Mair by token,
they guess what we are, and will hold on to hae my life’s
bluid if naething mair! Here! Gie us a soup of the
water, and the last bite of flesh. ’Twill serve us
the noo, find we shall need it nae mair any way.’</p>
<p>Arthur fed him, for he durst not slacken rowing for a
moment. Then seeing Fareek, who had borne the brunt of the
fatigue, looking spent, the youth, after swallowing a few morsels
and a little foul-smelling drink, took the second oar, while
double force seemed given to the long arms lately so weary, and
both pulled on in silent, grim desperation. Ulysse had
given one scream at seeing the last of the water swallowed, but
he too, understood the situation, and obeyed Arthur’s brief
words, ‘Kneel down and pray for us, my boy.’</p>
<p>The Abyssinian was evidently doing the same, after having
loaded the blunderbuss; but it was no longer necessary to use
this as a signal, since the frigate had lowered her boat, which
was rapidly coming towards them.</p>
<p>But, alas! still more swiftly, as it seemed to those terrified
eyes, came the Moorish boat—longer, narrower, more favoured
by currents and winds, flying like a falcon towards its
prey. It was a fearful race. Arthur’s head
began to swim, his breath to labour, his arms to move stiffly as
a thresher’s flail; but, just as power was failing him, an
English cheer came over the waters, and restored strength for a
few more resolute strokes.</p>
<p>Then came some puffs of smoke from the pirate’s boat, a
report, a jerk to their own, a fresh dash forward, even as Fareek
fired, giving a moment’s check to the enemy. There
was a louder cheer, several shots from the English boat, a cloud
from the ship’s side. Then Arthur was sensible of a
relaxation of effort, and that the chase was over, then that the
British boat was alongside, friendly voices ringing in his ears,
‘How now, mates? Runaways, eh? Where d’ye
hail from?’</p>
<p>‘Scottish! British!’ panted out Arthur,
unable to utter more, faint, giddy, and astounded by the cheers
around him, and the hands stretched out in welcome. He
scarcely saw or understood.</p>
<p>‘Queer customers here! What! a child! Who
are you, my little man? And what’s this? A
Moor! He’s hit—pretty hard too.’</p>
<p>This brought back Arthur’s reeling senses in one flash
of horror, at the sight of Tam, bleeding fast in the bottom of
the boat.</p>
<p>‘O Tam! Tam! He saved me! He is
Scottish too,’ cried Arthur. ‘Sir, is he
alive?’</p>
<p>‘I think so,’ said the officer, who had bent over
Tam. ‘We’ll have him aboard in a minute, and
see what the doctor can do with him. You seem to have had a
narrow escape.’</p>
<p>Arthur was too busy endeavouring to staunch the blood which
flowed fast from poor Tam’s side to make much reply, but
Ulysse, perched on the officer’s knee, was answering for
him in mixed English and French. ‘Moi, je suis le
Chevalier de Bourke! My papa is ambassador to Sweden.
This gentleman is his secretary. We were
shipwrecked—and M. Arture and I swam away together.
The Moors were good to us, and wanted to make us Moors; but M.
Arture said it would be wicked. And Yusuf bought him for a
slave; but that was only from <i>faire la
comédie</i>. He is <i>bon Chrétien</i> after
all, and so is poor Fareek, only he is dumb.
Yusuf—that is, Tam—made me all black, and changed me
for his little negro boy; and we got into the boat, and it was
very hot, and oh! I am so thirsty. And now M. Arture
will take me to Monsieur mon Père, and get me some nice
clothes again,’ concluded the young gentleman, who, in this
moment of return to civilised society, had become perfectly aware
of his own rank and importance.</p>
<p>Arthur only looked up to verify the child’s statements,
which had much struck the lieutenant. Their boat had by
this time been towed alongside of the frigate, and poor Tam was
hoisted on board, and the surgeon was instantly at hand; but he
said at once that the poor fellow was fast dying, and that it
would be useless torture to carry him below for examination.</p>
<p>A few words passed with the captain, and then the little
Chevalier was led away to tell his own tale, which he was doing
with a full sense of his own importance; but presently the
captain returned, and beckoned to Arthur, who had been kneeling
beside poor Tam, moistening his lips, and bathing his face, as he
lay gasping and apparently unconscious, except that he had
gripped hold of his broad sash or girdle when it was taken
off.</p>
<p>‘The child tells me he is Comte de Bourke’s
son,’ said the captain, in a tentative manner, as if
doubtful whether he should be understood, and certainly Arthur
looked more Moorish than European.</p>
<p>‘Yes, sir! He was on his way with his mother to
join his father when we were taken by a Moorish
corsair.’</p>
<p>‘But you are not French?’ said the captain,
recognising the tones.</p>
<p>‘No, sir; Scottish—Arthur Maxwell Hope. I
was to have gone as the Count’s secretary.’</p>
<p>‘You have escaped from the Moors? I could not
understand what the boy said. Where are the lady and the
rest?’</p>
<p>Arthur as briefly as he could, for he was very anxious to
return to poor Tam, explained the wreck and the subsequent
adventures, saying that he feared the poor Countess was lost, but
that he had seen her daughter and some of her suite on a
rock. Captain Beresford was horrified at the idea of a
Christian child among the wild Arabs. His station was
Minorca, but he had just been at the Bay of Rosas, where poor
Comte de Bourke’s anxiety and distress about his wife and
children were known, and he had received a request amounting to
orders to try to obtain intelligence about them, so that he held
it to be within his duty to make at once for Djigheli Bay.</p>
<p>For further conversation was cut short by sounds of articulate
speech from poor Tam. Arthur turned hastily, and the
captain proceeded to give his orders.</p>
<p>‘Is Maister Hope here?’</p>
<p>‘Here! Yes. O Tam, dear Tam, if I could do
anything!’ cried Arthur.</p>
<p>‘I canna see that well,’ said Tam, with a sound of
anxiety. ‘Where’s my sash?’</p>
<p>‘This is it, in your own hand,’ said Arthur,
thinking he was wandering, but the other hand sought one of the
ample folds, which was sewn over, and weighty.</p>
<p>‘Tak’ it; tak’ tent of it; ye’ll need
the siller. Four hunder piastres of Tunis, not
countin’ zeechins, and other sma’ coin.’</p>
<p>‘Shall I send them to any one at Eyemouth?’</p>
<p>Tam almost laughed. ‘Na, na; keep them and use
them yersell, sir. There’s nane at hame that wad own
puir Tam. The leddy, your mither, an’ you hae been
mair to me than a’ beside that’s above ground, and
what wad ye do wi’out the siller?’</p>
<p>‘O Tam! I owe all and everything to you. And
now—’</p>
<p>Tam looked up, as Arthur’s utterance was choked, and a
great tear fell on his face. ‘Wha wad hae
said,’ murmured he, ‘that a son of Burnside wad be
greetin’ for Partan Jeannie’s son?’</p>
<p>‘For my best friend. What have you not saved me
from! and I can do nothing!’</p>
<p>‘Nay, sir. Say but thae words again.’</p>
<p>‘Oh for a clergyman! Or if I had a Bible to read
you the promises.’</p>
<p>‘You shall have one,’ said the captain, who had
returned to his side. The surgeon muttered that the lad
seemed as good as a parson; but Arthur heard him not, and was
saying what prayers came to his mind in this stress, when, even
as the captain returned, the last struggle came on. Once
more Tam looked up, saying, ‘Ye’ll be good to puir
Fareek;’ and with a word more, ‘Oh, Christ: will He
save such as I?’ all was over.</p>
<p>‘Come away, you can do nothing more,’ said the
doctor. ‘You want looking to yourself.’</p>
<p>For Arthur tottered as he tried to rise, and needed the
captain’s kind hand as he gained his feet.
‘Sir,’ he said, as the tears gushed to his eyes,
‘he <i>does</i> deserve all honour—my only friend and
deliverer.’</p>
<p>‘I see,’ said Captain Beresford, much moved;
‘whatever he has been, he died a Christian. He shall
have Christian burial. And this fellow?’ pointing to
poor Fareek, whose grief was taking vent in moans and sobs.</p>
<p>‘Christian—Abyssinian, but dumb,’ Arthur
explained; and having his promise that all respect should be paid
to poor Tam’s corpse, he let the doctor lead him away, for
he had now time to feel how sun-scorched and exhausted he was,
with giddy, aching head, and legs cramped and stiff, arms
strained and shoulders painful after his three days and nights of
the boat. His thirst, too, seemed unquenchable, in spite of
drinks almost unconsciously taken, and though hungry he had
little will to eat.</p>
<p>The surgeon made him take a warm bath, and then fed him with
soup, after which, on a promise of being called in due time, he
consented to deposit himself in a hammock, and presently fell
asleep.</p>
<p>When he awoke he found that clothes had been provided for
him—naval uniforms; but that could not be helped, and the
comfort was great. He was refreshed, but still very
stiff. However, he dressed and was just ready, when the
surgeon came to see whether he were in condition to be summoned,
for it was near sundown, and all hands were piped up to attend
poor Tam’s funeral rites. His generous and faithful
deed had eclipsed the memory that he was a renegade, and, indeed,
it had been in such ignorance that he had had little to deny.</p>
<p>All the sailors stood as respectfully as if he had been one of
themselves while the captain read a portion of the Burial
Office. Such honours would never have been his in his
native land, where at that time even Episcopalians themselves
could not have ventured on any out-door rites; and Arthur was
thus doubly struck and impressed, when, as the corpse, sewn in
sail-cloth and heavily weighted, was launched into the blue
waves, he heard the words committing the body to the deep, till
the sea should give up her dead. He longed to be able to
translate them to poor Fareek, who was weeping and howling so
inconsolably as to attest how good a master he had lost.</p>
<p>Perhaps Tam’s newly-found or recovered Christianity
might have been put to hard shocks as to the virtues he had
learnt among the Moslems. At any rate Arthur often had
reason to declare in after life that the poor renegade might have
put many a better-trained Christian to shame.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER X—ON BOARD THE ‘CALYPSO’</h2>
<blockquote><p> ‘From when this youth?<br
/>
His country, name, and birth declare!’</p>
<p style="text-align: right"><span
class="smcap">Scott</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>‘You had forgotten this legacy, Mr. Hope,’ said
Captain Beresford, taking Arthur into his cabin, ‘and,
judging by its weight, it is hardly to be neglected. I put
it into my locker for security.’</p>
<p>‘Thank you, sir,’ said Arthur. ‘The
question is whether I ought to take it. I wished for your
advice.’</p>
<p>‘I heard what passed,’ said the captain.
