Part 8 (1/2)

_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, d.i.c.k.

[_Exeunt_.

DIALOGUE II.

SCENE. _Chamber in the Parsonage. Moonlight. Annie sitting by the window, the door open into an adjoining room_.

_Annie_. (_Calling_.) Come, come,--why do you sit there scribbling so late, Helen? Come, and enjoy this beautiful night with me. Ay, what a world of invisible life amid the dew and darkness utters its glad voices; even the little insect we never saw by day, makes us feel for once the great brotherhood of being. This day week we shall be in Albany,--no more such scenes as this then.

(_Helen approaches the window, and puts her arm gently around her sister_.)

_Helen_. No more!--It was a sad word you were saying, Annie.

_Annie_. How you startled me. Your hands are cold,--cold as icicles, and trembling too. What ails you, Helen?

_Helen_. 'Tis nothing.--How often you and I have stood together thus, looking down on that old bridge.--Summer and winter.--Do you remember the cold snowy moonlights of old, when the sound of the distant bell had hope in it? We shall stand together thus, no more.

_Annie_. Do not speak so sadly, Helen. I cannot think they will destroy our home in mere wantonness. Was there not some one coming up the path just now? Hark! there is news with that tone.

[_Exit_.

_Helen_. A little more, an hour perchance, and he will read my letter.

Why do I tremble thus? Is it because I have done wrong, that these dark misgivings haunt me? No,--it is not remorse--'tis very like--yet remorse it is not. Danger, there is none. I shall but walk to the wood-side as to-day, that little path to the hut is quickly trod, and he will be waiting there. I shall be safe then, safe as I care to be.--Why do I stand here reasoning thus? Safe? And if I were not, what is it to me now? The dark plan is laid. The fearful acting now is all that's left for me.

This must go to the lodge to-night, and ere my mother returns;--to tell them now, would be to make my scheme impossible.

(_She begins, with a reluctant air, to fold the dresses, which are lying loosely by her_.)

Oh G.o.d! whence do these dark and horrible thoughts grow?--Nay, feeling not born of thought. That wedding robe looks like a shroud to me! I cannot. Shadows from things unseen are upon me. The future is a night of tempest, where I hear nothing but the breaking boughs, and the whirl and crash of the mourning blast. Oh G.o.d! there is no refuge for the fearful, but in thee.--To thee--no. If there is power in prayer of mine, hath it not already doomed that wicked cause, my fate is linked with now. I cannot pray.--Can I not?--How the pure strength comes welling up from its infinite depths.

Hear me--not with lip service, I beseech thee now, but with the earnestness that stays the rus.h.i.+ng heart's blood in its way.--Hear me.

Let the high cause of right and freedom, whose sad banner, now, on yonder hill, floats in this summer air; whose music on this soft night-breeze is borne--let it prevail--though _I_, with all this sensitive, warm, shrinking life; with all this new-found wealth of love and hope, lie on its iron way.

I am safe now.--This life that I feel now, steel cannot reach.

(_Annie enters_.)

_Annie_. Dear Helen, dress yourself. It is all true! We must go to-night, we must indeed. They are dismantling the fort now.--Come to the door, and you can hear them if you will; and here is word from Henry, we must be ready before morning--the British are within sight. Do you hear me, Helen? Do not stand looking at me in that strange way.