But as the crowds became multitudes, and the confusion became uproar, she began to think that news of some great battle had been received; but whether the people were howling over a defeat or hurrahing over a victory, she could not discover.
While she was enduring this suspense, the door of her cell was unlocked, and the guard, or turnkey, who attended her, brought in the cup of unsalted corn meal gruel that formed her usual supper.
For months she had ceased to speak to her guards, because they had been forbidden to hold any conversation with her. But now the unexplained uproar of the whole city, the excited looks of this man, and her own intense anxiety, irresistibly impelled her to question him.
“What is the matter outside?” she eagerly inquired.
He hesitated a moment, glanced at her anxious countenance, and then, with a harsh laugh, he answered:
“Don’t you know? The Army of the Potomac is utterly destroyed. Grant and all his generals are taken prisoners, and are on their way to the city. And the mob mean to lynch them, if the president and the general don’t prevent it.”
“My God!” exclaimed Britomarte; and the cup of gruel fell untasted from her hands.
Having told this bitter falsehood, the guard picked up the fragments of the broken cup, and, laughing sarcastically, left the cell, and locked the door.
Britomarte remained with her hands lifted in appeal to Heaven.
Did she then believe the terrible tale? Not entirely; nor did the mocking guard expect that she would do so.