Chapter III: Act II

SCENE I.--_The great kitchen at St. David's Mill. Breakfast-time_.

_At the board are seated the_ Widow Stephen Secord, Sergeant George Mosier, _and little_ Tom. Babette _is waiting at table_.

_Widow_. 'Tis pitiful to see one's land go waste For want of labour, and the summer days, So rich in blessing, spend their fruitful force On barren furrows. And then to think That over both the Provinces it is the same,-- No men to till the land, because the war Needs every one. God knows how we shall feed Next year: small crop, small grist,--a double loss To me. The times are anxious. (_To Sergeant Mosier_.) Have you news?

_Sergeant_. Not much, ma'am, all is pretty quiet still Since Harvey struck them dumb at Stony Creek. Along the Lake bold Yeo holds them fast, And, Eric-way, Bisshopp and Evans back him. Thus stand we now; but Proctor's all too slow. O had we Brock again, bold, wise, and prompt, That foreign rag that floats o'er Newark's spires Would soon go down, and England's ensign up.

_Widow_. Ah, was he not a man! and yet so sweet,
So courteous, and so gentle.

_Babette_. _Ah, oui, madame_. So kind! not one rough word he ever had, The _General_, but bow so low, "_Merci, Babette_," For glass of milk, _et petit chose comme ca_. Ah, long ago it must be he was French: Some _grand seigneur, sans doute_, in Guernsey then. Ah the brave man, madame, _ce hero la!_

_Widow_. Yes, brave indeed, Babette, but English, English. Oh, bravery, good girl, is born of noble hearts, And calls the world its country, and its sex Humanity.

_Babette_. Madame?

_Widow_. You do not understand me, not; but you Were very brave and noble-hearted when You faced the wolf that scented the young lambs.

_Babette_. _Brave! moi!_ Madame is kind to say it so. But bravery of women--what is that To bravery of man?

_Tom_. An' that's just what I said to Hatty, mother, When she declared that Aunty Laura was As brave as soldiers, 'cause she went an' fetched Poor Uncle James from off the battlefield. After the fight was over. That wasn't much!

_Widow_. You're but an ignorant little boy, my son,
But might be wiser were you not so pert.

_Sergeant_. I heard not that before, ma'am.

_Widow_. Did you not? 'Tis very true. Upon that dreadful day, After Brock fell, and in the second fight, When with the Lincoln men and Forty-first Sheaffe led the attack, poor Captain Secord dropped, Shot, leg and shoulder, and bleeding there he lay, With numbers more, when evening fell; for means Were small to deal with wounded men, and all, Soldiers and citizens, were spent and worn With cruel trials. So when she learned he lay Among the wounded, his young wife took up A lantern in her hand, and searched the field-- Whence sobs and groans and cries rose up to heaven And paled the tearful stars--until she found The man she loved, not sure that life remained. Then binding him as best she might, she bore, With some kind aid, the fainting body home,-- If home it could be called where rabid hate Had spent its lawless rage in deeds of spite; Where walls and roof were torn with many balls, And shelter scarce was found. That very night, Distrustful lest the foe, repulsed and wild, Should launch again his heavier forces o'er The flood, she moved her terror-stricken girls-- Four tender creatures--and her infant boy, Her wounded husband and her two young slaves, 'Neath cover of thick darkness to the farm, A mile beyond: a feat even for a man. And then she set her woman's wit and love To the long task of nursing back to health Her husband, much exhaust through loss of blood, and all the angry heat of gunshot wounds. But James will never be himself again Despite her care.

_Sergeant_. 'Twas well and bravely done. Yet oft I think the women of these days Degenerate to those I knew in youth.

_Widow_. You're hasty, Sergeant, already hath this war Shown many a young and delicate woman A very hero for--her hero's sake; Nay, more, for others'. She, our neighbour there At Queenston, who when our troops stood still, Weary and breathless, took her young babe, Her husband under arms among the rest, And cooked and carried for them on the field: Was she not one in whom the heroic blood Ran thick and strong as e'er in times gone by? O Canada, thy soil is broadcast strown With noble deeds: a plague on him, I say, Who follows with worse seed!

