University of Virginia Library

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.