After everything had been dragged up to the adowara, there ensued a sort of auction or division of the plunder.  Poor Maitre Hebert 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

She heard Lanty haranguing in broken Arabic and lingua Franca, 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