University of Virginia Library

6. PART SIXTH.
—
RECONCILIATION.

DIALOGUE I.

Scene. The slope of the Hill near Fort Edward.
The road-side, shaded with stately pines and hemlocks.

(Two British Officers, coming slowly down the road.)

1st Off.

Yes, here has been wild work upon this hill
to-day. They were slaughtered to a man.

2nd Off.

I saw a sight above there, just now, that
sickened me of warfare.

1st Off.

And what was that, pry'thee?

2nd Off.

Oh nothing,—'twas nothing but a dead soldier;

a common sight enough, indeed; but this was a
mere youth;—he was lying in a little hollow on the road-side,
and as I crossed in haste, I had well-nigh set my
foot on his brow. Such a brow it was, so young, so noble,
and the dark chesnut curls clustering about it. I think
I never saw a more classic set of features, or a look of
loftier courage than that which death seemed to have
found and marbled in them. Hark—that's a water-fall
we hear.

1st Off.

I saw him, there was another though, lying
not far thence, the sight of whom moved me more. He
was younger yet, or seemed so, and of a softer mould;
and, torn and bloody as they were, I fancied I could see
in his garb and appointments, and in every line of his
features, the traces of some mother's tenderness.

2nd Off.

Listen, Andre! This is beautiful! There's
some cascade not far hence, worth searching for.

Andre.

Yes, just in among those trees you'll find a
perfect drawing-room, carpeted, canopied, and dark as
twilight; its verdant seats broidered with violets and
forget-me-nots; and all untenanted it seems, nay, deserted
rather, for the music wastes on the lonely air, as if the
fairy that kept state there, in gossip mood had stolen
down some neighboring aisle, and would be home anon.
I would have bartered all the glory of this campaign for
leave to stretch myself on its mossy bank, for a soft hour
or so.

Mor.

Ay, with Chaucer or the “Faery Queen.” If
one could people these lovely shades with the fresh creations
of the olden time, knight and lady, and dark enchantress
and Paynim fierce, instead of Yankee rebels—

Andre.

'Twere well your faery-work were of no lasting
mould, or these same Yankee rebels would scarce
thank you for your pains,—they hold that race in little
reverence. Alas,—

Mor.

Ay, Andre, you were born a poet, and have mistaken
your art. Prythee excuse me, who am but a poor
soldier, for marring so fine a rhapsody with any thing so
sublunary; but, methinks, for an enemy's quarters, youder
fort shows as peaceable a front of stone and mortar
as one could ask for. What can it mean that they are
so quiet there?

Andre.

That spy did not return a second time.

Mor.

The rogues have made sure of him ere this, I
fancy. They may have given us the slip,—who knows?

Andre.

I would like to venture a stroll through that
shady street if I thought so. A dim impression that I
have somewhere seen this view before, haunts me unaccountably.

Mor.

How I hate that sober, afternoon air, that hangs
like an invisible presence over it all. You can see it in
the sunshine on those white walls, you can hear it in the
hum of the bee from the bending thistle here.

Andre.

Of the mind it is. This were lovely as the
morning light, but for the shade it gathers thence, from
the thought of decline and the vanishing day. 'Tis a
pretty spot.

Mor.

Yes, but the quiet goings-on of life are all hushed
there now.

Andre.

Ay, this is the hour, when the home-bound
children swing the gate with a merry spring, and the
mother sits at her work by the open window, with her quiet
eye, and the daughter, with the beauty of an untamed soul
in her's, looks forth on the woods and meadows, and
thinks of her walk at even-tide. I thought it was something
like a memory that haunted me thus,—'tis the spot
that Maitland talked of yesterday.

Mor.

Captain Maitland? I saw him just now at the
works above.

Andre.

Here? On this hill?

Mor.

Yes,—something struck me in his mien,—and
there he stands with Colonel Hill, above, on the other
side.—Mark him now. Your friend is handsome, Andre;
he is handsome, I'll own,—but I never liked that
smile of his, and I think I like it less than ever now.