‘I should call your right as complete as if you had a will
made by a half a dozen lawyers. When we get into port, a
few crowns to the ship’s company to drink your health, and
all will be right. Will you count it?’</p>
<p>The folds were undone, and little piles made of the gold, but
neither the captain nor Arthur were much the wiser. The
purser might have computed it, but Captain Beresford did not
propose this, thinking perhaps that it was safer that no report
of a treasure should get abroad in the ship.</p>
<p>He made a good many inquiries, which he had deferred till
Arthur should be in a fitter condition for answering, first about
the capture and wreck, and what the young man had been able to
gather about the Cabeleyzes. Then, as the replies showed
that he had a gentleman before him, Captain Beresford added that
he could not help asking, ‘<i>Que diable allait il faire
dans cette galère</i>?’</p>
<p>‘Sir,’ said Arthur, ‘I do not know whether
you will think it your duty to make me a prisoner, but I had
better tell you the whole truth.’</p>
<p>‘Oho!’ said the captain; ‘but you are too
young! You could never have been out
with—with—we’ll call him the
Chevalier.’</p>
<p>‘I ran away from school,’ replied Arthur,
colouring. ‘I was a mere boy, and I never was
attainted,’ explained Arthur, blushing. ‘I have
been with my Lord Nithsdale, and my mother thought I could safely
come home, and that if I came from Sweden my brother could not
think I compromised him.’</p>
<p>‘Your brother?’</p>
<p>‘Lord Burnside. He is at Court, in favour, they
say, with King George. He is my half-brother; my mother is
a Maxwell.’</p>
<p>‘There is a Hope in garrison at Port Mahon—a
captain,’ said the captain. ‘Perhaps he will
advise you what to do if you are sick of Jacobite intrigue and
mystery, and ready to serve King George.’</p>
<p>Arthur’s face lighted up. ‘Will it be James
Hope of Ryelands, or Dickie Hope of the Lynn,
or—?’</p>
<p>Captain Beresford held up his hands.</p>
<p>‘Time must show that, my young friend,’ he said,
smiling. ‘And now I think the officers expect you to
join their mess in the gunroom.’</p>
<p>There Arthur found the little Chevalier strutting about in an
adaptation of the smallest midshipman’s uniform, and the
centre of an admiring party, who were equally diverted by his
consequential airs and by his accounts of his sports among the
Moors. Happy fellow, he could adapt himself to any society,
and was ready to be the pet and plaything of the ship’s
company, believing himself, when he thought of anything beyond
the present, to be full on the road to his friends again.</p>
<p>Fareek was a much more difficult charge, for Arthur had hardly
a word that he could understand. He found the poor fellow
coiled up in a corner, just where he had seen his former
master’s remains disappear, still moaning and weeping
bitterly. As Arthur called to him he looked up for a
moment, then crawled forward, striking his forehead at intervals
against the deck. He was about to kiss the feet of his
former fellow-slave, the glittering gold, blue, and white of
whose borrowed dress no doubt impressed him. Arthur hastily
started back, to the amazement of the spectators, and called out
a negative—one of the words sure to be first learnt.
He tried to take Fareek’s hand and raise him from his
abject attitude; but the poor fellow continued kneeling, and not
only were no words available to tell him that he was free, but it
was extremely doubtful whether freedom was any boon to him.
One thing, however, he did evidently understand—he pointed
to the St. George’s pennant with the red cross, made the
sign, looked an interrogation, and on Arthur’s reply,
‘Christians,’ and reiteration of the word
‘Salem,’ <i>peace</i>, he folded his arms and looked
reassured.</p>
<p>‘Ay, ay, my hearty,’ said the big boatswain,
‘ye’ve got under the old flag, and we’ll soon
make you see the difference. Cut out your poor tongue, have
they, the rascals, and made a dummy of you? I wish my cat
was about their ears! Come along with you, and you shall
find what British grog is made of.’</p>
<p>And a remarkable friendship arose between the two, the
boatswain patronising Fareek on every occasion, and roaring at
him as if he were deaf as well as dumb, and Fareek appearing
quite confident under his protection, and establishing a system
of signs, which were fortunately a universal language. The
Abyssinian evidently viewed himself as young Hope’s servant
or slave, probably thinking himself part of his late
master’s bequest, and there was no common language between
them in which to explain the difference or ascertain the poor
fellow’s wishes. He was a slightly-made, dexterous
man, probably about five and twenty years of age, and he caught
up very quickly, by imitation, the care he could take of
Arthur’s clothes, and the habit of waiting on him at
meals.</p>
<p>Meantime the <i>Calypso</i> held her course to the south-east,
till the chart declared the coast to be that of Djigheli Bay, and
Arthur recognised the headlands whither the unfortunate tartane
had drifted to her destruction. Anchoring outside the hay,
Captain Beresford sent the first lieutenant, Mr. Bullock, in the
long-boat, with Arthur and a well-armed force, with instructions
to offer no violence, but to reconnoitre; and if they found
Mademoiselle de Bourke, or any others of the party, to do their
best for their release by promises of ransom or representations
of the consequences of detaining them. Arthur was prepared
to offer his own piastres at once in case of need of immediate
payment. He was by this time tolerably versed in the
vernacular of the Mediterranean, and a cook’s boy, shipped
at Gibraltar, was also supposed to be capable of
interpreting.</p>
<p>The beautiful bay, almost realising the description of
Æneas’ landing-place, lay before them, the still
green waters within reflecting the fantastic rocks and the
wreaths of verdure which crowned them, while the white
mountain-tops rose like clouds in the far distance against the
azure sky. Arthur could only, however, think of all this
fair scene as a cruel prison, and those sharp rocks as the jaws
of a trap, when he saw the ribs of the tartane still jammed into
the rock where she had struck, and where he had saved the two
children as they were washed up the hatchway. He saw the
rock where the other three had clung, and where he had left the
little girl. He remembered the crowd of howling, yelling
savages, leaping and gesticulating on the beach, and his heart
trembled as he wondered how it had ended.</p>
<p>Where were the Cabeleyzes who had thus greeted them? The
bay seemed perfectly lonely. Not a sound was to be heard
but the regular dip of the oars, the cry of a startled bird, and
the splash of a flock of seals, which had been sunning themselves
on the shore, and which floundered into the sea like
Proteus’ flock of yore before Ulysses. Would that
Proteus himself had still been there to be captured and
interrogated! For the place was so entirely deserted that,
saving for the remains of the wreck, he must have believed
himself mistaken in the locality, and the lieutenant began to
question him whether it had been daylight when he came
ashore.</p>
<p>Could the natives have hidden themselves at sight of an armed
vessel? Mr. Bullock resolved on landing, very cautiously,
and with a sufficient guard. On the shore some fragments of
broken boxes and packing cases appeared; and a sailor pointed out
the European lettering painted on one—sse de B---. It
plainly was part of the address to the Comtesse de Bourke.
This encouraged the party in their search. They ascended
the path which poor Hébert and Lanty Callaghan had so
often painfully climbed, and found themselves before the square
of reed hovels, also deserted, but with black marks where fires
had been lighted, and with traces of recent habitation.</p>
<p>Arthur picked up a rag of the Bourke livery, and another of a
brocade which he had seen the poor Countess wearing. Was
this all the relic that he should ever be able to take to her
husband?</p>
<p>He peered about anxiously in hopes of discovering further
tokens, and Mr. Bullock was becoming impatient of his lingering,
when suddenly his eye was struck by a score on the bark of a
chestnut tree like a cross, cut with a feeble hand.
Beneath, close to the trunk, was a stone, beyond the corner of
which appeared a bit of paper. He pounced upon it. It
was the title-page of Estelle’s precious
Télémaque, and on the back was written in French,
If any good Christian ever finds this, I pray him to carry it to
M. the French Consul at Algiers. We are five poor
prisoners, the Abbé de St. Eudoce, Estelle, daughter of
the Comte de Bourke, and our servants, Jacques Hébert,
Laurent Callaghan, Victorine Renouf. The Cabeleyzes are
taking us away to their mountains. We are in slavery, in
hunger, filth, and deprivation of all things. We pray day
and night that the good God will send some one to rescue us, for
we are in great misery, and they persecute us to make us deny our
faith. O, whoever you may be, come and deliver us while we
are yet alive.’</p>
<p>Arthur was almost choked with tears as he translated this
piteous letter to the lieutenant, and recollected the engaging,
enthusiastic little maiden, as he had seen her on the Rhone, but
now brought to such a state. He implored Mr. Bullock to
pursue the track up the mountain, and was grieved at this being
treated as absurdly impossible, but then recollecting himself,
‘You could not, sir, but I might follow her and make them
understand that she must be saved—’</p>
<p>‘And give them another captive,’ said Bullock;
‘I thought you had had enough of that. You will do
more good to this flame of yours—’</p>
<p>‘No flame, sir. She is a mere child, little older
than her brother. But she must not remain among these
lawless savages.’</p>
<p>‘No! But we don’t throw the helve after the
hatchet, my lad! All you can do is to take this epistle to
the French Consul, who might find it hard to understand without
your explanations. At any rate, my orders are to bring you
safe on board again.’</p>
<p>Arthur had no choice but to submit, and Captain Beresford, who
had a wife and children at home, was greatly touched by the sight
of the childish writing of the poor little motherless girl; above
all when Arthur explained that the high-sounding title of
Abbé de St. Eudoce only meant one who was more likely to
be a charge than a help to her.</p>
<p>France was for the nonce allied with England, and the dread of
passing to Sweden through British seas had apparently been quite
futile, since, if Captain Beresford recollected the Irish blood
of the Count, it was only as an additional cause for taking
interest in him. Towards the Moorish pirates the interest
of the two nations united them. It was intolerable to think
of the condition of the captives; and the captain, anxious to
lose no time, rejoiced that his orders were such as to justify
him in sailing at once for Algiers to take effectual measures
with the consul before letting the family know the situation of
the poor Demoiselle de Bourke.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XI—THE PIRATE CITY</h2>
<blockquote><p>‘With dazed vision unawares<br />
From the long alley’s latticed shade<br />
Emerged, I came upon the great<br />
Pavilion of the Caliphat.<br />
Right to the carven cedarn doors,<br />
Flung inward over spangled floors,<br />
Broad-based flights of marble stairs<br />
Ran up with golden balustrade,<br />
After the fashion of the time,<br />
And humour of the golden prime<br />
Of good Haroun
Alraschid.’</p>
<p style="text-align: right"><span
class="smcap">Tennyson</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Civilised and innocuous existence has no doubt been a blessing
to Algiers as well as to the entire Mediterranean, but it has not
improved the picturesqueness of its aspect any more than the wild
and splendid ‘tiger, tiger burning bright,’ would be
more ornamental with his claws pared, the fiery gleam of his
yellow eyes quenched, and his spirit tamed, so as to render him
only an exaggerated domestic cat. The steamer, whether of
peace or war, is a melancholy substitute for the splendid though
sinister galley, with her ranks of oars and towers of canvas, or
for the dainty lateen-sailed vessels, skimming the waters like
flying fish, and the Frank garb ill replaces the graceful Arab
dress. The Paris-like block of houses ill replaces the
graceful Moorish architecture, undisturbed when the
<i>Calypso</i> sailed into the harbour, and the amphitheatre-like
city rose before her, in successive terraces of dazzling white,
interspersed with palms and other trees here and there, with
mosques and minarets rising above them, and with a crown of
strong fortifications. The harbour itself was protected by
a strongly-fortified mole, and some parley passed with the
governor of the strong and grim-looking castle adjacent—a
huge round tower erected by the Spaniards, and showing three
ranks of brazen teeth in the shape of guns.</p>
<p>Finally, the Algerines having been recently brought to their
bearings, as Captain Beresford said, entrance was permitted, and
the <i>Calypso</i> enjoyed the shelter of the mole; while he, in
full-dress uniform, took boat and went ashore, and with him the
two escaped prisoners. Fareek remained on board till the
English Consul could be consulted on his fate.</p>
<p>England and France were on curious terms with Algiers.