(_She rises and prepares for making pies_. Babette _clears off the table, and_ Sergeant George _smokes his pipe, sitting close to the open chimney, now filled with fresh branches of spruce and cedar_.)

_Sergeant_. Well, mistress, p'rhaps you're right; old folks aye think Old times the best; but now your words recall The name of one, the bravest of her sex, So far as e'er I saw, save, p'rhaps, the Baroness. Tender of frame, most gentle, softly raised, And young, the Lady Harriet Acland shared, With other dames whose husbands held commands, The rough campaign of 'Seventy-six. But her lot fell so heavy, and withal She showed such spirit, cheerfulness, and love, Her name became a watchword in the ranks.

_Widow_. And what about her, Sergeant?

_Sergeant_. Well, mistress, as you ask I'll tell the tale: She was the wife of Major John Dyke-Acland, An officer of Grenadiers, then joined To Highland Frazer's arm of Burgoyne's troops. At Chamblee he was wounded. Leaving the Fort, His wife crossed lake and land, by means so rough As tried the strength of men, to nurse him. Recovered; next he fought Ticonderoga, And there was badly wounded. Lake Champlain She traversed to his aid in just a batteau. No sooner was he better, than again He joined his men, always the first to move, And so alert their situation was, That all slept in their clothes. In such a time The Major's tent took fire, and he, that night, But for a sergeant's care, who dragged him out, Had lost his life. Twice saved he was; For thinking that his wife still lay within, Burning to death, he broke away, And plunged into the fiery mass. But she, Scarce half awake, had crept from out the tent, And gained her feet in time to see him rush In search of her--a shuddering sight to one Loving and loved so well. But luckily, Both then were saved. She also shared the march That followed up the foe, action impending At every step; and when the fight began, Though sheltered somewhat, heard all the din, The roar of guns, and bursting shells, and saw The hellish fire belch forth, knowing the while Her husband foremost in the dreadful fray. Nay, more; her hut was all the shelter given To dress the wounded first; so her kind eyes Were forced to witness sights of ghastly sort, Such as turn surgeons faint; nor she alone, Three other ladies shared her anxious care: But she was spared the grief they knew too soon, Her husband being safe. But when Burgoyne At Saratoga lost the bloody day, The Major came not back--a prisoner he, And desperate wounded. After anxiety So stringent and prolonged, it seemed too much To hope the lady could support such sting And depth of woe, yet drooped she not; but rose And prayed of Burgoyne, should his plans allow, To let her pass into the hostile camp, There to beseech for leave to tend her husband. Full pitifully Burgoyne granted her The boon she asked, though loath to let her go; For she had passed hours in the drenching rain, Sleepless and hungry; nor had he e'en a cup Of grateful wine to offer. He knew Her danger, too, as she did,--that she might fall In cruel hands; or, in the dead of night Approaching to the lines, be fired on. Yet yielding to her prayer, he let her go, Giving her all he could, letters to Gates, And for her use an open boat. Thus she set forth, with Chaplain Brudenell For escort, her maid, and the poor Major's man-- Thus was she rowed adown the darkling stream. Night fell before they reached the enemy's posts, And all in vain they raised the flag of truce, The sentry would not even let them land, But kept them there, all in the dark and cold, Threatening to fire upon them if they stirred Before the break of day. Poor lady! Sad Were her forebodings through those darksome hours, And wearily her soft maternal frame Bore such great strain. But as the dark Grows thickest ere the light appears, so she Found better treatment when the morning broke. With manly courtesy, proud Gates allowed Her wifely claim, and gave her all she asked.

_Widow_. Could he do less! Yes, Sergeant, I'll allow Old times show tender women bold and brave For those they love, and 'twill be ever so. And yet I hold that woman braver still Who sacrifices all she loves to serve The public weal.

_Sergeant_. And was there ever one?

_Widow_. Oh, yes--

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD.

Why, Laura! Now you're just too late To have your breakfast with us. But sit down. (_She calls_.) Babette! Babette!

_Enter_ BABETTE.

Haste, girl, and make fresh tea, Boil a new egg, and fry a bit of ham, And bring a batch-cake from the oven; they're done By this.

[_Exit_ BABETTE.