Andre.

Why, that's the genuine Apollo-curl,—a line's
breadth deeper were too much, I'll own.

(Maitland and another Officer enter.)

Off.

That is all,—that is all, I believe, Captain Maitland.
Yonder pretty dwelling among the trees seems
an old acquaintance of yours. It has had the ill manners
to rob me of your eye ever since we stood here, and I
have had little token that the other senses were not in
its company. Andre, has your friend never a ladye-love
in these wilds, you could tell us of?

Mor.

He is sworn to secresy. Did you mark that
glance?

Mait.

Love! I hold it a pretty theme for the ballad-makers,
Colonel Hill; but for myself, I have scarce time
for rhyming just now. Captain Andre, here are papers for
you.

[He walks away, descending the road.

Col. Hill.

So! So! What ails the boy?

(Looking after him for a moment, and then ascending
the hill.)

Andre.

(Reading.)
Humph! Here's prose enough!
Will you walk up the hill with me, Mortimer? I must
cross the river again.

Mort.

First let me seek this horse of mine,—the rogue
must have strayed down this path, I think.

(He enters the wood.)

(Andre walks to and fro with an impatient air, then
pauses.)

Andre.

Well, I can wait no longer for this loiterer.

[Exit.

(Mortimer re-enters, calling from the woods.)

Mor.

Andre! Maitland! Colonel Hill! Good
Heavens! Where the devil are they all? Maitland!

(Maitland appears, slowly ascending the road.)

Mor.

For the love of Heaven,—come here.

Mait.

Nay,—but what is it?

Mor.

For God's sake, come.

DIALOGUE II.

Scene. A little glen, darkly shaded with pines. A
fountain issuing from one side, and falling with a
curious murmur into the basin below.

Mortimer and Maitland enter.

Mor.

This is the place!—Well, if hallucinations like
this can visit mortal eyes, I'll ne'er trust mine again.
'Tis the spot, I'm sure of it,—the place, too, that Andre

was raving about just now.—The fairies' drawing-room,
—palace rather,—look at these graceful shafts, Maitland,—and
fairies' work, it must have been in good
earnest.

Mait.

If it's to admire this clump of pine trees you
have brought me hither, allow me to say you might have
spared yourself that trouble. I have seen the place already,
as often as I care to.

Mor.

Come this way a little,—yes, it was just above
there that I stood,—it must have been.

Mait.

If you would give me some little inkling of what
you are talking about, Lieutenant Mortimer, I should be
more likely to help you, if it's help you need.

Mor.

I do not ask you to believe me, but,—as I was
springing on my horse just now above there, the gurgling
of this spring caught my ear, and looking down suddenly—upon
my word, Captain Maitland, I am ashamed
to describe what cannot but seem to you such an improbable
piece of fancy-work; and yet, true it seemed, as
that I see you now. I was looking down, as I said, when
suddenly, among those low evergreens, the brilliant hue
of a silken mantle caught my eye, and then a woman's
brow gleamed up upon me. Yes, there in that dark
cradle, calmly sleeping, all flashing with gold and jewels,
like some bright vision of olden time, methought there
lay—a lady,—a girl, young and lovely as a dream;—the
white plume in her bonnet soiled and broken, and the

long bright hair streaming heavily on her mantle,—and
yet with all its loveliness, such a face of utter sorrow saw
I never. I saw her, I saw her, as I see you now,—the
proud young form with such a depth of grace, in its
strange repose, and—where are you going?—what are
you doing, Maitland?

Mait.

Helen Grey!—

Mor.

You are right. I did not mark that break—yes
—there she lies. Said I right, Maitland?

Mait.

Helen Grey!—

Mor.

Maitland! Heavens!—what a world of anguish
that tone reveals!—Why do you stand gazing on that lovely
sleeper thus?

Mait.

