"An outrage of a dreadful nature was committed last night, a few miles from Bridgetown."
"Where?" asked the earl.
"At a villa named Boscobelle."
My heart died within me at these terrible words; but restrained by etiquette and by that force of habit which discipline impels, I dared not speak; but the memory of the shock these words gave me still vibrates in my heart.
"Indeed!" exclaimed the earl.
"Madame de Rouvigny," continued the aide-de-camp, in the most easy and conversational way, "a French emigrant lady—and, by the bye, a devilish pretty woman—has been carried off in the night——"
"Carried off!"
"Or murdered; we know not which, as her body cannot be found, and her residence has been burned to its foundation."
I leave the reader to imagine how these dreadful tidings chilled my heart.
"Murdered—carried off—a lady!" reiterated the earl.