(_To Mrs. Secord_.) Take off your things, my dear; You've come to stay a day or two with Charles, Of course. He'll be awake just now. He's weak, But better. How got you leave to come?

[SERGEANT GEORGE _is leaving the kitchen_.

Stay, Sergeant, you should know James Secord's wife, Poor Charles's sister.

(_To Mrs. Secord_.) Laura, this is a friend You've heard us speak of, Sergeant George Mosier, My father's crony, and poor Stephen's, too.

_Mrs. Secord (curtesying)_. I'm glad to meet you, sir.

_Sergeant (bowing low)_. Your servant, madam,
I hope your gallant husband is recovered.

_Mrs. Secord_. I thank you, sir, his wound, but not his strength,
And still his arm is crippled.

_Sergeant_. A badge of honour, madam, like to mine,

[_He points to his empty sleeve_.

_Enter_ BABETTE _with tray_.

[_Exit_ SERGEANT GEORGE.

_Widow_. That's right, girl, set it here. (_To Mrs. Secord_.) Come eat a bit. That ham is very nice, 'tis Gloucester fed, And cured-malt-coombs, you know, so very sweet. (_To Babette_.) Mind thou the oven, lass, I've pies to bake, And then a brisket.

[_Exit_ BABETTE.

(_To Mrs. Secord_.) I thought you fast Within the lines: how got you leave to come?

_Mrs. Secord_. I got no leave; three several sentries I, With words of guile, have passed, and still I fear My ultimate success. 'Tis not to see Poor Charles I came, but to go further on To Beaver Dam, and warn Fitzgibbon there Of a foul plot to take him by surprise This very night. We found it out last eve, But in his state poor James was helpless, So I go instead.

_Widow_. You go to Beaver Dam! Nineteen long miles On hot and dusty roads, and all alone! You can't, some other must.

_Mrs. Secord_. I must, no other can. The time is short, And through the virgin woods my way doth lie, For should those sentries meet, or all report I passed their bounds, suspicion would be waked, And then what hue and cry!

_Widow_. The woods! and are you crazed? You cannot go! The woods are full of creatures wild and fierce, And wolves prowl round about. No path is blazed, No underbrush is cleared, no clue exists Of any kind to guide your feet. A man Could scarce get through, how then shall you?

_Mrs. Secord_. I have a Guide in Heaven. This task is come To me without my seeking. If no word Reaches Fitzgibbon ere that murderous horde Be on him, how shall he save himself? And if defeat he meets, then farewell all Our homes and hopes, our liberties and lives.

_Widow_. Oh, dear! oh, dear! and must you risk your life, Your precious life? Think of it, Laura, yet: Soldiers expect to fight; and keep strict watch Against surprise. Think of your little girls, Should they be left without a mother's care; Your duty is to them, and surely not In tasks like this. You go to risk your life. As if you had a right, and thereby leave Those who to you owe theirs, unpitied, Desolate. You've suffered now enough With all you've lost, and James a cripple, too, What will the children do should they lose you Just when their youthful charms require your care? They'll blame you, Laura, when they're old enough To judge what's right.

_Mrs. Secord_. I do not fear it. Children can see the right at one quick glance, For, unobscured by self or prejudice, They mark the aim, and not the sacrifice Entailed.

_Widow_. Did James consent to have you go?

_Mrs. Secord_. Not till he found there was no other way;
He fretted much to think he could not go.

_Widow_. I'm sure he did. A man may undergo A forced fatigue, and take no lasting hurt, But not a woman. And you so frail-- It is your life you risk. I sent my lads, Expecting them to run the chance of war, And these you go to warn do but the same.

_Mrs. Secord_. You see it wrong; chances of war to those Would murder be to these, and on my soul, Because I knew their risk, and warned them not. You'll think I'm right when tramp of armed men, And rumble of the guns disturb you in your sleep. Then, in the calmer judgment night-time brings, You'd be the first to blame the selfish care That left a little band of thirty men A prey to near six hundred.

_Widow_. Just the old story! Six hundred--it's disgraceful! Why, Were they tailors--nine to make a man-- 'Tis more than two to one. Oh, you must go.

_Mrs. Secord_. I knew you'd say so when you came to think: It was your love to me that masked your judgment. I'll go and see poor Charles, but shall not say My real errand, 'twould excite him so.