The French had bombarded the city in 1686, and had obtained a
treaty by which a consul constantly resided in the city, and the
persons and property of French subjects were secured from piracy,
or if captured were always released. The English had made
use of the possession of Gibraltar and Minorca to enforce a like
treaty. There was a little colony of European
merchants—English, French, and Dutch—in the lower
town, near the harbour, above which the Arab town rose, as it
still rises, in a steep stair. Ships of all these nations
traded at the port, and quite recently the English Consul, Thomas
Thompson by name, had vindicated the honour of his flag by citing
before the Dey a man who had insulted him on the narrow causeway
of the mole. The Moor was sentenced to receive 2200 strokes
of bastinado on the feet, 1000 the first day, 1200 on the second,
and he died in consequence, so that Englishmen safely walked the
narrow streets. The Dey who had inflicted this punishment
was, however, lately dead. Mehemed had been elected and
installed by the chief Janissaries, and it remained to be proved
whether he would show himself equally anxious to be on good terms
with the Christian Powers.</p>
<p>Arthur’s heart had learnt to beat at sight of the
British ensign with emotions very unlike those with which he had
seen it wave at Sheriffmuir; but it looked strange above the low
walls of a Moorish house, plain outside, but with a richly cusped
and painted horse-shoe arch at the entrance to a lovely
cloistered court, with a sparkling fountain surrounded by orange
trees with fruit of all shades from green to gold. Servants
in white garments and scarlet fezzes, black, brown, or white (by
courtesy), seemed to swarm in all directions; and one of them
called a youth in European garb, but equally dark-faced with the
rest, and not too good an English scholar. However, he
conducted them through a still more beautiful court, lined with
brilliant mosaics in the spandrels of the exquisite arches
supported on slender shining marble columns.</p>
<p>Mr. Thompson’s English coat and hearty English face
looked incongruous, as at sight of the blue and white uniform he
came forward with all the hospitable courtesy due to a
post-captain. There was shaking of hands, and doffing of
cocked hats, and calling for wine, and pipes, and coffee, in the
Alhambra-like hall, where a table covered with papers tied with
red tape, in front of a homely leathern chair, looked more
homelike than suitable. Other chairs there were for Frank
guests, who preferred them to the divan and piles of cushions on
which the Moors transacted business.</p>
<p>‘What can I do for you, sir?’ he asked of the
captain, ‘or for this little master,’ he added,
looking at Ulysse, who was standing by Arthur. ‘He is
serving the King early.’</p>
<p>‘I don’t belong to your King George,’ broke
out the young gentleman. ‘He is an
<i>usurpateur</i>. I have only this uniform on till I can
get my proper clothes. I am the son of the Comte de Bourke,
Ambassador to Spain and Sweden. I serve no one but King
Louis!’</p>
<p>‘That is plain to be seen!’ said Mr.
Thompson. ‘The Gallic cock crows early. But is
he indeed the son of Count Bourke, about whom the French Consul
has been in such trouble?’</p>
<p>‘Even so, sir,’ replied the captain.
‘I am come to ask you to present him, with this gentleman,
Mr. Hope, to your French colleague. Mr. Hope, to whom the
child’s life and liberty are alike owing, has information
to give which may lead to the rescue of the boy’s sister
and uncle with their servants.’</p>
<p>Mr. Thompson had heard of a Moorish galley coming in with an
account of having lost a Genoese prize, with ladies on board, in
the late storm. He was sure that the tidings Mr. Hope
brought would be most welcome, but he knew that the French Consul
was gone up with a distinguished visitor, M. Dessault, for an
audience of the Dey; and, in the meantime, his guests must dine
with him. And Arthur narrated his adventures.</p>
<p>The Consul shook his head when he heard of Djigheli Bay.</p>
<p>‘Those fellows, the Cabeleyzes, hate the French, and
make little enough of the Dey, though they do send home Moors who
fall into their hands. Did you see a ruined fort on a
promontory? That was the Bastion de France. The old
King Louis put it up and garrisoned it, but these rogues
contrived a surprise, and made four hundred prisoners, and ever
since they have been neither to have nor to hold. Well for
you, young gentleman, that you did not fall into their hands, but
those of the country Moors—very decent
folk—descended, they say, from the Spanish Moors. A
renegade got you off, did he? Yes, they will sometimes do
that, though at an awful risk. If they are caught, they are
hung up alive on hooks to the walls. You had an escape, I
can tell you, and so had he, poor fellow, of being taken
alive.’</p>
<p>‘He knew the risk!’ said Arthur, in a low voice;
‘but my mother had once been good to him, and he dared
everything for me.’</p>
<p>The Consul readily estimated Arthur’s legacy as
amounting to little less than £200, and was also ready to
give him bills of exchange for it. The next question was as
to Fareek. To return him to his own country was impossible;
and though the Consul offered to buy him of Arthur, not only did
the young Scot revolt at the idea of making traffic of the
faithful fellow, but Mr. Thompson owned that there might be some
risk in Algiers of his being recognised as a runaway; and though
this was very slight, it was better not to give any cause of
offence. Captain Beresford thought the poor man might be
disposed of at Port Mahon, and Arthur kept to himself that
Tam’s bequest was sacred to him. His next wish was
for clothes to which he might have a better right than to the
uniform of the senior midshipman of H.M.S. <i>Calypso</i>—a
garb in which he did not like to appear before the French
Consul. Mr. Thompson consulted his Greek clerk, and a chest
belonging to a captured merchantman, which had been claimed as
British property, but had not found an owner, was opened, and
proved to contain a wardrobe sufficient to equip Arthur like
other gentlemen of the day, in a dark crimson coat, with a little
gold lace about it, and the rest of the dress white, a wide
beaver hat, looped up with a rosette, and everything, indeed,
except shoes, and he was obliged to retain those of the senior
midshipman. With his dark hair tied back, and a suspicion
of powder, he found himself more like the youth whom Lady
Nithsdale had introduced in Madame de Varennes’
<i>salon</i> than he had felt for the last month; and, moreover,
his shyness and awkwardness had in great measure disappeared
during his vicissitudes, and he had made many steps towards
manhood.</p>
<p>Ulysse had in the meantime been consigned to a kind, motherly,
portly Mrs. Thompson, who, accustomed as she was to hearing of
strange adventures, was aghast at what the child had undergone,
and was enchanted with the little French gentleman who spoke
English so well, and to whom his Grand Seigneur airs returned by
instinct in contact with a European lady; but his eye instantly
sought Arthur, nor would he be content without a seat next to his
protector at the dinner, early as were all dinners then, and a
compound of Eastern and Western dishes, the latter very welcome
to the travellers, and affording the Consul’s wife themes
of discourse on her difficulties in compounding them.</p>
<p>Pipes, siesta, and coffee followed, Mr. Thompson assuring them
that his French colleague would not be ready to receive them till
after the like repose had been undergone, and that he had already
sent a billet to announce their coming.</p>
<p>The French Consulate was not distant. The
<i>fleur-de-lis</i> waved over a house similar to Mr.
Thompson’s, but they were admitted with greater ceremony,
when Mr. Thompson at length conducted them. Servants and
slaves, brown and black, clad in white with blue sashes, and
white officials in blue liveries, were drawn up in the first
court in two lines to receive them; and the Chevalier, taking it
all to himself, paraded in front with the utmost grandeur, until,
at the next archway, two gentlemen, resplendent in gold lace,
came forward with low bows. At sight of the little fellow
there were cries of joy. M. Dessault spread out his arms,
clasped the child to his breast, and shed tears over him, so that
the less emotional Englishmen thought at first that they must be
kinsmen. However, Arthur came in for a like embrace as the
boy’s preserver; and if Captain Beresford had not stepped
back and looked uncomprehending and rigid he might have come in
for the same.</p>
<p>Seated in the verandah, Arthur told his tale and presented the
letter, over which there were more tears, as, indeed, well there
might be over the condition of the little girl and her simple
mode of describing it. It was nearly a month since the
corsair had arrived, and the story of the Genoese tartane being
captured and lost with French ladies on board had leaked
out. The French Consul had himself seen and interrogated
the Dutch renegade captain, had become convinced of the identity
of the unfortunate passengers, and had given up all hopes of
them, so that he greeted the boy as one risen from the dead.</p>
<p>To know that the boy’s sister and uncle were still in
the hands of the Cabeleyzes was almost worse news than the death
of his mother, for this wild Arab tribe had a terrible reputation
even among the Moors and Turks.</p>
<p>The only thing that could be devised after consultation
between the two consuls, the French envoy, and the English
captain, was that an audience should be demanded of the Dey, and
Estelle’s letter presented the next morning.
