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Updated: May 15, 2025
Collis was among them, of course. The ceiling had come down on him." Mr. Carstyle wiped his forehead. Vibart sat looking away from him. "Two days later Meriton came back. I began to tell him the story, but he interrupted me. "'There was no one with him at the time, then? You'd left him alone? "'No, he wasn't alone. "'Who was with him? You said the sister was out. "'I was with him.
I saw one or two children without clothes. There were no men in the party, but only some boys of twelve or thirteen. Some of the ladies were barefoot." Hither, too, were sent later the women of that detachment of the garrison which had got off from the ghaut in the boat defended by Vibart, Ashe, Delafosse, Bolton, Moore, and Thomson, and which had been captured at Nuzzufghur by Baboo Ram Bux.
I cried, kneeling beside him," it was your hand that shot Sir Maurice Vibart?" "Yes," he answered, his voice growing very gentle as he went on, "for Angela's sake my dead wife," and, fumbling in his pocket, he drew out a woman's small, lace-edged handkerchief, and I saw that it was thickened and black with blood.
He only motioned to me not to stir, so I sat quite still, and then he went up to Uncle Christopher, who was very angry, and laid his hand upon his arm and led him out of the room." She pauses. "Dulcinea," as yet the more familiar appellation "Dulce" is strange to Miss Vibart.
We come first on a railed-in memorial tomb, bearing an inscription in raised letters, on a cross let into the tessellated pavement: "In three graves within this enclosure lie the remains of Major Edward Vibart, 2nd Bengal Cavalry, and about seventy officers and soldiers, who, after escaping from the massacre at Cawnpore on the 27th June 1857, were captured by the rebels at Sheorapore, and murdered on the 1st July."
"What a very charming description," she says, with the low laugh she allows herself; "he sounds like something I have seen somewhere, and he certainly would be a treasure to Byron." "Lord Byron?" asks Dulce, with lifted brows; "I don't myself think he would show off much as a Conrad, or a Giaour, or a Lara." "I rather fancy I was thinking of the man who writes plays," says Miss Vibart, mildly.
Running forward, I stood looking down at that which lay at my feet so very still; and stooped suddenly, and turned it over that I might see the face; and, seeing it, started back in shuddering horror. For, in those features hideous with blood, stained and blackened with powder, I recognized my cousin Sir Maurice Vibart.
Miss Carstyle was beautiful, Vibart was young, and the days were long in his aunt's spacious and distinguished house; but it was really the desire to know something more of Mr. Carstyle that led the young man to partake so often of that gentleman's overdone mutton.
And, presently, he handed me my pipe, and rose. "Mr. Vibart," said he, "it would seem that by no effort, or virtue of my own, I am to win free of this howling desolation of Nowhere-in-Particular, after all; believe me, I would gladly take you with me.
"I wonder you have her," says Miss Vibart, disagreeably impressed by this description. "Why, she is our cousin! And, of course, she can come whenever she wishes she knows that," says Dulce. "It is not with her, as with you, you know. You are a joy, she is a duty. But the children are so sweet." "How many of them?" asks Portia, who knows a few things she prefers to children. "Three.
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