Bring water. There's a cup at yonder spring.
Here has been treachery! Devils and fiends have been
working here against me. We must unclasp this mantle.
The treasure of the earth lies here.—Now doth
mine arm enfold it once, at last. 'Tis sweet, Helen,
mine own true love; 'tis sweet, even thus.

Mor.

This letter,—see—from those loosened folds it
just now dropped. This might throw some light, perchance—

Mait.

Let it be. There's light enough. I want no
more. Water,—more water,—do you see?

Mor.

Maitland,—this is vain. Mark this dark spot
upon her girdle—

Mait.

Hush, hush,—there, cover it thus—'tis nothing.
Loosen this bonnet—so—'twas a firm hand that tied
that knot; so—she can breathe now.

Mor.

How like life, those soft curls burst from their
loosened pressure! But mark you—there is no other motion.
I am sorry to distress you,—but—Maitland—this
lady is dead.

Mait.

Dead! Lying hell-hound! Dead! Say that
again.

Mor.

God help you!

Mait.

Dead! Helen Grey, open these eyes. Here's
one that, never having seen them, talks of death. Oh
God! is it thus we meet at last? At last these arms
are round her, and she knows it not. I look upon her,
but her eye answers me not. Dead!—for me? Murdered!—mine
own hand hath done it.

Mor.

Why do you start thus?

Mait.

Hush!—hush! There!—again—that slow
heavy throb—again! again!

Mor.

Good God! she breathes! This is life indeed.

Mait.

(Solemnly.)
Ay, thank God. This moment's
sweetness is enough.

Mor.

How like one in troubled sleep she murmurs!
Mark those tones of sweet and wild entreaty. Listen!

Mait.

I have heard it again!—from the buried years

of love and hope that music came. She is here. 'Tis
she. This is no marble mockery. She is here! Her
head is on my bosom. Death cannot rob me of this
sweetness now.

(Talking without.)

A Lady.

This way—I hear their voices. Down this
pathway—here they are.

(Lady Ackland and Andre enter the Glen.)

Lady A.

I knew it could not be. They told us she
was murdered, Maitland. (Starting back.)
Ah—ah—
God help thee, Maitland!

Mait.

Listen, listen. She was speaking but now.
There—again!

Lady A.

And this is she! Can the wilderness blossom
thus? And did God unfold such loveliness—for a
waste so cruel?

Helen.

(In a low murmur.)
We are almost there.
If we could but pass this glen. Oh God! will they stop
here? Go on,—go on. Was not that a white tent I
saw? Go on. They will not. 'Tis nothing,—do not
weep.

Mait.

Look at me, Helen.—Open these eyes. One
more look—one more.

Andre.

She hears your bidding.

Mait.

Oh God! Do you see those eyes—those dim,

bewildered eyes?—it is quenched—quenched. Let her
lean on you.

Lady A.

Gently—gently, she does not see us yet.

Helen.

Oh Mother, I am ill and weary. Here's this
dream again! Blue sky? and pine-tree boughs? Am I
here indeed? Yes, I remember now,—we stood upon
that cliff—I am dying. Is there no one here? Whose
tears are these?

Lady A.

Dear child, sweet one, nay, lean on me.

Helen.

My mother, oh my mother, come to me. Come,
Annie, come, come! Strangers all!

Mor.

Her eye is on him. Hush!

Andre.

See in an instant how the light comes flashing
up from those dim depths again. That is the eye that I
saw yesterday.

Lady A.

That slowly settling smile,—deeper and
deeper—saw you ever any thing so gay, so passing lovely?

Helen.

Is it—is it—Everard Maitland—is it thee?
The living real of my thousand dreams, in the light of
life doth he stand there now? Doth he? 'Tis he!

Mait.

Helen!

Helen.

'Tis he! That tone's spell builds around me
its all-sheltering music-walls, and death is nothing. Oh
God, when at thy dark will dimly revealed, I trembled

yesterday, I did not think in this most rosy bower to
meet its fearfulness.

