“Well, we should thank the lady for it. May I know who she is?”
“Certainly. The daughter of Ambrose Powell, of Hollymead.”
“Ah! That explains why Trevor was there when taken?”
“In a way, it does.”
“I’ve but slight acquaintance with Powell, myself; though, as neighbours, we were always on friendly terms. He and his family are now in Gloucester, are they not?”
“They are. For a time they stayed at Bristol—up to the surrender.”
“Luckily they’re not there now. A sweet place that for anything in the shape of a young lady. Master Powell may thank his good star for getting him and his out of it. Two daughters he has, if I remember rightly, with names rather singular—Sabrina and Vaga?”
“They are so named.”
“With whom is young Trevor in relations?”
“The younger, Vaga. Poor girl! she’ll be terribly disappointed when she hears of his having been carried on out of our reach, and so near being rescued!”