[_Exit_ MRS. SECORD.

_Widow_. Poor Laura! Would to God I knew some way
To lighten her of such a task as this.

[_Enter_ SERGEANT GEORGE.

_Sergeant_. Is it too early for the invalid?
The lads are here, and full of ardour.

_Widow_. Oh, no, his sister's with him.

[_Exit_ SERGEANT.
[_A bugle is heard sounding the assembly_.

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD _in alarm_.

_Mrs. Secord_. What's that! What's that!

_Widow_. I should have warned you, dear, But don't be scared, its Sergeant George's boys. He's gathered quite a company of lads From round about, with every match-lock, gun, Or fowling-piece the lads could find, and drills Them regularly every second morn.

He calls 'em "Young St. David's Yeoman Guard," Their horses, "shankses naigie." Look you here!

(_Both ladies look through the open window from which is visible the driving shed: here are assembled some twenty lads of all ages and heights, between six and sixteen. They carry all sorts of old firelocks and are "falling in." They are properly sized, and form a "squad with intervals." In the rear stands a mash-tub with a sheepskin stretched over it for a drum, and near it is the drummer-boy, a child of six; a bugle, a cornet and a bassoon are laid in a corner, and two or three boys stand near_.)

_Sergeant George_. Now, Archy, give the cadence in slow time. (_To the squad_.) Slow--march. (_They march some thirty paces_.) Squad--halt. (_They halt, many of them out of line_.) Keep your dressing. Steps like those would leave some of you half behind on a long march. Right about face--two--three. That's better. Slow--march. (_They march_.) Squad--halt. (_They all bring up into line_.) That's better. No hangers back with foe in front. Left about face--two--three. Keep up your heads. By the right--dress. Stand easy. Fall in, the band. We'll try the music.

(_The band falls in, three little fellows have fifes, two elder ones flutes, one a flageolet; the owners of the cornet, bugle and bassoon take up their instruments, and a short, stout fellow has a trombone_.)

_Sergeant George (to the band)_. Now show your loyalty, "The
King! God bless him."

[_They play, the squad saluting_.

_Sergeant George_ (_to band_.) That's very well, but mind your time. (_To the squad_.) Now you shall march to music. (_To the band_.) Boys, play--"The Duke of York's March." (_To the squad_.) Squad--attention. Quick march. (_They march_.) Squad--halt.

[_At a signal, the band ceases playing_.

Yes, that's the way to meet your country's foes. If you were Yankee lads you'd have to march to this (_he takes a flageolet)_. Quick--march.

(_Plays Yankee Doodle with equal cleverness and spite, travestying both phrase and expression in a most ludicrous manner until the boys find it impossible to march for laughter; the Sergeant is evidently delighted with the result_.)

Ho! Ho! That's how you march to "Yankee Doodle." 'Tis a fine tune! A grand, inspiring tune, Like "Polly put the Kettle on," or "Dumble-dum-deary." Can soldiers march to that? Can they have spirit, honour, or do great deeds With such a tune as that to fill their ears?

_Mrs. Secord_. The Sergeant's bitter on the foe, I think.

_Widow_. He is, but can you wonder? Hounded out When living peaceably upon his farm. Shot at, and threatened till he takes a side, And then obliged to fly to save his life, Losing all else, his land, his happy home, His loving wife, who sank beneath the change, Because he chose the rather to endure A short injustice, than belie his blood By joining England's foes. He went with Moody.

_Mrs. Secord_. Poor fellow! Those were heavy times, like these.

_Sergeant George_. Now boys, the grand new tune, "Britannia Rules the Waves," play _con spirito_, that means heart! mind! soul! as if you meant it.

(_He beats time, and adds a note of the drum at proper points, singing the chorus with much vigour and emphasis. Mrs. Secord betrays much emotion, and when the tune is begun for the third verse, she hastily closes the window_.)

Shut, shut it out, I cannot bear it, Ellen, It shakes my heart's foundations! Let me go.

_Widow_. Nay, but you're soon upset. If you must go, Your bonnet's on my bed. I'll get a bite Of something for you on the road.