Mait.

Helen,—dost thou love me yet?

Helen.

Doubter, am I dying here?

Mait.

'Tis her own most rich and blessed smile,
even as of old in mirth it shone upon me. Your murderer,
you count me then?

Helen.

Come hither,—let me lean on you. Star of
the wilderness!—of this life that is fading now, the sun!
—doth mine eye see thee, then, at last? Oh! this is
sweet! On its own holy home my head rests now.
Everard, in this dark world Love leans on Faith. How
else, even in God's love and loveliness, could I trust now
for that strange future on whose bloody threshold I am lying
here; yes, and in spite of prayers and trust, and struggling
hopes. And yet—how beautiful it is—that love invisible,
invisible no more. Like glorious sunshine it is
streaming round me,—lighting all. The infinite of that
thy smile hath imaged, as real,—it beams on me now.
Have faith, in him I mean; for—if we meet again—we'll
need it then no more; and—how dim it grows—nay, let
me lean on you,—and—through this life's darkening
glass I shall see you no more. Nay, hold me!—quick!—
where art thou?—Everard!—He is gone—gone!

Lady A.

Dead!—

Mor.

She is dead!

Andre.

This was Love.

Lady A.

See how her eyes are fixed on you. The
light and love of the vanished soul looks through them
still. Cruelly hath it been sent thence; and no other
gleam of its changeful beauty will e'er dawn in them.
Sadly, oh lovely stranger, I close for ever now these
dark-fringed lids upon their love and beauty. Yes—this
was love!

Andre.

And so there was a need-be in its doom. I'll
ne'er believe that genuine, that is blessed. The fate of
this life would not suffer it. Ah! if it would, if Heaven
should leave a gem like that outside her walls, we should
none of us go thither.

Mait.

Dead? How beautiful! Yes—let her lie
there—under that lovely canopy. Dead!—it's a curious
word—How comes it that we all stand here? Ha,
Ander?—is it you?

Andre.

I heard the tale as I crossed just now, from
an Indian, who was one in the ambuscade this noon—
and in the woods on the other side, I found this lady,
with her attendants, abiding the promise she made you
last night, to welcome this lovely stranger with her savage
guides.

Mait.

Hush, hush. Let it pass. See,—a bride!

Mor.

(Aside.)
Did he trust her with these murderers?

Mait.

Ay—say yes.

Andre.

Indeed, Maitland, you wrong yourself. It was
the treachery of this savage Manida that crossed your
plans, working the mission of some Higher power,—as for
Alaska, you might as soon have doubted me.

The Chief he sent for her was one he had known
years—but, unfortunately, he was one in the ambuscade
this morning—nay, the leader of it; for the murdered Indian
was his son; and meanwhile amid the fight the
treacherous Manida, who accompanied him to Maitland's
tent last night, and heard the promised reward,
found means to steal from its concealment the letter,
with which he easily won this trusting lady to accompany
him.

Mor.

Ah!—there it lies.

Andre.

It was here in this glen that Alaska, discovering
the treachery, lay in wait for them with a band of
chosen warriors, and on that cliff above they fought.

Lady A.

(Aside.)
and she stood there, amid those
yelling demons alone! Methinks the angels should have
come from their unseen dwellings at her prayer. Can
our humanity's darkest extremity wring no love from the
invisible?—

Andre.

Alaska had regained his charge; but the malignant
eye, and the deadly arrow of the vanquished Indian
followed her. She fell, even in the place where you
found her; for at that same instant a party from the fort

drove them hence, victor and vanquished. Alaska fled;
but the murderer, with a tale cunning enough to deceive
the lover, boldly demanded and obtained the prize.

Mor.

Mark his changed mien. I would rather see
tears for a grief like this, than that calm smile with
which he gazes on her now.