Meanwhile Arthur and Ulysse were to remain as guests at the
English Consulate. The French one would have made them
welcome, but there was no lady in his house; and Mrs. Thompson
had given Arthur a hint that his little charge would be the
better for womanly care.</p>
<p>There was further consultation whether young Hope, as a
runaway slave—who had, however, carried off a relapsed
renegade with him—would be safe on shore beyond the
precincts of the Consulate; but as no one had any claim on him,
and it might be desirable to have his evidence at hand, it was
thought safe that he should remain, and Captain Beresford
promised to come ashore in the morning to join the petitioners to
the Dey.</p>
<p>Perhaps he was not sorry, any more than was Arthur, for the
opportunity of beholding the wonderful city and palace, which
were like a dream of beauty. He came ashore early, with two
or three officers, all in full uniform; and the audience having
been granted, the whole party—consuls, M. Dessault, and
their attendants—mounted the steep, narrow stone steps
leading up the hill between the walls of houses with
fantastically carved doorways or lattices; while bare-legged
Arabs niched themselves into every coigne of vantage with baskets
of fruit or eggs, or else embroidering pillows and slippers with
exquisite taste.</p>
<p>The beauty of the buildings was unspeakable, and they
projected enough to make a cool shade—only a narrow
fragment of deep blue sky being visible above them. The
party did not, however, ascend the whole 497 steps, as the abode
of the Dey was then not the citadel, but the palace of Djenina in
the heart of the city. Turning aside, they made their way
thither over terraces partly in the rock, partly on the roofs of
houses.</p>
<p>Fierce-looking Janissaries, splendidly equipped, guarded the
entrance, with an air so proud and consequential as to remind
Arthur of poor Yusuf’s assurances of the magnificence that
might await little Ulysse as an Aga of that corps. Even as
they admitted the infidels they looked defiance at them from
under the manifold snowy folds of their mighty turbans.</p>
<p style="text-align: center">
<a href="images/p0b.jpg">
<img alt="The pirate city" src="images/p0s.jpg" />
</a></p>
<p>If the beauty of the consuls’ houses had struck and
startled Arthur, far more did the region into which he was now
admitted seem like a dream of fairyland as he passed through
ranks of orange trees round sparkling fountains—worthy of
Versailles itself—courts surrounded with cloisters,
sparkling with priceless mosaics, in those brilliant colours
which Eastern taste alone can combine so as to avoid gaudiness,
arches and columns of ineffable grace and richness, halls with
domes emulating the sky, or else ceiled with white marble
lacework, whose tracery seemed delicate and varied as the richest
Venice point! But the wonderful beauty seemed to him to
have in it something terrible and weird, like that fairyland of
his native country, whose glory and charm is overshadowed by the
knowledge of the teinds to be paid to hell. It was an
unnatural, incomprehensible world; and from longing to admire and
examine, he only wished to be out of it, felt it a relief to fix
his eyes upon the uniforms of the captain and the consuls, and
did not wonder that Ulysse, instead of proudly heading the
procession, shrank up to him and clasped his hand as his
protector.</p>
<p>The human figures were as strange as the architecture; the
glittering of Janissaries in the outer court, which seemed a sort
of guardroom, the lines of those on duty in the next, and in the
third court the black slaves in white garments, enhancing the
blackness of their limbs, each with a formidable curved
scimitar. At the golden cusped archway beyond, all had to
remove their shoes as though entering a mosque. The Consuls
bade the new-comers submit to this, adding that it was only since
the recent victory that it had not been needful to lay aside the
sword on entering the Dey’s august presence. The
chamber seemed to the eyes of the strangers one web of magic
splendour—gold-crusted lacework above, arches on one side
open to a beauteous garden, and opposite semicircles of
richly-robed Janissary officers, all culminating in a dazzling
throne, where sat a white-turbaned figure, before whom the
visitors all had to bow lower than European independence could
well brook.</p>
<p>The Dey’s features were not very distinctly seen at the
distance where etiquette required them to stand; but Arthur
thought him hardly worthy to be master of such fine-looking
beings as Abou Ben Zegri and many others of the Moors, being in
fact a little sturdy Turk, with Tartar features, not nearly so
graceful as the Moors and Arabs, nor so handsome and imposing as
the Janissaries of Circassian blood. Turkish was the court
language; and even if he understood any other, an interpreter was
a necessary part of the etiquette. M. Dessault instructed
the interpreter, who understood with a readiness which betrayed
that he was one of the many renegades in the Algerine
service.</p>
<p>The Dey was too dignified to betray much emotion; but he spoke
a few words, and these were understood to profess his willingness
to assist in the matter. A richly-clad official, who was,
Mr. Thompson whispered, a Secretary of State, came to attend the
party in a smaller but equally beautiful room, where pipes and
coffee were served, and a consultation took place with the two
Consuls, which was, of course, incomprehensible to the anxious
listeners. M. Dessault’s interest was deeply
concerned in the matter, since he was a connection of the
Varennes family, to which poor Madame de Bourke belonged.</p>
<p>Commands from the Dey, it was presently explained, would be
utterly disregarded by these wild mountaineers—nay, would
probably lead to the murder of the captives in defiance.
But it was known that if these wild beings paid deference to any
one, it was to the Grand Marabout at Bugia; and the Secretary
promised to send a letter in the Dey’s name, which, with a
considerable present, might induce him to undertake the
negotiation. Therewith the audience terminated, after M.
Dessault had laid a splendid diamond snuff-box at the feet of the
Secretary.</p>
<p>The Consuls were somewhat disgusted at the notion of having
recourse to the Marabouts, whom the French Consul called
<i>vilains charlatan</i>, and the English one filthy scoundrels
and impostors. Like the Indian Fakirs, opined Captain
Beresford; like the begging friars, said M. Dessault, and to this
the Consuls assented. Just, however, as the Dominicans,
besides the low class of barefooted friars, had a learned and
cultivated set of brethren in high repute at the Universities,
and a general at Rome, so it appeared that the Marabouts, besides
their wild crew of masterful beggars, living at free quarters,
partly through pretended sanctity, partly through the awe
inspired by cabalistic arts, had a higher class who dwelt in
cities, and were highly esteemed, for the sake of either ten
years’ abstinence from food or the attainment of fifty
sciences, by one or other of which means an angelic nature was
held to be attained.</p>
<p>Fifty sciences! This greatly astonished the strangers,
but they were told by the residents that all the knowledge of the
highly cultivated Arabs of Bagdad and the Moors of Spain had been
handed on to the select few of their African descendants, and
that really beautiful poetry was still produced by the
Marabouts. Certainly no one present could doubt of the
architectural skill and taste of the Algerines, and Mr. Thompson
declared that not a tithe of the wonders of their mechanical art
had been seen, describing the wonderful silver tree of Tlemcen,
covered with birds, who, by the action of wind, were made to
produce the songs of each different species which they
represented, till a falcon on the topmost branch uttered a harsh
cry, and all became silent. General education had, however,
fallen to a low ebb among the population, and the wisdom of the
ancients was chiefly concentrated among the higher class of
Marabouts, whose headquarters were at Bugia, and their present
chief, Hadji Eseb Ben Hassan, had the reputation of a saint,
which the Consuls believed to be well founded.</p>
<p>The Cabeleyzes, though most irregular Moslems, were extremely
superstitious as regarded the supernatural arts supposed to be
possessed by the Marabouts, and if these could be induced to take
up the cause of the prisoners, there would be at least some
chance of their success.</p>
<p>And not long after the party had arrived at the French
Consulate, where they were to dine, a messenger arrived with a
parcel rolled up in silk, embroidered with gold, and containing a
strip of paper beautifully emblazoned, and in Turkish
characters. The Consul read it, and found it to be a really
strong recommendation to the Marabout to do his utmost for the
servants of the Dey’s brother, the King of France, now in
the hands of the children of Shaitan.</p>
<p>‘Well purchased,’ said M. Dessault; ‘though
that snuff-box came from the hands of the Elector of
Bavaria!’</p>
<p>As soon as the meal was over, the French Consul, instead of
taking his siesta as usual, began to take measures for chartering
a French tartane to go to Bugia immediately. He found there
was great interest excited, not only among the Christian
merchants, but among Turks, Moors, and Jews, so horrible was the
idea of captivity among the Cabeleyzes. The Dey set the
example of sending down five purses of sequins towards the young
lady’s ransom, and many more contributions came in
unasked. It was true that the bearers expected no small
consideration in return, but this was willingly given, and the
feeling manifested was a perfect astonishment to all the friends
at the Consulate.</p>
<p>The French national interpreter, Ibrahim Aga, was charged with
the negotiations with the Marabout. Arthur entreated to go
with him, and with some hesitation this was agreed to, since the
sight of an old friend might be needed to reassure any survivors
of the poor captives—for it was hardly thought possible
that all could still survive the hardships of the mountains in
the depth of winter, even if they were spared by the ferocity of
their captors.</p>
<p>Ulysse, the little son and heir, was not to be exposed to the
perils of the seas till his sister’s fate was decided, and
accordingly he was to remain under the care of Mrs. Thompson;
while Captain Beresford meant to cruise about in the
neighbourhood, having a great desire to know the result of the
enterprise, and hoping also that if Mademoiselle de Bourke still
lived he might be permitted to restore her to her
relations. Letters, clothes, and comforts were provided,
and placed under the charge of the interpreter and of Arthur,
together with a considerable gratuity for the Marabout, and
authority for any ransom that Cabeleyze rapacity might
require,—still, however, with great doubt whether all might
not be too late.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XII—ON THE MOUNTAINS</h2>
<blockquote><p>‘We cannot miss him. He doth make our
fire,<br />
Fetch in our wood, and serve in offices<br />
That profit us.’</p>
<p style="text-align: right"><i>Tempest</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Bugia, though midway on the ‘European lake,’ is
almost unknown to modern travellers, though it has become a
French possession.</p>
<p>It looked extremely beautiful when the French tartane entered
it, rising from the sea like a magnificent amphitheatre, at the
foot of the mountains that circled round it, and guarded by stern
battlemented castles, while the arches of one of the great old
Roman aqueducts made a noble cord to the arc described by the
lower part of the town.</p>
<p>The harbour, a finer one naturally than that of Algiers,
contained numerous tartanes and other vessels, for, as Ibrahim
Aga, who could talk French very well, informed Arthur, the
inhabitants were good workers in iron, and drove a trade in
plough-shares and other implements, besides wax and oil.
But it was no resort of Franks, and he insisted that Arthur
should only come on shore in a Moorish dress, which had been
provided at Algiers. Thanks to young Hope’s naturally
dark complexion, and the exposure of the last month, he might
very well pass for a Moor: and he had learnt to wear the white
caftan, wide trousers, broad sash, and scarlet fez, circled with
muslin, so naturally that he was not likely to be noticed as a
European.</p>
<p>The city, in spite of its external beauty, proved to be
ruinous within, and in the midst of the Moorish houses and courts
still were visible remnants of the old Roman town that had in
past ages flourished there. Like Algiers, it had narrow
climbing streets, excluding sunshine, and through these the guide
Ibrahim had secured led the way; while in single file came the
interpreter, Arthur, two black slaves bearing presents for the
Marabout, and four men besides as escort. Once or twice
there was a vista down a broader space, with an awning over it,
where selling and buying were going on, always of some single
species of merchandise.</p>
<p>Thus they arrived at one of those Moorish houses, to whose
beauty Arthur was becoming accustomed. It had, however, a
less luxurious and grave aspect than the palaces of Algiers, and
the green colour sacred to the Prophet prevailed in the inlaid
work, which Ibrahim Aga told him consisted chiefly of maxims from
the Koran.</p>
<p>No soldiers were on guard, but there were a good many young
men wholly clad in white—neophytes endeavouring to study
the fifty sciences, mostly sitting on the ground, writing copies,
either of the sacred books, or of the treatises on science and
medicine which had descended from time almost immemorial; all
rehearsed aloud what they learnt or wrote, so as to produce a
strange hum. A grave official, similarly clad, but with a
green sash, came to meet them, and told them that the chief
Marabout was sick; but on hearing from the interpreter that they
were bearers of a letter from the Dey, he went back with the
intelligence, and presently returned salaaming very low, to
introduce them to another of the large halls with lacework
ceilings, where it was explained that the Grand Marabout was, who
was suffering from ague. The fit was passing off, and he
would be able to attend of the coffee and the pipes which were
presented to his honoured guests so soon as they had partaken
them.</p>
<p>After a delay, very trying to Arthur’s anxiety, though
beguiled by such coffee and tobacco as he was never likely to
encounter again, Hadji Eseb Ben Hassan, a venerable-looking man,
appeared, with a fine white beard and keen eyes, slenderly
formed, and with an air of very considerable ability—much
more so than the Dey, in all his glittering splendour of gold,
jewels, and embroidery, whereas this old man wore the pure white
woollen garments of the Moor, with the green sash, and an emerald
to fasten the folds of his white turban.</p>
<p>Ibrahim Aga prostrated himself as if before the Dey, and laid
before the Marabout, as a first gift, a gold watch; then, after a
blessing had been given in return, he produced with great
ceremony the Dey’s letter, to which every one in the
apartment did obeisance by touching the floor with their
foreheads, and the Grand Marabout further rubbed it on his brow
before proceeding to read it, which he chose to do for himself,
chanting it out in a low, humming voice. It was only a
recommendation, and the other letter was from the French Consul
containing all particulars. The Marabout seemed much
startled, and interrogated the interpreter. Arthur could
follow them in some degree, and presently the keen eye of the old
man seemed to detect his interest, for there was a pointing to
him, an explanation that he had been there, and presently Hadji
Eseb addressed a question to him in the vernacular Arabic.