[_She busies herself in filling a little basket with refreshment,
and offers_ MRS. SECORD _cake and wine_.

Here, eat a bit, and drink a sup of wine, It's only currant; the General's got a keg I sent, when stores were asked; James Coffin's good; He always sends poor Ned, or Jack, or Dick,-- When commissariat's low; a mother's heart, A widowed mother, too, he knows, sore longs To see her lads, e'en if she willing sends Them all to serve the King. I don't forget him Morning and night, and many a time between. No wine? Too soon? Well, take this drop along. There's many a mile where no fresh water is, And you'll be faint--

[_She bursts into tears_.

Good lan', I cannot bear to see you go.

_Mrs. Secord_. Nay, sister, nay, be calm!
Send me away light-hearted,

[_Kisses her_.

I trust in God, As you for your dear lads. Shew me the way To gain the woods unseen by friend or foe, The while these embryo soldiers are engaged.

_Widow_. I'll go with you a mile or two.

_Mrs. Secord_. No, no.
It might arouse suspicion.

[_She opens the door, and the_ WIDOW SECORD _joins her_.

_Widow_. Times indeed
When every little act has some to watch!

[_Points to a tree_.

You see yon oak just by the little birch--

_Mrs. Secord_. I do.

_Widow_. There is a little path leads down To a small creek, cross that, and keep the sun Behind you half a mile, and then you strike The bush, uncleared and wild. Good God, to think--

_Mrs. Secord_. Think not, but pray, and if a chance occurs Send aid to poor Fitzgibbon. Little help Just in the nick of time oft turns the scale Of fortune. God bless you, dear! Good bye.

[_They embrace with tears. Exit_ MRS. SECORD.

* * * * *

SCENE 2.--_A beautiful glade_.

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD.--_After scanning the spot searchingly, she seats herself on a fallen trunk_.

_Mrs. Secord_. This spot is surely safe; here I will rest, For unaccustomed service tires my limbs, And I have travelled many a weary rood More than a crow-line measures; ups and downs Absorb so many steps that nothing add To distance. Faint am I, too, and thirsty. Hist! hist! ye playful breezes that do make Melodious symphonies and rippling runs Among the pines and aspens, hear I not A little tinkling rill, that somewhere hides Its sweet beneficence 'mid ferns and moss?

[_She rises and looks about_.

Ay, here it is: a tiny brilliancy That glances at the light, as careful, still, To keep the pure translucency that first It caught from Heaven. Give me, oh give, sweet rill, A few cool drops to slake my parching throat. Fair emblem truly thou of those meek hearts That thread the humblest haunts of suffering earth With Christ-like charities, and keep their souls Pure and untaint, by Heavenly communings.

[_She reseats herself, and contemplates the scene_.

O this is beautiful! Here I could lie-- Were earth a myth and all her trials nought-- And dream soft nothings all a summer's day. In this fair glade were surely celebrate The nuptials of the year: and for her gift, Fair Flora, lightly loitering on the wing Of Zephyrus, tossed all her corbel out, Filling the air with bloom. From yonder copse, With kindling eye and hasty step, emerged The gladsome Spring, with leafy honours crowned, His following a troop of skipping lambs: And o'er yon hill, blushing for joy, approached His happy bride, on billowy odours borne, And every painted wing in tendance bent. Procession beautiful! Yet she how fair!-- The lovely Summer, in her robes of blue, Bedecked with every flower that Flora gave,-- Sweet eglantine and meek anemone, Bright, nodding columbine and wood-star white, Blue violets, like her eyes, and pendant gems Of dielytra, topaz-tipped and gold, Fragrant arbutus, and hepatica, With thousands more. Her wreath, a coronet Of opening rose-buds twined with lady-fern; And over all, her bridal-veil of white,-- Some soft diaph'nous cloudlet, that mistook Her robes of blue for heaven.-- And I could dream That, from his lofty throne beholding, Great Sol, on wings of glowing eve, came down In gracious haste, to bless the nuptials. (_She pauses_.) And shall this land, That breathes of poesy from every sod, Indignant throb beneath the heavy foot Of jeering renegade? at best a son His mother blushes for--shall he, bold rebel Entwine its glories in defiant wreath Above his boastful brow, and flaunt it in Her face, rejoicing in her woe? No! No! This priceless gem shall ever deck her crown, And grace its setting with a ray more pure For that, nor flood, nor fire, can flaw its heart. Yes, Canada, thy sons, at least, maintain The ancient honour of their British blood, In that their loyalty contracts no stain From proffered gifts or gold. But I must on. I may not loiter, while So much depends on me.

