For the rest, the child had always dwelt in an imaginary world, a
curious compound of the Lives of the Saints and of Telemaque. Martyrs
and heroes alike had been shipwrecked, taken captive, and tormented;
and there was a certain sense of realised day-dream about her, as if
she had become one of the number and must act up to her part. She
asked Hebert if there were a Sainte Estelle, what was the day of the
month, and if she should be placed in the Calendar if she never
complained, do what these barbarians might to her. She hoped she
should hold out, for she would like to be able to help all whom she
loved, poor papa and all. But it was hard that mamma, who was so good,
could not be a martyr too; but she was a saint in Paradise all the
same, and thus Estelle made her little prayer in hope. There was no
conceit or over confidence in the tone, though of course the poor child
little knew what she was ready to accept; but it was a spark of the
martyr's trust that gleamed in her eye, and gave her a sense of
exaltation that took off the sharpest edge of grief and fear.

By this time, however, the animals were stirring, and with them the
human beings who had lain down in their clothes. Peace was over; the
Abbe awoke, and began to call for Laurent and his clothes and his
beads; but this aroused the master of the house, who started up, and
threatening with a huge stick, roared at him what must have been orders
to be quiet.

Estelle indignantly flew between and cried, 'You shall not hurt my
uncle.'

The commanding gesture spoke for itself; and, besides, poor Phelim
cowered behind her with an air that caused a word and sign to pass