He understood and answered, but the imperfect language or his
looks betrayed him, for Hadji Eseb demanded, ‘Thou art
Frank, my son?’</p>
<p>Ibrahim Aga, mortally afraid of the consequences of having
brought a disguised Giaour into these sacred precincts, began
what Arthur perceived to be a lying assurance of his having
embraced Islam; and he was on the point of breaking in upon the
speech, when the Marabout observed his gesture, and said gravely,
‘My son, falsehood is not needed to shield a brave
Christian; a faithful worshipper of Issa Ben Mariam receives
honour if he does justice and works righteousness according to
his own creed, even though he be blind to the true faith.
Is it true, good youth, that thou art—not as this man would
have me believe—one of the crew from Algiers, but art come
to strive for the release of thy sister?’</p>
<p>Arthur gave the history as best he could, for his
month’s practice had made him able to speak the vernacular
so as to be fairly comprehensible, and the Marabout, who was
evidently a man of very high abilities, often met him half way,
and suggested the word at which he stumbled. He was greatly
touched by the account, even in the imperfect manner in which the
youth could give it; and there was no doubt that he was a man of
enlarged mind and beneficence, who had not only mastered the
fifty sciences, but had seen something of the world.</p>
<p>He had not only made his pilgrimage to Mecca more than once,
but had been at Constantinople, and likewise at Tunis and
Tripoli; thus, with powers both acute and awake, he understood
more than his countrymen of European Powers and their relation to
one another. As a civilised and cultivated man, he was
horrified at the notion of the tenderly-nurtured child being in
the clutches of savages like the Cabeleyzes; but the first
difficulty was to find out where she was; for, as he said,
pointing towards the mountains, they were a wide space, and it
would be hunting a partridge on the hills.</p>
<p>Looking at his chief councillor, Azim Reverdi, he demanded
whether some of the wanderers of their order, whom he named,
could not be sent through the mountains to discover where any
such prisoners might be; but after going into the court in quest
of these persons, Azim returned with tidings that a Turkish
soldier had returned on the previous day to the town, and had
mentioned that on Mount Couco, Sheyk Abderrahman was almost at
war with his subordinates, Eyoub and Ben Yakoub, about some
shipwrecked Frank captives, if they had not already settled the
matter by murdering them all, and, as was well known, nothing
would persuade this ignorant, lawless tribe that nothing was more
abhorrent to the Prophet than human sacrifices.</p>
<p>Azim had already sent two disciples to summon the Turk to the
presence of the Grand Marabout, and in due time he
appeared—a rough, heavy, truculent fellow enough, but
making awkward salaams as one in great awe of the presence in
which he stood—unwilling awe perhaps—full of
superstitious fear tempered by pride—for the haughty Turks
revolted against homage to one of the subject race of Moors.</p>
<p>His language was only now and then comprehensible to Arthur,
but Ibrahim kept up a running translation into French for his
benefit.</p>
<p>There were captives—infidels—saved from the wreck,
he knew not how many, but he was sure of one—a little maid
with hair like the unwound cocoon, so that they called her the
Daughter of the Silkworm. It was about her that the chief
struggle was. She had fallen to the lot of Ben Yakoub, who
had been chestnut-gathering by the sea at the time of the wreck;
but when he arrived on Mount Couco the Sheyk Abderrahman had
claimed her and hers as the head of the tribe, and had carried
her off to his own adowara in the valley of Ein Gebel.</p>
<p>The Turk, Murad, had been induced by Yakoub to join him and
sixteen more armed men whom he had got together to demand
her. For it was he who had rescued her from the waves,
carried her up the mountains, fed her all this time, and he would
not have her snatched away from him, though for his part Murad
thought it would have been well to be quit of them, for not only
were they Giaours, but he verily believed them to be of the race
of Jinns. The little fair-haired maid had papers with
strange signs on them. She wrote—actually
wrote—a thing that he believed no Sultana Velidè
even had ever been known to do at Stamboul. Moreover, she
twisted strings about on her hands in a manner that was fearful
to look at. It was said to be only to amuse the children,
but for his part he believed it was for some evil spell.
What was certain was that the other, a woman full grown, could,
whenever any one offended her, raise a Jinn in a cloud of smoke,
which caused such sneezing that she was lost sight of. And
yet these creatures had so bewitched their captors that there
were like to be hard blows before they were disposed of, unless
his advice were taken to make an end of them altogether.
Indeed, two of the men, the mad Santon and the chief slave, had
been taken behind a bush to be sacrificed, when the Daughter of
the Silkworm came between with her incantations, and fear came
upon Sheyk Yakoub. Murad evidently thought it highly
advisable that the chief Marabout should intervene to put a stop
to these doings, and counteract the mysterious influence
exercised by these strange beings.</p>
<p>High time, truly, Arthur and Ibrahim Aga likewise felt it, to
go to the rescue, since terror and jealousy might, it appeared,
at any time impel <i>ces barbares féroces</i>, as Ibrahim
called them, to slaughter their prisoners. To their great
joy, the Marabout proved to be of the same opinion, in spite of
his sickness, which, being an intermitting ague, would leave him
free for a couple of days, and might be driven off by the
mountain air. He promised to set forth early the next day,
and kept the young man and the interpreter as his guests for the
night, Ibrahim going first on board to fetch the parcel of
clothes and provisions which M. Dessault had sent for the
Abbé and Mademoiselle de Bourke, and for an instalment of
the ransom, which the Hadji Eseb assured him might safely be
carried under his own sacred protection.</p>
<p>Arthur did not see much of his host, who seemed to be very
busy consulting with his second in command on the preparations,
for probably the expedition was a delicate undertaking, even for
him, and his companions had to be carefully chosen.</p>
<p>Ibrahim had advised Arthur to stay quietly where he was, and
not venture into the city, and he spent his time as he best might
by the help of a <i>narghilé</i>, which was hospitably
presented to him, though the strictness of Marabout life forbade
the use alike of tobacco and coffee.</p>
<p>Before dawn the courts of the house were astir. Mules,
handsomely trapped, were provided to carry the principal persons
of the party wherever it might be possible, and there were some
spare ones, ridden at first by inferiors, but intended for the
captives, should they be recovered.</p>
<p>It was very cold, being the last week in November, and all
were wrapped in heavy woollen haiks over their white garments,
except one wild-looking fellow, whose legs and arms were bare,
and who only seemed to possess one garment of coarse dark
sackcloth. He skipped and ran by the side of the mules,
chanting and muttering, and Ibrahim observed in French that he
was one of the Sunakites, or fanatic Marabouts, and advised
Arthur to beware of him; but, though dangerous in himself, his
presence would be a sufficient protection from all other thieves
or vagabonds. Indeed, Arthur saw the fellow glaring
unpleasantly at him, when the sun summoned all the rest to their
morning devotions. He was glad that he had made the fact of
his Christianity known, for he could no more act Moslem than
<i>be</i> one, and Hadji Eseb kept the Sunakite in check by a
stern glance, so that no harm ensued.</p>
<p>Afterwards Arthur was bidden to ride near the chief, who
talked a good deal, asking intelligent questions. Gibraltar
had impressed him greatly, and it also appeared that in one of
his pilgrimages the merchant vessel he was in had been rescued
from some Albanian pirates by an English ship, which held the
Turks as allies, and thus saved them from undergoing vengeance
for the sufferings of the Greeks. Thus the good old man
felt that he owed a debt of gratitude which Allah required him to
pay, even to the infidel.</p>
<p>Up steep roads the mules climbed. The first night the
halt was at a Cabyle village, where hospitality was eagerly
offered to persons of such high reputation for sanctity as the
Marabouts; but afterwards habitations grew more scanty as the
ground rose higher, and there was no choice but to encamp in the
tents brought by the attendants, and which seemed to Arthur a
good exchange for the dirty Cabyle huts.</p>
<p>Altogether the journey took six days. The mules climbed
along wild paths on the verge of giddy precipices, where even on
foot Arthur would have hesitated to venture. The scenery
would now be thought magnificent, but it was simply frightful to
the mind of the early eighteenth century, especially when a
constant watch had to be kept to avoid the rush of stones, or
avalanches, on an almost imperceptible, nearly perpendicular
path, where it was needful to trust to the guidance of the
Sunakite, the only one of the cavalcade who had been there
before.</p>
<p>On the last day they found themselves on the borders of a
slope of pines and other mountain-growing trees, bordering a wide
valley or ravine where the Sunakite hinted that Abderrahman might
be found.</p>
<p>The cavalcade pursued a path slightly indicated by the
treading of feet and hoofs, and presently there emerged on them
from a slighter side track between the red stems of the great
pines a figure nearly bent double under the weight of two huge
faggots, with a basket of great solid fir-cones on the top of
them. Very scanty garments seemed to be vouchsafed to him,
and the bare arms and legs were so white, as well as of a length
so unusual among Arabs or Moors, that simultaneously the Marabout
exclaimed, ‘One of the Giaour captives,’ and Arthur
cried out, ‘La Jeunesse! Laurence!’</p>
<p>There was only just time for a start and a response, ‘M.