(Burgoyne and St. Leger are seen talking in the road
above,—they enter the glen.)

Bur.

At a crisis like this we might better have lost a
thousand men in battle! Ah! ah!—a sight for our enemies,
Lady Ackland! Where is this Indian?

St. L.

We have sent out for him. No one has seen
him as yet.

Bur.

Let him be found. Look to it. We will give
them an example for once. I say, at a crisis like this
we might better have lost a thousand men in battle,
for it will turn thousands against us, and rouse the
slumbering spirit of resistance here, at the very crisis
when, had it slumbered on a little longer, all was ours.

St. L.

But this was a quarrel among the Indians, and
no fault of ours.

Bur,.

No matter. You will see what Schuyler will
make of it. His wordy proclamation will have its living
sequel now. A young and innocent girl, seeking the
protection of our camp, is inhumanly murdered by Indians
in our pay. A single tale like this is enough to

undo at a blow all that we have accomplished here.
With ten thousand will aggravations, it will be told in
every cottage of these borders before to-morrow's sunset.

(Another Officer enters hastily.)

Off.

Here is Arnold, with a thousand men, on the
brow of the next hill. One of the rebel guard escaped,
and the news of the massacre here has reached their
camp below.

Bur.

Said I right?

(The three Officers go out together.)

Andre.

This story is spreading fast, there will be
throngs here presently. Maitland,—nay, do not let me
startle you thus, but—

Mait.

Is it you? What was it we were saying yesterday?—we
should have noted it. This were a picture
worth your pencilling now. Those silken vestments,—
that long, golden hait,—this youthful shape,—there's that
same haughty grace about it, that the smile of these
thought-lit eyes would disown with every glance. Then
that letter,—and the Lady Ackland here,—Weeping?—
This is most strange. I know you all,—but,—as I live I
can't remember how this chanced. How comes it that we
all stand here? Pearls?—and white silk?—a bridal?—
Ha ha ha! (Laughing wildly.)

Lady A.

Take me away. This is too terrible! I can
stay here no longer. Take me away, Andre.

[Exeunt Andre and Lady A.

(An Officer enters.)

The Officer.

We are ordered to withdraw our detachment,
Captain Maitland. The rebels are just below,
some two thousand strong, and in no mood to be encountered.

Mor.

He does not hear you. We must leave that
murdered lady here, and 'its vain to think of parting
them. Come.

[Exeunt Mortimer and Officer.

Mait.

They are gone at last. They are all gone. I
am alone with my dead bride. I must needs smile—I
could not weep when those haughty and prying eyes
were upon me, but now—I am alone with my dead bride.
—Helen, they are all gone,—we are alone. How still she
lies,—smiling too,—on that same bank. She will speak,
surely she will. How lightly those soft lashes lie, as if a
word would lift them.—Helen!—I will be calm and patient
as a child. This lovely smile is deepening, it will
melt to words again.—Hark! that spring,—that same
curious murmur! We have checked our sweetest
words to hear it, we have stood here listening to it, till
we fancied, in its talk-like tones, wild histories, beautiful
and sad, the secrets of the woods.—Oh God!—and have

such memories no power here now? In mine ear alone
doth the spring murmur now. Death! what is't?—
Awake! awake,—by the love that is stronger than
death,—awake!—

I thought that scene would shift. It had a heavy,
dream-like mistiness. This is reality again. These
are the pine trees that I dreamed of. See! how beautiful!
With the sharp outline and the vivid hue such as
our childhood's unworn sense yields, they are waving
now. Look, Andre, there she sits, the young and radiant
stranger,—there, in the golden sunset she is sitting still,
braiding those flowers,—see, how the rich life flashes in
her eye, and yet, just now I dreamed that she was dead,
and—and—Oh my God!

(A voice without.)

Let go, who stays me?—where's my sister?

(Captain Grey enters.)

Grey.

Ha! Murderer! art satisfied?

Mait.

Ay.

Grey.

