likewise appeared:  Victorine looking wretchedly ill, and hardly able to hold up her head; Lanty creeping towards the Abbe, 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.

Comparatively, the Moor who had swum ashore to reconnoitre seemed like a friend when he came forward and saluted Estelle and the Abbe respectfully.  Moreover the lingua Franca 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.

’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’Abbe 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!’