Arture! And is it yourself?’ before a howl of
vituperation was heard—of abuse of all the ancestry of the
cur of an infidel slave, the father of tardiness—and a
savage-looking man appeared, brandishing a cudgel, with which he
was about to belabour his unfortunate slave, when he was arrested
by astonishment, and perhaps terror, at the goodly company of
Marabouts. Hadji Eseb entered into conversation with him,
and meanwhile Lanty broke forth, ‘O wirrah, wirrah, Master
Arthur! an’ have they made a haythen Moor of ye? By
the powers, but this is worse than all. What will
Mademoiselle say?—she that has held up the faith of every
one of us, like a little saint and martyr as she is!
Though, to be sure, ye are but a Protestant; only these folks
don’t know the differ.’</p>
<p>‘If you would let me speak, Laurence,’ said
Arthur, ‘you would hear that I am no more a Moslem than
yourself, only my Frank dress might lead to trouble. We are
come to deliver you all, with a ransom from the French
Consul. Are you all safe—Mademoiselle and all? and
how many of you?’</p>
<p>‘Mademoiselle and M. l’Abbé were safe and
well three days since,’ said Lanty; ‘but that
spalpeen there is my master and poor Victorine’s, and will
not let us put a foot near them.’</p>
<p>‘Where are they? How many?’ anxiously asked
Arthur.</p>
<p>‘There are five of us altogether,’ said Lanty;
‘praise be to Him who has saved us thus far. We know
the touch of cold steel at our throats, as well as ever I knew
the poor misthress’ handbell; and unless our Lady, and St.
Lawrence, and the rest of them, keep the better watch on us, the
rascals will only ransom us without our heads, so jealous and
bloodthirsty they are. The Bey of Constantina sent for us
once, but all we got by that was worse usage than the very dogs
in Paris, and being dragged up these weary hills, where
Maître Hubert and I carried Mademoiselle every foot of the
way on our backs, and she begging our pardon so
prettily—only she could not walk, the rocks had so bruised
her darlin’ little feet.’</p>
<p>‘This is their chief holy man, Lanty. If any one
can prevail on these savages to release you it is he.’</p>
<p>‘And how come you to be hand and glove with them,
Masther Arthur—you that I thought drownded with poor Madame
and the little Chevalier and the rest?’</p>
<p>‘The Chevalier is not drowned, Laurent. He is safe
in the Consul’s house at Algiers.’</p>
<p>‘Now heaven and all the saints be praised! The
Chevalier safe and well! ’Tis a very miracle!’
cried Lanty, letting fall his burthen, as he clasped his hands in
ecstasy and performed a caper which, in spite of all his master
Eyoub’s respect for the Marabouts, brought a furious yell
of rage, and a tremendous blow with the cudgel, which Lanty, in
his joy, seemed to receive as if it had been a feather.</p>
<p>Hadji Eseb averted a further blow; and understanding from
Arthur that the poor fellow’s transport was caused by the
tidings of the safety of his master’s son, he seemed
touched, and bade that he and Eyoub should lead the way to the
place of durance of the chief prisoners. On the way Ibrahim
Aga interrogated both Eyoub in vernacular Arabic and Lanty in
French. The former was sullen, only speaking from his
evident awe of the Marabouts, the latter voluble with joy and
hope.</p>
<p>Arthur learnt that the letter he had found under the stone was
the fourth that Estelle and Hébert had written.
There had been a terrible journey up the mountains, when Lanty
had fully thought Victorine must close her sufferings in some
frightful ravine; but, nevertheless, she had recovered health and
strength with every day’s ascent above the close, narrow
valley. They were guarded all the way by Arabs armed to the
teeth to prevent a rescue by the Bey of Constantina.</p>
<p>On their arrival at the valley, which was the headquarters of
the tribe, the sheyk of the entire clan had laid claim to the
principal captives, and had carried off the young lady and her
uncle; and in his dwelling she had a boarded floor to sleep on,
and had been made much more comfortable than in the squalid huts
below. Her original master, Yakoub, had, however, come to
seize her, with the force described by Murad. Then it was
that again there was a threat to kill rather than resign them;
but on this occasion it was averted by Sheyk Abderrahman’s
son, a boy of about fourteen, who threw himself on his knees
before Mademoiselle, and prayed his father earnestly for her
life.</p>
<p>‘They spared her then,’ said Lanty, ‘and,
mayhap, worse still may come of that. Yakoub, the villain,
ended by getting her back till they can have a council of their
tribe, and there she is in his filthy hut; but the gossoon,
Selim, as they call him, prowls about the place as if he were
bewitched. All the children are, for that matter, wherever
she goes. She makes cats’ cradles for them, and sings
to them, and tells them stories in her own sweet way out of the
sacred history—such as may bring her into trouble one of
these days. Maître Hébert heard her one day
telling them the story of Moses, and he warned her that if she
went on in that fashion it might be the death of us all.
“But,” says she, “suppose we made Selim, and
little Zuleika, and all the rest of them, Christians?
Suppose we brought all the tribe to come down and ask baptism,
like as St. Nona did in the <i>Lives of the
Saints</i>?” He told her it was more like that they
would only get her darling little head cut off, if no worse, but
he could not get her to think that mattered at all at all.
She would have a crown and a palm up in heaven, and after her
name in the Calendar on earth, bless her.’</p>
<p>Then he went on to tell that Yakoub was furious at the notion
of resigning his prize, and (Agamemnon-like) declared that if she
were taken from him he should demand Victorine from Eyoub.
Unfortunately she was recovering her good looks in the mountain
air; and, worse still, the spring of her ‘blessed little
Polichinelle’ was broken, though happily no one guessed it,
and hitherto it had been enough to show them the box.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XIII—CHRYSEIS AND BRISEIS</h2>
<blockquote><p> ‘The
child<br />
Restore, I pray, her proffered ransom take,<br />
And in His priest, the Lord of Light revere.<br />
Then through the ranks assenting murmurs rang,<br />
The priest to reverence, and the ransom take.’</p>
<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Homer</span>
(<span class="smcap">Derby</span>).</p>
</blockquote>
<p>For one moment, before emerging from the forest, looking
through an opening in the trees, down a steep slope, a group of
children could be seen on the grass in front of the huts
composing the adowara, little brown figures in scanty garments,
lying about evidently listening intently to the figure, the gleam
of whose blonde hair showed her instantly to be Estelle de
Bourke.</p>
<p>However, either the deputation had been descried, or Eyoub may
have made some signal, for when the calvalcade had wound about
through the remaining trees, and arrived among the huts, no one
was to be seen. There was only the irregular square of huts
built of rough stones and thatched with reeds, with big stones to
keep the thatch on in the storm; a few goats were tethered near,
and there was a rush of the great savage dogs, but they
recognised Eyoub and Lanty, and were presently quieted.</p>
<p>‘This is the chief danger,’ whispered Lanty.</p>
<p>‘Pray heaven the rogues do not murder them rather than
give them up!’</p>
<p>The Sunakite, beginning to make strange contortions and
mutterings in a low voice, seemed to terrify Eyoub greatly.
Whether he pointed it out or not, or whether Eyoub was induced by
his gestures to show it, was not clear to Arthur’s mind;
but at the chief abode, an assemblage of two stone hovels and
rudely-built walls, the party halted, and made a loud knocking at
the door, Hadji Eseb’s solemn tones bidding those within to
open in the name of Allah.</p>
<p>It was done, disclosing a vista of men with drawn
scimitars. The Marabout demanded without ceremony where
were the prisoners.</p>
<p>‘At yonder house,’ he was answered by Yakoub
himself, pointing to the farther end of the village.</p>
<p>‘Dog of a liar,’ burst forth the Sunakite.
‘Dost thou think to blind the eyes of the beloved of Allah,
who knoweth the secrets of heaven and earth, and hath the sigil
of Suleiman Ben Daoud, wherewith to penetrate the secret places
of the false?’</p>
<p>The ferocious-looking guardians looked at each other as though
under the influence of supernatural terror, and then Hadji Eseb
spoke: ‘Salaam Aleikum, my children; no man need fear who
listens to the will of Allah, and honours his
messengers.’</p>
<p>All made way for the dignified old man and his suite, and they
advanced into the court, where two men with drawn swords were
keeping guard over the captives, who were on their knees in a
corner of the court.</p>
<p>The sabres were sheathed, and there was a shuffling away at
the advance of the Marabouts, Sheyk Yakoub making some apology
about having delayed to admit such guests, but excusing himself
on the score of supposing they were emissaries sent by those
whose authority he so defied that he had sworn to slaughter his
prisoners rather than surrender them.</p>
<p>Hadji Eseb replied with a quotation from the Koran forbidding
cruelty to the helpless, and sternly denounced wrath on the
transgressors, bidding Yakoub draw off his savage bodyguard.</p>
<p>The man was plainly alarmed, more especially as the Sunakite
broke out into one of his wild wails of denunciation, waving his
hands like a prophet of wrath, and predicting famine, disease,
pestilence, to these slack observers of the law of Mohammed.</p>
<p>This completed the alarm. The bodyguard fled away
pell-mell, Yakoub after them. His women shut themselves
into some innermost recesses, and the field was left to the
Marabouts and the prisoners, who, not understanding what all this
meant, were still kneeling in their corner. Hadji Eseb bade
Arthur and the interpreter go to reassure them.</p>
<p>At their advance a miserable embrowned figure, barefooted and
half clad in a ragged haik, roped round his waist, threw himself
before the fair-haired child, crying out in imperfect Arabic,
‘Spare her, spare her, great Lord! much is to be won by
saving her.’</p>
<p>‘We are come to save her,’ said Arthur in
French. ‘Maître Hébert, do you not know
me?’</p>
<p>Hubert looked up. ‘M. Arture! M.
Arture! Risen from the dead!’ he cried, threw himself
into the young man’s arms, and burst out into a vehement
sob; but in a second he recovered his manners and fell back,
while Estelle looked up.</p>
<p>‘M. Arture,’ she repeated. ‘Ah! is it
you? Then, is my mamma alive and safe?’</p>
<p>‘Alas! no,’ replied Arthur; ‘but your little
brother is safe and well at Algiers, and this good man, the
Marabout, is come to deliver you.’</p>
<p>‘My mamma said you would protect us, and I knew you
would come, like Mentor, to save us,’ said Estelle,
clasping her hands with ineffable joy. ‘Oh,
Monsieur! I thank you next to the good God and the
saints!’ and she began fervently kissing Arthur’s
hand. He turned to salute the Abbé, but was shocked
to see how much more vacant the poor gentleman’s stare had
become, and how little he seemed to comprehend.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ said Estelle, with her pretty, tender,
motherly air, ‘my poor uncle has never seemed to understand
since that dreadful day when they dragged him and Maître
Hébert out into the wood and were going to kill
them. And he has fever every night. But, oh, M.
