DIALOGUE I.
Scene. The hill—Night—Large fires burning—Sentinels
dimly seen in the back-ground. A young Indian
steals carefully from the thicket. He examines the
ground and the newly-felled trees.
Indian. One, two, three. And this is ringed. The
dogs have spoiled the council-house.
(Soldiers rush forward.)
1st Sol. So, Mr. Red-skin! would not you like a scalp
or two now, to string on your leggings? Maybe we can
help you to one or so. Hold fast. Take care of that
arm, I know him of old.
(The Indian, with a violent struggle, disengages himself,
and darts into the thicket.)
No? well,—dead or alive, we must have you on our side
again.(Firing.)
2nd Sol. He's fixed, Sir.
1st Sol. Hark. Hark,—off again! Let me go.
What do you hold me for, you scoundrel?
2nd Sol. Don't make a fool of yourself, Will Wilson.
There will be a dozen of them yelling around you there.
Besides, he is half way to the swamp by this. Look
here; what's this, in the grass here?
1st. Sol. There was something in his hand, but he
clenched it through it all,—this is a letter. Bring it to
the fire.
2nd Sol. (reading.)
“This by the Indian, as in case
I am taken, he may reach the camp in safety. Not
over three thousand men in all, I should think,—very
little ammunition, soldiers mostly discouraged.—In
Albany, they are tearing the lead off the windows of the
houses, and taking the weights from the shops for ball.
Talk of retreating on Thursday to the new encampment,
five miles below. More when I get to you.”
More! Humph! A pretty string of lies he has got
here already. This must go to the General, Dick.
[Exeunt.
