The Bride of Fort Edward | Page 7

stationed now?
_Mrs. G_. Not that I know of? Why?
Helen. Perhaps we may cross that very hill,--no--could we?
_Mrs. G_. Not unless we should turn refugees, my love; an event of which there is little danger just now, I think. That road, as indeed you know yourself, leads out directly to the British camp.
Helen. Yes--yes--it does. I know it does. I will not yield to it. 'Tis folly, all.
_Mrs. G_. You talk as though you were dreaming still; my child. Put on your hat, and go into the garden for a little, the air is fresh and pleasant now; or take a ramble through the orchard if you will, you might meet Annie there,--no, yon she comes, and well too. It's quite time that I were gone again. I wish that we had nothing worse than dreams on hand. Helen, I must talk with you about these fancies; you must not thus unnerve yourself for real evil.
[Exit.
Helen. It were impossible,--it could not be!--how could it be?--Oh! these are wild times. Unseen powers are crossing their meshes here around us,--and, what am I--Powers?--there's but one Power, and that--
----"He careth for the little bird, Far in the lone wood's depths, and though dark weapons And keen eyes are out, it falleth not But at his will."
[Exit.

PART SECOND
* * * * *
LOVE
* * * * *
DIALOGUE I.
SCENE. _A little glen in the woods near Fort Edward. A young British Officer appears, attended by a soldier in the American uniform; the latter with a small sealed pacquet in his hand_.
Off. Hist!
Sol. Well, so I did; but----
Off. Hist, I say!
Sol. A squirrel it is, Sir; there he sits.
Off. By keeping this path you avoid the picket on the hill. It will bring you out where these woods skirt the vale, and scarcely a hundred rods from the house itself.
[Calling without.]
Sol. Captain Andre--Sir.
Off. It were well that the pacquet should fall into no other hands. With a little caution there is no danger. It will be twilight ere you get out of these woods--
Sol. I beg your pardon, Sir; but here is that young Indian guide of mine, after all, above there, beckoning me.
Off. Stay--you will come back to the camp ere midnight?
Sol. Unless some of these quick-eyed rebels see through my disguise.
Off. Do not forget the lodge as you return. A little hut of logs just in the edge of the woods, but Siganaw knows it well.
[Exit the Soldier.
(_The call in the thicket above is repeated, and another young officer enters the glen_.)
_2nd Off_. Hillo, Maitland! These woods yield fairies,--come this way.
_1st Off_. For God's sake, Andre! (motioning silence.) Are you mad?
Andre. Well, who are they?
Mait. _Who_? Have you forgotten that we are on the enemy's ground? Soldiers from the fort, no doubt. They have crossed that opening twice since we stood here.
Andre. Well, let them cross twice more. I would run the risk of a year's captivity, at least, for one such glimpse. Nay, come, she will be gone.
Mait. Stay,--not yet. There, again!
Andre. Such a villainous scratching as I got in that pass just now. It must have cost the rogues an infinite deal of pains though. A regular, handsome sword-cut is nothing to a dozen of these same ragged scratches, that a man can't swear about. After all, Captain Maitland, these cunning Yankees understand the game. They will keep out of our way, slyly enough, until we are starved, and scratched, and fretted down to their proportions, meanwhile they league the very trees against us.
Mait. As to that, we have made some leagues ourselves, I think, quite as hard to be defended, Sir.
Andre. It may be so. Should we not be at the river by this?
Mait. Sunset was the time appointed. We are as safe here, till then.
Andre. 'Tis a little temple of beauty you have lighted on, in truth. These pretty singers overhead, seem to have no guess at our hostile errand. Methinks their peaceful warble makes too soft a welcome for such warlike comers. Hark! [Whistling.] That's American. One might win bloodless laurels here. Will you stand a moment just as you are, Maitland;--'tis the very thing. There's a little space in my unfinished picture, and with that a la Kemble mien, you were a fitting mate for this young Dian here, (taking a pencil sketch from his portfolio,)--the beauty-breathing, ay, beauty-breathing, it's no poetry;--for the lonesome little glen smiled to its darkest nook with her presence.
Mait. What are you talking of, Andre? Fairies and goddesses!--What next?
Andre. I am glad you grow a little curious at last. Why I say, and your own eyes may make it good if you will, that just down in this glen below here, not a hundred rods hence, there sits, or stands, or did some fifteen minutes since, some creature of these woods, I suppose it is;