A Damsel of Noble Birth, Miss Charlotte Caroline, hath Fortuitously Eluded the Clutches of her Abductors, and now Sits in Solitude upon a Humble Brick Pedestal, her Arms Crossed in a Manner that bespeaks a Countenance of Unyielding Resilience. Her Visage, a Mask of Stoicism, doth Conceal the Turmoil that hath beset her Fair Soul. Her Garb, once a Pristine White, with Sleeves of Delicate Lace, now Bears the Indelible Stains of the Dusty Terrain, a Testament to the Trials she hath Endured.

"Fie upon this wretched fate! How couldst thou, Providence, permit such villainy to befall me? A maiden of noble birth, kidnapped and left to suffer thus! I, Charlotte Caroline, daughter of the king, reduced to naught but a helpless, hapless creature, at the mercy of these scoundrels!"

The Maiden sits alone on the brick stones, her arms crossed, her eyes fixed on the distance. She speaks to herself, her voice low and urgent.