Arture, did you say my brother was safe?’ she repeated, as
if not able to dwell enough upon the glad tidings.</p>
<p>‘And I hope you will soon be with him,’ said
Arthur. ‘But, Mademoiselle, let me present you to the
Grand Marabout, a sort of Moslem Abbé, who has come all
this way to obtain your release.’</p>
<p>He led Estelle forward, when she made a courtesy fit for her
grandmother’s <i>salon</i>, and in very fluent Cabeleyze
dialect gave thanks for the kindness of coming to release her,
and begged him to excuse her uncle, who was sick, and, as you say
here, ‘stricken of Allah.’</p>
<p>The little French demoiselle’s grace and politeness were
by no means lost on the Marabout, who replied to her graciously;
and at the sight of her reading M. Dessault’s letter, which
the interpreter presented to her, one of the suite could not help
exclaiming, ‘Ah! if women such as this will be went abroad
in our streets, there would be nothing to hope for in
Paradise.’</p>
<p>Estelle did not seem to have suffered in health; indeed, in
Arthur’s eyes, she seemed in these six weeks to have grown,
and to have more colour, while her expression had become less
childish, deeper, and higher. Her hair did not look
neglected, though her dress—the same dark blue which she
had worn on the voyage—had become very ragged and soiled,
and her shoes were broken, and tied on with strips of rag.</p>
<p>She gave a little scream of joy when the parcel of clothes
sent by the French Consul was given to her, only longing to send
some to Victorine before she retired to enjoy the comfort of
clean and respectable clothes; and in the meantime something was
attempted for the comfort of her companions, though it would not
have been safe to put them into Frankish garments, and none had
been brought. Poor Hébert was the very ghost of the
stout and important <i>maître d’hôtel</i>, and,
indeed, the faithful man had borne the brunt of all the
privations and sufferings, doing his utmost to shield and protect
his little mistress and her helpless uncle.</p>
<p>When Estelle reappeared, dressed once more like a little
French lady (at least in the eyes of those who were not
particular about fit), she found a little feast being prepared
for her out of the provisions sent by the consuls; but she could
not sit down to it till Arthur, escorted by several of the
Marabout’s suite, had carried a share both of the food and
the garments to Lanty and Victorine.</p>
<p>They, however, were not to be found. The whole adowara
seemed to be deserted except by a few frightened women and
children, and Victorine and her Irish swain had no doubt been
driven off into the woods by Eyoub—no Achilles certainly,
but equally unwilling with the great Pelides to resign Briseis as
a substitute for Chryseis.</p>
<p>It was too late to attempt anything more that night; indeed,
at sundown it became very cold. A fire was lighted in the
larger room, in the centre, where there was a hole for the exit
of the smoke.</p>
<p>The Marabouts seemed to be praying or reciting the Koran on
one side of it, for there was a continuous chant or hum going on
there; but they seemed to have no objection to the Christians
sitting together on the other side conversing and exchanging
accounts of their adventures. Maître Hébert
could not sufficiently dilate on the spirit, cheerfulness, and
patience that Mademoiselle had displayed through all. He
only had to lament her imprudence in trying to talk of the
Christian faith to the children, telling them stories of the
saints, and doing what, if all the tribe had not been so
ignorant, would have brought destruction on them all.
‘I would not have Monseigneur there know of it for
worlds,’ said he, glancing at the Grand Marabout.</p>
<p>‘Selim loves to hear such things,’ said Estelle
composedly. ‘I have taught him to say the
Paternoster, and the meaning of it, and Zuleika can nearly say
them.’</p>
<p>‘<i>Miséricorde</i>!’ cried M.
Hubert. ‘What may not the child have brought on
herself!’</p>
<p>‘Selim will be a chief,’ returned Estelle.
‘He will make his people do as he pleases, or he would do
so; but now there will be no one to tell him about the true God
and the blessed Saviour,’ she added sadly.</p>
<p>‘Mademoiselle!’ cried Hébert in indignant
anger—‘Mademoiselle would not be ungrateful for our
safety from these horrors.’</p>
<p>‘Oh no!’ exclaimed the child. ‘I am
very happy to return to my poor papa, and my brothers, and my
grandmamma. But I am sorry for Selim! Perhaps some
good mission fathers would go out to them like those we heard of
in Arcadia; and by and by, when I am grown up, I can come back
with some sisters to teach the women to wash their children and
not scold and fight.’</p>
<p>The <i>maître d’hôtel</i> sighed, and was
relieved when Estelle retired to the deserted women’s
apartments for the night. He seemed to think her dangerous
language might be understood and reported.</p>
<p>The next morning the Marabout sent messengers, who brought
back Yakoub and his people, and before many hours a sort of
council was convened in the court of Yakoub’s house,
consisting of all the neighbouring heads of families, brown men,
whose eyes gleamed fiercely out from under their haiks, and who
were armed to the teeth with sabres, daggers, and, if possible,
pistols and blunderbusses of all the worn-out patterns in
Europe—some no doubt as old as the Thirty Years War; while
those who could not attain to these weapons had the long spears
of their ancestors, and were no bad representatives of the
Amalekites of old.</p>
<p>After all had solemnly taken their seats there was a fresh
arrival of Sheyk Abderrahman and his ferocious-looking
following. He himself was a man of fine bearing, with a
great black beard, and a gold-embroidered sash stuck full of
pistols and knives, and with poor Madame de Bourke’s best
pearl necklace round his neck. His son Selim was with him,
a slim youth, with beautiful soft eyes glancing out from under a
haik, striped with many colours, such as may have been the coat
that marked Joseph as the heir.</p>
<p>There were many salaams and formalities, and then the chief
Marabout made a speech, explaining the purpose of his coming,
diplomatically allowing that the Cabeleyzes were not subject to
the Dey of Algiers, but showing that they enjoyed the advantages
of the treaty with France, and that therefore they were bound to
release the unfortunate shipwrecked captives, whom they had
already plundered of all their property. So far Estelle and
Arthur, who were anxiously watching, crouching behind the wall of
the deserted house court, could follow. Then arose yells
and shouts of denial, and words too rapid to be followed.
In a lull, Hadji Eseb might be heard proffering ransom, while the
cries and shrieks so well known to accompany bargaining broke
out.</p>
<p>Ibrahim Aga, who stood by the wall, here told them that Yakoub
and Eyoub seemed not unwilling to consent to the redemption of
the male captives, but that they claimed both the females.
Hébert clenched his teeth, and bade Ibrahim interfere and
declare that he would never be set free without his little
lady.</p>
<p>Here, however, the tumult lulled a little, and
Abderrahman’s voice was heard declaring that he claimed the
Daughter of the Silkworm as a wife for his son.</p>
<p>Ibrahim then sprang to the Marabout’s side, and was
heard representing that the young lady was of high and noble
blood. To which Abderrahman replied with the dignity of an
old lion, that were she the daughter of the King of the Franks
himself, she would only be a fit mate for the son of the King of
the Mountains. A fresh roar of jangling and disputing
began, during which Estelle whispered, ‘Poor Selim, I know
he would believe—he half does already. It would be
like Clotilda.’</p>
<p>‘And then he would be cruelly murdered, and you
too,’ returned Arthur.</p>
<p>‘We should be martyrs,’ said Estelle, as she had
so often said before; and as Hubert shuddered and cried,
‘Do not speak of such things, Mademoiselle, just as there
is hope,’ she answered, ‘Oh no! do not think I want
to stay in this dreadful place—only if I should have to do
so—I long to go to my brother and my poor papa. Then
I can send some good fathers to convert them.’</p>
<p>‘Ha!’ cried Arthur; ‘what now! They
are at one another’s throats!’</p>
<p>Yakoub and Eyoub with flashing sabres were actually flying at
each other, but Marabouts were seizing them and holding them
back, and the Sunakite’s chant arose above all the
uproar.</p>
<p>Ibrahim was able to explain that Yakoub insisted that if the
mistress were appropriated by Abderrahman, the maid should be his
compensation. Eyoub, who had been the foremost in the
rescue from the wreck, was furious at the demand, and they were
on the point of fighting when thus withheld; while the Sunakite
was denouncing woes on the spoiler and the lover of Christians,
which made the blood of the Cabeleyzes run cold. Their
flocks would be diseased, storms from the mountains would
overwhelm them, their children would die, their name and race be
cut off, if infidel girls were permitted to bewitch them and turn
them from the faith of the Prophet. He pointed to young
Selim, and demanded whether he were not already spellbound by the
silken daughter of the Giaour to join in her idolatry.</p>
<p>There were howls of rage, a leaping up, a drawing of swords, a
demand that the unbelievers should die at once. It was a
cry the captives knew only too well. Arthur grasped a
pistol, and loosened his sword, but young Selim had thrown
himself at the Marabout’s feet, sobbing out entreaties that
the maiden’s life might be saved, and assurances that he
was a staunch believer; while his father, scandalised at such an
exhibition on behalf of any such chattel as a female, roughly
snatched him from the ground, and insisted on his silence.</p>
<p>The Marabouts had, at their chief’s signal, ranged
themselves in front of the inner court, and the authority of the
Hadji had imposed silence even on the fanatic. He spoke
again, making them understand that Frankish vengeance in case of
a massacre could reach them even in their mountains when backed
by the Dey. And to Abderrahman he represented that the only
safety for his son, the only peace for his tribe, was in the
surrender of these two dangerous causes of altercation.</p>
<p>The ‘King of the Mountains’ was convinced by the
scene that had just taken place of the inexpedience of retaining
the prisoners alive. And some pieces of gold thrust into
his hand by Ibrahim may have shown him that much might be lost by
slaughtering them.</p>
<p>The Babel which next arose was of the amicable bargaining
sort. And after another hour of suspense the interpreter
came to announce that the mountaineers, out of their great
respect, not for the Dey, but the Marabout, had agreed to accept
900 piastres as the ransom of all the five captives, and that the
Marabout recommended an immediate start, lest anything should
rouse the ferocity of the tribe again.</p>
<p>Estelle’s warm heart would fain have taken leave of the
few who had been kind to her; but this was impossible, for the
women were in hiding, and she could only leave one or two
kerchiefs sent from Algiers, hoping Zuleika might have one of
them. Ibrahim insisted on her being veiled as closely as a
Mohammedan woman as she passed out. One look between her
and Selim might have been fatal to all; though hers may have been
in all childish innocence, she did not know how the fiery youth
was writhing in his father’s indignant grasp, forcibly
withheld from rushing after one who had been a new life and
revelation to him.</p>
<p>Mayhap the passion was as fleeting as it was violent, but the
Marabout knew it boded danger to the captives to whom he had
pledged his honour. He sent them, mounted on mules, on in
front, while he and his company remained in the rear, watching
till Lanty and Victorine were driven up like cattle by Eyoub, to
whom he paid an earnest of his special share of the ransom.