(_She rises to proceed, and at the first step a rattlesnake rears up at her, hissing and springing its rattles. She recoils in fear, but remembering the cowardly nature of the creatures, throws sticks at it, and it glides swiftly away_.)

Vile reptile! Base as vile, and cowardly as base; A straight descendant thou of him, methinks, Man's ancient foe, or else his paraphrase. Is there no Eden that thou enviest not? No purity thou would'st not smirch with gall? No rest thou would'st not break with agony? Aye, Eve, our mother-tongue avenges thee, For there is nothing mean, or base, or vile, That is not comprehended in the name Of SNAKE!

[_Exit_ MRS. SECORD.

* * * * *

SCENE 3--_A thick wood through which runs a forest path, leading to a high beech ridge_.

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD, _walking as quickly as the underbrush will allow_.

_Mrs. Secord_. How quiet are the woods! The choir of birds that daily ushers in The rosy dawn with bursts of melody, And swells the joyful train that waits upon The footsteps of the sun, is silent now, Dismissed to greenwood bowers. Save happy cheep Of callow nestling, that closer snugs beneath The soft and sheltering wing of doting love,--Like croon of sleeping babe on mother's breast--No sound is heard, but, peaceful, all enjoy Their sweet siesta on the waving bough, Fearless of ruthless wind, or gliding snake. So peaceful lies Fitzgibbon at his post, Nor dreams of harm. Meanwhile the foe Glides from his hole, and threads the darkling route, In hope to coil and crush him. Ah, little recks he that a woman holds The power to draw his fangs! And yet some harm must come, some blood must flow, In spite of all my poor endeavour. O War, how much I hate thy wizard arts, That, with the clash and din of brass and steel, O'erpowers the voice of pleading reason; And with thy lurid light, in monstrous rays Enfolds the symmetry of human love, Making a brother seem a phantom or a ghoul! Before thy deadly scowl kind peace retires, And seeks the upper skies. O, cruel are the hearts that cry "War!" "War!" As if War were an angel, not a fiend; His gilded chariot, a triumphal car, And not a Juggernauth whose wheels drop gore; His offerings, flowers and fruit, and chaplets gay, And not shrieks, tears, and groans of babes and women. And yet hath War, like Juggernauth, a hold, A fascination, for humanity, That makes his vot'ries martyrs for his sake. Even I, poor weakling, march in keeping-time To that grand music that I heard to-day, Though children played it, and I darkly feel Its burden is resistance physical. 'Tis strange that simple tones should move one so! What is it, what, this sound, this air, this breath The wind can blow away, Nor most intricate fetters can enchain? What component of being doth it touch That it can raise the soul to ecstasy, Or plunge it in the lowest depth of horror? Freeze the stopt blood, or send it flowing on In pleasant waves? Can draw soft tears, or concentrate them hard To form a base whereon the martyr stands To take his leap to Heaven? What is this sound that, in Niagara's roar Brings us to Sinai; Or in the infant's prayer to Him, "Our Father?" That by a small inflection wakes the world, And sends its squadroned armies on To victory or death; Or bids it, peaceful, rest, and grow, and build? That reassures the frighted babe; or starts The calm philosopher, without a word? That, in the song of little bird speaks glee; Or in a groan strikes mortal agony? That, in the wind, brings us to shipwreck, death. And dark despair; Or paints us blessed islands far from care or pain? Then what is sound? The chord it vibrates with its magic touch Is not a sense to man peculiar, An independent string formed by that breath That, breathed into the image corporate, Made man a living soul. No, for all animate nature owns Its sovereign power. Brutes, birds, fish, reptiles, all That breathe, are awed or won by means of sound. Therefore, it must be of the corporate, corporeal And, if so, _why then the body lives again_, Despite what sceptics say; for sound it is Will summon us before that final bar To give account of deeds done in the flesh. The spirit cannot thus be summoned, Since entity it hath not sound can strike. Let sceptics rave! I see no difficulty That He, who from primordial atoms formed A human frame, can from the dust awake it Once again, marshal the scattered molecules And make immortal, as was Adam. This body lives! Or else no deep delight Of quiring angels harping golden strings; No voice of Him who calls His children home; No glorious joining in the immortal song Could touch our being But how refined our state! How changed! Never to tire or grow distraught, Or wish for rest, or sleep, or quietude, But find in absence of these earthly needs A truer Heaven. O might I rest even now! These feet grow painful, and the shadows tell Of night and dark approaching, my goal An anxious distance off.

