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?

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 Telemaque, 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 Abbe de St. Eudoce, Estelle, daughter of the Comte de Bourke, and our servants, Jacques Hebert, 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.’

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—­’

‘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—­’

’No flame, sir.  She is a mere child, little older than her brother.  But she must not remain among these lawless savages.’

’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.’

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 Abbe de St. Eudoce only meant one who was more likely to be a charge than a help to her.

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.