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.’
‘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?’
‘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.’
‘Where are they? How many?’ anxiously asked Arthur.
‘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.’
‘This is their chief holy man, Lanty. If any one can prevail on these savages to release you it is he.’
‘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?’
‘The Chevalier is not drowned, Laurent. He is safe in the Consul’s house at Algiers.’
‘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.
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.