[_She gazes round_.

I'll rest awhile, For yonder height will tax my waning strength, And many a brier all beautiful with bloom Hides many a thorn that will dispute my path Beneath those ancient beeches.

(_She seats herself, and having removed her bonnet, partakes of the refreshment brought from the mill. As she eats, a grieved look comes upon her face, and she wipes away a tear_.)

The sun leans towards the west: O darlings mine, E'en now, perchance, ye sit in order round The evening board, your father at the head, And Polly in my place making his tea, While he pretends to eat, and cheats himself. And thou, O husband, dearest, might I lay My, weary head as oft upon thy breast!-- But no (_she rises_), I dare not think--there is above A Love will guard me, and, O blessed thought, Thee, too, and they our darlings.

[_She proceeds towards the beech ridge, but is stayed at the foot
by a rapid-running stream_.

Nor bridge, nor stone, nor log, how shall I cross? Yon o'erturned hemlock, whose wide-spreading root Stands like a wattled pier from which the bridge Springs all abrupt and strait, and hangs withal So high that hardihood itself looks blank-- I scarce may tempt, worn as I am, and spent. And on the other bank, the great green head Presents a wilderness of tangled boughs By which would be a task, indeed, to reach The ground. Yet must I try. Poor hands, poor feet, This is rough work for you, and one small slip Would drop me in the stream, perchance to drown. Not drown! oh, no, my goal was set by Heaven. Come, rally all ye forces of the will, And aid me now! Yon height that looms above Is yet to gain before the sun gets low.

(_She climbs the hemlock root and reaches the trunk, across which she crawls on her hands and knees, and at last finds herself some yards up the beech ridge. After arranging her torn and dishevelled clothing she proceeds up the ridge, at the top of which she encounters a British sentry, who challenges_.)

_Sentry_. Who goes there?

_Mrs. Secord_. A friend.

_Sentry_. What friend?

_Mrs. Secord_. To Canada and Britain.

_Sentry_. Your name and errand.

_Mrs. Secord_. My name is Secord--Captain Secord's wife, Who fought at Queenston;--and my errand is To Beaver Dam to see Fitzgibbon, And warn him of a sortie from Fort George To move to-night. Five hundred men, with guns, And baggage-waggons for the spoil, are sent. For, with such force, the enemy is sure Our stores are theirs; and Stoney Creek avenged.

_Sentry_. Madam, how know you this?

_Mrs. Secord_. I overheard Some Yankee soldiers, passing in and out With all a victor's license of our hearths, Talk of it yesternight, and in such wise No room for doubt remained. My husband wished To bear the news himself, but is disabled yet By those two wounds he got at Queenston Heights, And so the heavy task remained with me, Much to his grief.

_Sentry_. A heavy task indeed.
How got you past their lines?

_Mrs. Secord_. By many wiles;
Those various arts that times like these entail.

_Sentry_. And then how got you here?

_Mrs. Secord_. I left my home At daybreak, and have walked through the deep woods The whole way since I left St. David's Mill.

_Sentry_. 'Tis past belief, did not your looks accord. And still you have a weary way to go, And through more woods. Could I but go with you, How gladly would I! Such deed as yours Deserves more thanks than I can give. Pass, friend, All's well.

[MRS. SECORD _passes the Sentry, who turns and walks with her_.

_Mrs. Secord_. There's naught to fear, I hope, but natural foes,
Lynxes or rattlesnakes, upon my way.