What, do you mock me, Sir?

Mait.

Let her be. She is mine!—all mine! my
love, my bride,—my bride? — Murderer? — Stay!—
Don't glare at me! I know you, Sir. I can hurl off
these mountain shadows yet.—They'll send some stronger
devil ere they wrench this hold from me! I know
you well. What make you here?

Grey.

Madness!—there's little wonder!—It's the only
good that Heaven has left for him! My lovely playfellow,—my
sister, is it so indeed? Alas! all gently
lies this hand in mine. There is no angry strength here
now. Helen!--Ah! would to God our last words had
not been in bitterness.

Mait.

He weeps. I never thought to see tears there.
List!—she should not lie there thus. Strange it should
move you so!--Think it a picture now. 'Tis but a well-wrought
painting after all, if one but thinks so. See,—
'tis but a sleeping girl, with the red summer light upon
her cheek, and the slight breeze stirring her golden hair.
Mark you that shoulder's grace?—They come.

(Leslie, Elliston, and others enter.)

Leslie.

Oh God, was there none other? My lovely
cousin, and—were you the victim? In your bridal glory
chosen,—nay, with your heart's holiest law lured to the
bloody altar! Yet this day's history, and something in
that calm, high mien, tells me, as freely you had moved
unto it, though God had spoken by a higher voice, and
with a martyr's garland beckoned you.

Elliston.

Our cause is linked unto that ancient one,
the cause of Love and Truth; in which Heaven moves
with unrelenting hand, not sparing its own loveliest
ones, but unto bloody death freely delivering them.

(Grey and Leslie converse apart.)

Leslie.

Yes—we will bury her here. 'Tis a fitting
spot; and unto distant days, this lonely grave, with its
ever-verdant canopy, shall be even as Love's Shrine.
Thither, in the calm and smiling summers of those bloodless
times shall many a fair young pilgrim come, to
wonder at such love; and living eyes shall weep, and
living hearts shall heave over its cruel fate, when unto
her the long-told tale, and all the anguish of this far-off
day, shall be even as the dim passage of some troubled
dream. A martyr's garland she hath won indeed; true
Love's young Martyr there she lies.

Elliston.

Yet was that love but the wreathed and glittering
weapon of a higher doom. In that holy cause,
whose martyrs strew a thousand fields, truth's, freedom's,
God's, darkly, by Power Invisible hath this young life
been offered here.

A thousand graves like this, over all this lovely land,
in lanes and fields, on the lonely hill-side, by the laughing
stream, and in the depths of many a silent wood, to
distant days shall speak—of blood-sealed destinies;
with voices that no tyrant's power can smother, they
shall speak.—

Leslie.

The light of that chamber window, through
the soft summer evening will shine here; no mournful
memory of all the lovely past will it waken. The autumn
blaze will flicker within those distant walls, and
gather its pleasant circle again; but she will lie calmly

here. For ever at her feet the river of her childhood
shall murmur on, and many a lovely spring-time, like the
spring-times of her childhood, shall come and go, but no
yearning hope shall it waken here; the winter shall sing
through the desolate boughs, and rear its fairy temples
around her, but nought shall break her dreamless rest.—

Mait.

Graves! Is it graves they are talking of?
Will they bury this gay young bride! 'Tis but the
name; there's nothing sad in it. In the lovely summer
twilight shall her burial be, and thus; in all her bridal
array, with the glory of the crimson sunset shining
through the trees;—see what a fearful glow is kindling
on her cheek, and that faint breeze—or, is it life that stirs
these curls? Stay!—whose young brow is this?—Ha!
whose smile is this? Who is this they would hurry
away into the darkness of death? The grave! Could
you fold the rosy and all-speading beauty of heaven in
the narrow grave? Helen, is it thee?—my heaven, my
long-lost heaven; and, even now, but for mine own deed
—Oh God! was there no hand but mine?—but for me
——They shall not utter it,—there, thus. There's
but one cry that could unfold this grief, but that would
circle the round universe and fill eternity. A sad sight
this! Is't known who killed this lady, Sir?

