ared: 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.

{Estelle: p96.jpg}

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