University of Virginia Library

DIALOGUE IV.

Scene. The British camp. Moonlight. A lady in a
rich travelling dress, standing in the door of a loghut.

Lady Ackland.

(Talking to her maid within.)
What is the matter, Margaret? What do you go stealing
about the walls so like a mad woman for, with that
shoe in your hand?

Maid.

(Within.)
There, Sir!—your song is done!—
there's one less, I am certain of that. (Coming to the
door.)
If ever I get home alive, my lady—Ha!—(striking
the door with her slipper.)
If ever—you are there,
are you? I believe I have broken my ear in two. The
matter? Will your ladyship look here?

Lady A.

Well.

Maid.

And if ever I get back to London, I'll say well
too. If ever I get back to London alive, my lady,—I'll
see—

Lady A.

What will you see, Margaret? Nothing
lovelier than this, I am sure. Are you not ashamed to
stand muttering there? Come here, and look at this
beautiful night.

Maid.

La, Lady Harriet!

Lady A.

Listen! How still the camp is now! You
can hear the rush of those falls we passed, distinctly.
How pretty the tents look there, in that deep shade.
These tuneful frogs and katy-dids must be our nightingales
to-night. Indeed, as I stand now, I could almost
fancy that fine wood there was my father's park; nay, methinks
I see the top of the old gray turrets peeping out
among the shadows there. Look, Margaret, do you see?

Maid.

La! I can see woods enough, my lady, if that
is what you mean,—nothing else, and I have seen
enough of them already to last me one life through. Yes,
here's a pretty tear I have got amongst them!—Two
guineas and a half it cost me in London,—I pray I may
never set my eyes on a wood again.

Lady A.

This was some happy home once, I know.
See that rose-bush, and this little bed of flowers.—Here
was a pretty yard—there went the fence,—and there,
where that waggon stands, by that broken pear-tree,
swung the gate. And pleasant meetings there have
been at this door, no doubt, and sorrowful partings too,
—and hearts within have leaped at the sound of that
gate, and merry tales have been told by that desolate
hearth. In this little lonely unthought-of place, the mysterious
world of the human soul has unfolded,—the drams
of life been played, as grandly in the eyes of angels as
in the proud halls where my life dawned. And there are
hearts that cling to this desolate spot as mine does to

that far-off home. We have driven them away in sorrow
and fear. This is war!

Maid.

I wonder who is fluting under that tree there,
so late. They are serenading that Dutch woman, as I
live.

Lady A.

The Baroness, are you talking of, Margaret?

Maid.

A baroness! Good sooth!—she looks like it,
in that yellow silk, and those odious beads, fussing about.
If your ladyship will believe me, I saw her sitting in
her tent to-night, ay, in the door, feeding that wretched
child with her own hands. We can't be thankful
enough they did not put her in here with us, I'll own.

Lady A.

Hush, hush, for shame! We might well
have spared that empty room. Come, we'll go in—It's
very late. Strange that Sir George should not be here
ere this.

Maid.

Look, my lady! Here's some one at the gate.

(An officer enters the little court, with a hasty step.)

Officer.

Good evening to your ladyship.—Is Captain
Maitland here?—Sir George told me that he left him
here.

Lady A.

Ay, but he has been gone this hour. Stay,
it is Andre's flute you hear below there, and some one
has joined him just now—yes, it is he.

Off.

Under that tree;—thank you, my lady.

Lady A.

Stay, Colonel Hill,—I beg your pardon, but

you spoke so hastily.—This young Maitland is a friend
of ours, I trust there is nothing that concerns him painfully.—

Off.

Oh nothing, nothing, except that he is ordered
off to Fort Ann to-night. There are none of us that
know these wild routes as well as he.

[Exit.

Lady A.

Good Heavens! What noise is that?

Maid.

Lord 'a mercy! The battle is coming?

Lady A.

Hush! (To a sentinel who goes whistling
by.)
Sirrah, what noise is that?

Sentinel.

It's these Indians, my lady; they have found
the son of some chief of theirs murdered in these woods,
and they are bringing him to the camp now. That's the
mourning they make.

Lady A.

The Lord protect us!

(They enter the house.)