Leslie.

Of all the wrecks of beautiful humanity that
strew these paths, we have found none so sad as this!

Elliston.

Mark you those groups of soldiers loitering
on the road-side there?

An Officer.

Curiosity. The regiment that was dismissed
to-day. They'll be here anon.

Leslie.

Ay, let them come.

Off.

Look,—who comes up that winding pathway
through the trees, with such a swift and stately movement?
A woman! See how the rude soldiers turn
aside with awe. Ah, she comes hither.

(A voice without.)

Where is she?—stand aside!—What have you here
in this dark ring?—Henry—nay, let me come.

(Mrs. Grey enters the glen.)

Grey.

For God's sake, Madam, let me lead you hence.
This is no place for you. Look at this group of men,
officers, soldiers—

Mrs. G.

Would you cheat me thus? Is it no place
for me? What kind of place is't then for her, whose—
Oh God!—think you I do not see that slippered foot, nor
know whose it is,—and whose plumed bonnet is it that
lies crushed there at their feet?—unhand me, Henry.

Leslie.

Nay, let her come,—'tis best.

(She passes swiftly through the parting group.)

Mrs. G.

My daughter!—Blood? My stricken child

smile you? No pity was there then? Speak to me, speak!
Your mother's tears are on your brow, and heed you not?
Nay, tell me all, my smitten one. This day's dark history
will you never pour into my ear, that bath treasured so
often your lightest grief? Alone through that wild anguish
have you passed, and smile you now? I bade her
trust in God. Did God see this?

(Arnold, and a group of Soldiers, enter the glen.)

Arnold.

Look there. Ay, ay, look there. You were
right, Leslie;—this is better than a battle-field. They'll
find that this day's work will cost them dear.

Mrs. G.

Did God, who loves as mothers love their
babes, see this? Had I been there, with my love, in the
heavens, could I have given up this innocent and tender
child a prey to the wild Indians? No!—and legions of
pitying angels waiting but my word. No,—no.

Elliston.

Had you been there,—from that far centre
whence God's eye sees all, you had beheld what lies in
darkness here. Forth from this fearful hour you might
have seen Peace, like a river, flowing o'er the years to
come; and smiles, ten thousand, thousand smiles, down
the long ages brightening, sown in this day's tears. Had
you been there with God's all-pitying eye, the pitying
legions had waited your word in vain, for once, unto a
sterner doom, for the world's sake he gave his Son.

Mrs. G.

Words! Look there. That mother warned

me yesterday. “Words, words! My own child's
blood,”—I see it now.

(A group of Soldiers enter.)

Another Soldier.

(Whispering.)
Who would have thought
to see tears on his face; look you, Jack Richards.

Another Sol.

'Twas his sister, hush!—

Arnold.

Ay, ay, come hither. Look you there!
Lay down your arms. Seek the royal mercy;—here it
is. Your wives, your sisters, and your innocent children;—let
them seek the royal shelter;—it is a safe one.
See.

3d Sol.

It was just so in Jersey last winter;—made
no difference which side you were.

Arnold.

Ask no reasons.—'Twas in sport may be. 'Tis
but one, in many such. Shameless tyranny we have
borne long, and now, for resistance, to red butchery we
are given over. The sport of lawless soldiers, and savages
more cruel than the fiends in hell, are we, and the
gentle beings of our homes;—but, 'tis the Royal power.
Lay down your arms.

Soldiers.

(Shouting.)
No.

Arnold.

Nay, nay,—in its caprice some will be safe,
—it may not light on you. See, here's the proclamation.
(Throwing it among them.)
Pardon for rebles.

Soldiers.

No—no. (Shouting.)
Away with pardou!

—(Tearing the proclamation.)
To the death! Freedom
for ever!