(_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 Tec.u.mseh, 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.

ACT III

SCENE 1.--_Decau's house, a stone edifice of some pretensions. The parlour, with folding doors which now stand a little apart. A sentry is visible, on the other side of them. The parlour windows are barricaded within, but are set open, and a branch of a climbing rose with flowers upon it, swings in. The sun is setting, and gilds the arms that are piled in one corner of the room. A sword in its scabbard lies across the table, near which, in an arm-chair, reclines_ Lieutenant Fitzgibbon, _a tall man of fine presence; in his right hand, which rests negligently on the back of the chair, he holds a newspaper of four pages, "The Times," from which he has been reading. Several elderly weather-beaten non-commissioned officers and privates, belonging to the 49th, 104th, and 8th regiments, together with a few militiamen and two cadets share the society of their superior officer, and all are very much at their ease both in appointments and manner, belts and stocks are unloosed, and some of the men are smoking_.

_Lieut. Fitzgibbon_. 'Tis true, it seems, and yet most horrible; More than five hundred thousand fighting men Crossed with him o'er the front, and not a tenth Remains. Rather than let him find a place For winter quarters, two hundred thousand Happy families had to forsake their homes In dead of winter, and of the ancient seat Of Russian splendour, Rotopschin made a pyre, A blazing pyre of all its precious things: Moscow is burned.

_First Sergeant_. So Boney could but toast his freezing toes And march back home again: Fine glory that!

_Fitzgibbon_. Sad waste of precious lives for one man's will.

But this mishap will seal his fate. The Czar Will see his interest is a strong alliance, And all the Powers will prove too great a match, Even for Buonaparte.

_Second Sergeant_. Where is he now, Lieutenant?

_Fitzgibbon_. In Paris, plotting again, I see; or was Nine weeks ago.

_First Private_. Yon news coom quick.

Now when I were a bairn, that's forty year sin', We heard i' York 'at Merriky refused To pay the taxes, just three munth's arter; An' that wur bonnie toime, fur then t'coaach Tuk but foive daaies ti mak' t' hull waai' doon, Two hunner moile, fra Lunnon.

_Fitzgibbon (still scanning the newspaper)_.

Well, Jimmy, here's a man, one Bell, Of Greenock, can send a boat by steam Against the wind and tide, and talks with hope Of making speed equal to both.

He's tried it on the Clyde, so we may look For news from England in a month, ere long.

_First Private_. Na, na, sir; noo doant 'e pooak fun at me!

Iver he doos ma' I go hang. Why neist They scatterbrain 'ull mayhap send a shep Jest whear tha' loike wi'oot a win' at all.

Or promise till 't. 'Twere pity Nelson, noo, He'd noan o' sech at Copenhaagen Mebbe tha' cu'd ha' gott tha' grunded sheps Afloat, an gett moor men to fe'ht them Daans.

_Fitzgibbon_. The fewer men the greater glory, Jim.

Why, man, he got his t.i.tle by that fight.

_Second Sergeant_. And well deserved it! A finer man Never trod deck, sailor or officer; His voice gave courage, as his eye flashed fire.

We would have died for him, and he for us; And when the fight was done he got our rights, Or tried at it. More than old Parker did.

_First Sergeant_. Parker was rich, and so forgot the poor, But Nelson forgot none.

_Second Private_. He was cliver, too. Dash't! how I laughed, All i' my sleeve o' course. The fight was hot, And getting hotter, for, gad, them Danes can fight!

And quite a quarter o' the ships was stuck, The Admiral's among 'em. So Nelson held The squadron at command. Up comes the word, "The signal Thirty-nine is out, sir." Nelson turns, His stump a-goin' as his arm was used Afore he lost it, meets the officer, as says, "Sir, Thirty-nine is out, shall I repeat it?"

"No, sir; acknowledge it." Then on he goes.

Presently he calls out, "What's flying now?"

"The same, sir." So he takes his gla.s.s And puts it to his eye, his blind eye, mind you, An' says he, "No signal can I see. No, Ne'er a one." Winking to Ferguson, says he, "I've but one eye, and may be blind sometimes.

What! strike off now and lose the day? Not so: My signal keep for 'Closer battle,' flying.

That's how I'll answer. Confound the signal!

Nail mine to the mast." He won.

_First Militiaman_. Just touch and go for hanging, that.

_Fitzgibbon_. Success ne'er saw a scaffold, Jeremy.

_A Cadet_. Fine-looking fellow Nelson-was, I guess?

_First Sergeant_. To look at? No, a little, thin, pale man With a long queue, one arm, and but one eye, But that a blazer!

_Second Militiaman_. These little uns has lots o' s.p.u.n.k: Boney's a little un, I've heerd.

_First Private_. Just so: and Wellington ain't big.

_Fitzgibbon (rising and drawing himself to his full height)_.

Come, boys, you're getting personal. See me!

If none but little men may win renown, I hope I'm two in one, for your sakes.

And you forget the lion-hearted Brock.

_All (interrupting him)_. No! no! no!

_Fitzgibbon_. A man of height exceeding any here, And yet whose alt of metred inches n.o.bly enlarged to full, fair, Saxon mould, And vested in the blazonments of rule, Shewed not so kingly to the obeisant sight As was his soul. Who than ye better knew His bravery; his lofty heroism; His purity, and great unselfish heart?

Nature in him betrayed no n.i.g.g.ard touch Of corporate or ethereal. Yet I yield That men of lesser mould in outward form Have been as great in deeds of rich renown.

But then, I take it, greatness lies not in The flesh, but in the spirit. He is great Who from the quick occasion of the time Strikes out a name. And he is also great Who, in a life-long struggle, throws the foe, And binds on h.o.a.ry locks the laurel crown.

Each is a high exemplar.

One with concentrate vigour strikes a blow That rings around the world; the other draws The world round him--his mighty throes And well-contested standpoints win its praise And force its verdict, though bleak indifference-- A laggard umpire--long neglect his post, And often leaves the wrestler's best unnoted, Coming but just in time to mark his thews And training, and so decides: while the loud shock Of unexpected prowess starts him aghast, And from his careless hand s.n.a.t.c.hes the proud award.

But mark me, men, he who is ever great Has greatness made his aim-- The sudden blow or long-protracted strife Yields not its secret to the untrained hand.

True, one may cast his statue at a heat, But yet the mould was there; And he who chips the marble, bit by bit, Into a n.o.ble form, sees all the while His image in the block.

There are who make a phantom of their aim-- See it now here, now there, in this, in that, But never in the line of simple duty; Such will accomplish nothing but their shame: For greatness never leaves that thin, straight mark; And, just as the pursuit diverges from it, Greatness evanishes, and notoriety Misleads the suitor. I'd have you think of this.

_All_. Aye, aye, sir.

_Fitzgibbon_. Order the lights, for darkness falls apace, And I must write.