She paused again and wept, while her flushing face was bowed upon her snow-white hands.
"And this is your story, madame?"
"Yes."
"It is a sorrowful one."
"God alone knows what may be its sequel."
"But you left Martinique——"
"A fugitive."
"How?"
"The coarseness and cruelty of Rouvigny drove me almost mad, but they supplied me with courage; and three weeks after my—(can I call it marriage?)—by the aid of Benoit, the faithful old negro, I escaped from the citadel, and reached a small merchant vessel which was bound for Havre under American colours. The master took pity upon me, for my father had once done him a service. We put to sea; a new hope began to fill my heart—the hope that freedom, a homeless, friendless, and penniless freedom inspired—when, within a day's sail of St. Lucia, we were captured by the British frigate Adder (whose captain our false colours failed to deceive), and taken to this island, where the Governor, in commiseration of my misfortunes, assigned to me this pretty villa of Roscobelle, and a little income."
"And you are now happy?" said I, taking her hands in mine.