“Constance has been carried off!”
“Carried off!” He regarded her as if he thought she had lost her senses.
“Yes; abducted!”
“Abducted! By whom?”
“I––I did not see his face!” she gasped. “And it is all my fault! I asked her to take a walk! Oh, what shall I do?” Wringing her hands in anguish that was half real. “We kept on and on––it was so pleasant!––until we had passed far beyond the outskirts of the village. At a turn in the road stood a coach––a cloak was thrown over my head by some one behind––I must have fainted, and, when I recovered, she was gone. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”
“When did it happen?” As he spoke the young man left the veranda. Grazing contentedly near the porch was his horse and Saint-Prosper’s hand now rested on the bridle.
“I can’t tell how long I was unconscious,” said the seemingly hysterical young woman, “but I hurried here as soon as I recovered myself.”
“Where did it occur? Down the road you came?”
“Ye-es.”