_Sentry_. There are some Mohawks ambushed in the wood, But where I cannot quite point out; they choose Their ground themselves, but they are friends, though rough,-- Some of Kerr's band, Brant's son-in-law. You'll need To tell the chief your errand should you cross him.

_Mrs. Secord_. Thanks: for I rather fear our red allies.
Is there a piquet?

_Sentry_. No, not near me; our men are all too few--
A link goes to and fro 'twixt me and quarters,
And is but just now left (_he turns sharp about)_.
My limit this--
Yonder your road (_he points to the woods)_.
God be wi' you. Good-bye.

_Mrs. Secord_. Good-bye, my friend.

[_Exit_ MRS. SECORD.

_Sentry_. A bold, courageous deed! A very woman, too, tender and timid. That country's safe whose women serve her cause With love like this. And blessed, too, it is, In having such for wives and mothers.

* * * * *

SCENE 4.--_The forest, with the sun nearly below the horizon, its rays illuminate the tops of the trees, while all below is dark and gloomy. Bats are on the wing, the night-hawk careers above the trees, fire-flies flit about, and the death-bird calls_.

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD, _showing signs of great fatigue_.

_Mrs. Secord_. Gloomy, indeed, and weird, and oh, so lone! In such a spot and hour the mind takes on Moody imaginings, the body shrinks as'twere, And all the being sinks into a sea Of deariness and doubt and death.

[_The call of the death-bird is heard_.

Thou little owl, that with despairing note Dost haunt these shades, art thou a spirit lost, Whose punishment it is to fright poor souls With fear of death?--if death is to be feared, And not a blank hereafter. The poor brave Who answers thee and hears no call respond, Trembles and pales, and wastes away and dies Within the year, thee making his fell arbiter. Poor Indian! Much I fear the very dread Engendered by the small neglectful bird, Brings on the fate thou look'st for. So fearless, yet so fearful, do we all, Savage and civil, ever prove ourselves; So strong, so weak, hurt by a transient sound, Yet bravely stalking up to meet the death We see.

[_A prolonged howl is heard in the distance_.

The wolves! the dreadful wolves! they've scented me. O whither shall I fly? no shelter near; No help. Alone! O God, alone!

[_She looks wildly round for a place to fly to. Another howl
is heard_.

O Father! not this death, if I must die, My task undone, 'tis too, too horrible!

[_Another howl as of many wolves, but at a distance; she bends to
listen, her hand upon her heart_.

Be still, wild heart, nor fill my list'ning ears With thy deep throbs.

[_The howl of the wolves is again heard, but faintly_.

Thank God, not me they seek! Some other scent allures the ghoulish horde. On, on, poor trembler! life for life it is, If I may warn Fitzgibbon.

[_She steps inadvertently into a little pool, hastily stoops and
drinks gladly_.

Oh blessed water! To my parched tongue More precious than were each bright drop a gem From far Golconda's mine; how at thy touch The parting life comes back, and hope returns To cheer my drooping heart!

(_She trips and falls, and instantly the Indian war-whoop resounds close at hand, and numbers of braves seem to spring from the ground, one of whom approaches her as she rises with his tomahawk raised_.)

_Indian_. Woman! what woman want?

_Mrs. Secord (leaping forward and seizing his arm)_. O chief, no spy am I, but friend to you And all who love King George and wear his badge. All through this day I've walked the lonely woods To do you service. I have news, great news, To tell the officer at Beaver Dam. This very night the Long Knives leave Fort George To take him by surprise, in numbers more Than crows on ripening corn. O help me on! I'm Laura Secord, Captain Secord's wife, Of Queenstown; and Tecumseh, your great chief, And Tekoriogea are our friends.

_Chief_. White woman true and brave, I send with you Mishe-mo-qua, he know the way and sign, And bring you safe to mighty chief Fitzgibbon.

_Mrs. Secord_. O thanks, kind chief, and never shall your braves
Want aught that I can give them.

_Chief (to another)_. Young chief, Mish-e-mo-qua, with woman go, And give her into care of big white chief. She carry news. Dam Long-Knife come in dark To eat him up.

_Mishe-mo-qua_. Ugh! rascal! dam!

[_Exeunt_ MISHE-MO-QUA _and_ MRS. SECORD.