He permitted no pause, not even for a greeting between Estelle
and poor Victorine, nor to clothe the two unfortunates, more than
by throwing a mantle to poor Victorine, who had nothing but a
short petticoat and a scanty, ragged, filthy bournouse. She
shrouded herself as well as she could when lifted on her mule,
scarce perhaps yet aware what had happened to her, only that
Lanty was near, muttering benedictions and thanksgivings as he
vibrated between her mule and that of the Abbé.</p>
<p>It was only at the evening halt that, in a cave on the
mountain-side, Estelle and Victorine could cling to each other in
a close embrace with sobs of joy; and while Estelle eagerly
produced clothes from her little store of gifts, the poor
<i>femme de chambre</i> wept for joy to feel indeed that she was
free, and shed a fresh shower of tears of joy at the sight of a
brush and comb.</p>
<p>Lanty was purring over his foster-brother, and cosseting him
like a cat over a newly-recovered kitten, resolved not to see how
much shaken the poor Abbé’s intellect had been, and
quite sure that the reverend father would be altogether himself
when he only had his <i>soutane</i> again.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XIV—WELCOME</h2>
<blockquote><p>‘Well hath the Prophet-chief your bidding
done.’</p>
<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Moore</span>
(<i>Lalla Rookh</i>).</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Bugia was thoroughly Moorish, and subject to attacks of
fanaticism. Perhaps the Grand Marabout did not wholly trust
the Sunakite not to stir up the populace, for he would not take
the recovered captives to his palace, avoided the city as much as
possible, and took them down to the harbour, where, beside the
old Roman quay, he caused his trusty attendant, Reverdi, to hire
a boat to take them out to the French tartane—Reverdi
himself going with them to ensure the fidelity of the
boatmen. Estelle would have kissed the good old man’s
hand in fervent thanks, but, child as she was, he shrank from her
touch as an unholy thing; and it was enforced on her and
Victorine that they were by no means to remove their heavy
mufflings till they were safe on board the tartane, and even out
of harbour. The Frenchman in command of the vessel was
evidently of the same mind, and, though enchanted to receive
them, sent them at once below. He said his men had been in
danger of being mobbed in the streets, and that there were
reports abroad that the harem of a great Frank chief, and all his
treasure, were being recovered from the Cabeleyzes, so that he
doubted whether all the influence of the Grand Marabout might
prevent their being pursued by corsairs.</p>
<p>Right glad was he to recognise the pennant of the
<i>Calypso</i> outside the harbour, and he instantly ran up a
signal flag to intimate success. A boat was immediately put
off from the frigate, containing not only Lieutenant Bullock, but
an officer in scarlet, who had no sooner come on deck than he
shook Arthur eagerly by the hand, exclaiming,</p>
<p>‘’Tis you, then! I cannot be mistaken in
poor Davie’s son, though you were a mere bit bairn when I
saw you last!’</p>
<p>‘Archie Hope!’ exclaimed Arthur, joyfully.
‘Can you tell me anything of my mother?’</p>
<p>‘She was well when last I heard of her, only sore vexed
that you should be cut off from her by your own fule deed, my
lad! Ye’ve thought better of it now?’</p>
<p>Major Hope was here interrupted by the lieutenant, who brought
an invitation from Captain Beresford to the whole French party to
bestow themselves on board the <i>Calypso</i>. After
ascertaining that the Marabout had taken up their cause, and that
the journey up Mount Couco and back again could not occupy less
than twelve or fourteen days, he had sailed for Minorca, where he
had obtained sanction to convey any of the captives who might be
rescued to Algiers. He had also seen Major Hope, who, on
hearing of the adventures of his young kinsman, asked leave of
absence to come in search of him, and became the guest of the
officers of the <i>Calypso</i>.</p>
<p>Arthur found himself virtually the head of the party, and,
after consultation with Ibrahim Aga and Maître
Hébert, it was agreed that there would be far more safety,
as well as better accommodation, in the British ship than in the
French tartane, and Arthur went down to communicate the proposal
to Estelle, whom the close, little, evil-smelling cabin was
already making much paler than all her privations had done.</p>
<p>‘An English ship,’ she said. ‘Would my
papa approve?’ and her little prim diplomatic air sat
comically on her.</p>
<p>‘Oh yes,’ said Arthur. ‘He himself
asked the captain to seek for you, Mademoiselle. There is
peace between our countries, you know.’</p>
<p>‘That is good,’ she said, jumping up.
‘For oh! this cabin is worse than it is inside
Yakoub’s hut! Oh take me on deck before I am
ill!’</p>
<p>She was able to be her own little charming French and Irish
self when Arthur led her on deck; and her gracious thanks and
pretty courtesy made them agree that it would have been ten
thousand pities if such a creature could not have been redeemed
from the savage Arabs.</p>
<p>The whole six were speedily on board the <i>Calypso</i>, where
Captain Beresford received the little heroine with politeness
worthy of her own manners. He had given up his own cabin
for her and Victorine, purchased at Port Mahon all he thought she
could need, and had even recollected to procure clerical garments
for the Abbé—a sight which rejoiced Lanty’s
faithful heart, though the poor Abbé was too ill all the
time of the voyage to leave his berth. Arthur’s
arrival was greeted by the Abyssinian with an inarticulate howl
of delight, as the poor fellow crawled to his feet, and began
kissing them before he could prevent it. Fareek had been
the pet of the sailors, and well taken care of by the
boatswain. He was handy, quick, and useful, and Captain
Bullock thought he might pick up a living as an attendant in the
galley; but he showed that he held himself to belong absolutely
to Arthur, and rendered every service to him that he could,
picking up what was needful in the care of European clothes by
imitation of the captain’s servant, and showing a dexterity
that made it probable that his cleverness had been the cause of
the loss of a tongue that might have betrayed too much. To
young Hope he seemed like a sacred legacy from poor Tam, and a
perplexing one, such as he could hardly leave in his dumbness to
take the chances of life among sailors.</p>
<p>His own plans were likewise to be considered, and Major Hope
concerned himself much about them. He was a second
cousin—a near relation in Scottish estimation—and no
distant neighbour. His family were Tories, though content
to submit to the House of Hanover, and had always been on
friendly terms with Lady Hope.</p>
<p>‘I writ at once, on hearing of you, to let her know you
were in safety,’ said the major. ‘And what do
you intend the noo?’</p>
<p>‘Can I win home?’ anxiously asked Arthur.
‘You know I never was attainted!’</p>
<p>‘And what would ye do if you were at home?’</p>
<p>‘I should see my mother.’</p>
<p>‘Small doubt of the welcome she would have for you, my
poor laddie,’ said the major; ‘but what
next?’ And as Arthur hesitated, ‘I misdoubt
greatly whether Burnside would give you a helping hand if you
came fresh from colloguing with French Jacobites, though my
father and all the rest of us at the Lynn aye told him that he
might thank himself and his dour old dominie for your
prank—you were but a schoolboy then—you are a man
now; and though your poor mother would be blithe to set eyes on
you, she would be sairly perplexed what gate you had best turn
thereafter. Now, see here! There’s talk of our
being sent to dislodge the Spaniards from Sicily. You are a
likely lad, and the colonel would take my word for you if you
came back with me to Port Mahon as a volunteer; and once under
King George’s colours, there would be pressure enough from
all of us Hopes upon Burnside to gar him get you a commission,
unless you win one for yourself. Then you could gang hame
when the time was served, a credit and an honour to
all!’</p>
<p>‘I had rather win my own way than be beholden to
Burnside,’ said Arthur, his face lighting at the
proposal.</p>
<p>‘Hout, man! That will be as the chances of war may
turn out. As to your kit, we’ll see to that!
Never fear. Your mother will make it up.’</p>
<p>‘Thanks, Archie, with all my heart, but I am not so
destitute,’ and he mentioned Yusuf’s legacy, which
the major held that he was perfectly justified in appropriating;
and in answer to his next question, assured him that he would be
able to retain Fareek as his servant.</p>
<p>This was enough for Arthur, who knew that the relief to his
mother’s mind of his safety and acceptance as a subject
would outweigh any disappointment at not seeing his face, when he
would only be an unforgiven exile, liable to be informed against
by any malicious neighbour.</p>
<p>He borrowed materials, and had written a long letter to her
before the <i>Calypso</i> put in at Algiers. The little
swift tartane had forestalled her; and every one was on the
watch, when Estelle, who had been treated like a little princess
on board, was brought in the long-boat with all her party to the
quay. Though it was at daybreak, not only the European
inhabitants, but Turks, Arabs, Moors, and Jews thronged the wharf
in welcome; and there were jubilant cries as all the five
captives could be seen seated in the boat in the light of the
rising sun.</p>
<p>M. Dessault, with Ulysse in his hand, stood foremost on the
quay, and the two children were instantly in each other’s
embrace. Their uncle had to be helped out. He was
more bewildered than gratified by the welcome. He required
to be assured that the multitudes assembled meant him no harm,
and would not move without Lanty; and though he bowed low in
return to M. Dessault’s greeting, it was like an automaton,
and with no recognition.</p>
<p>Estelle, between her brother and her friend, and followed by
all the rest, was conducted by the French Consul to the chapel,
arranged in one of the Moorish rooms. There stood beside
the altar his two chaplains, and at once mass was commenced,
while all threw themselves on their knees in thankfulness; and at
the well-known sound a ray of intelligence and joy began to
brighten even poor Phelim’s features.</p>
<p>Arthur, in overflowing joy, could not but kneel with the
others; and when the service concluded with the Te Deum’s
lofty praise, his tears dropped for joy and gratitude that the
captivity was over, the children safe, and himself no longer an
outcast and exile.</p>
<p>He had, however, to take leave of the children sooner than he
wished, for the <i>Calypso</i> had to sail the next day.</p>
<p>Ulysse wept bitterly, clung to him, and persisted that he
<i>was</i> their secretary, and must go with them. Estelle,
too, had tears in her eyes; but she said, half in earnest,
‘You know, Mentor vanished when Télémaque
came home! Some day, Monsieur, you will come to see us at
Paris, and we shall know how to show our gratitude!’</p>
<p>Both Lanty and Maître Hébert promised to write to
M. Arture; and in due time he received not only their letters but
fervent acknowledgments from the Comte de Bourke, who knew that
to him was owing the life and liberty of the children.</p>
<p>From Lanty Arthur further heard that the poor Abbé had
languished and died soon after reaching home. His faithful
foster-brother was deeply distressed, though the family had
rewarded the fidelity of the servants by promoting Hébert
to be intendant of the Provençal estates, while Lanty was
wedded to Victorine, with a <i>dot</i> that enabled them to start
a flourishing <i>perruquier’s</i> shop, and make a home for
his mother when little Jacques outgrew her care.</p>
<p>Estelle was in due time married to a French nobleman, and in
after years ‘General Sir Arthur Hope’ took his son
and daughter to pay her a long visit in her Provençal
<i>château</i>, and to converse on the strange adventures
that seemed like a dream. He found her a noble lady, well
fulfilling the promise of her heroic girlhood, and still
lamenting the impossibility of sending any mission to open the
eyes of the half-converted Selim.</p>
<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MODERN TELEMACHUS***</p>
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