[FLOS _and_ PETE _enter, carrying dishes_.

_Sergeant_. O, bless you, we don't order; we command.

Here, men, sit down.

[_He seats himself at the head of the table, and the others take their places, some of them greeting_ MRS. SECORD _with a salute of respect_.

Boy, fill those jugs. You girl, Set that dish down by me, and haste with more.

Bacon's poor stuff when lamb and mint's in season.

Why don't you kill that lamb, Ma'am Secord?

_Mrs. Secord_. 'Tis a child's pet.

_Sergeant_. O, pets be hanged!

[_Exit_ MRS. SECORD.

_Corporal_. Poor thing! I'm sure none of us want the lamb.

_A Private_. We'll have it, though, and more, if Boerstler--

_Corporal_. Hold your tongue, you--

_Second Private_ (_drinking_). Here's good luck, my boys, to that surprise--

_Corporal (aside)_. Fool!

_Sergeant (drinking)_. Here's to to-morrow and a cloudy night.

Fill all your gla.s.ses, boys.

SCENE 3.--_Mrs. Secord's bedroom. She is walking up and down in much agitation_.

_Enter_ MR. SECORD.

_Mrs. Secord_ (_springing to meet him_). Oh, James, where have you been?

_Mr. Secord_. I did but ramble through the pasture, dear, And round the orchard. 'Twas so sweet and still.

Save for the echo of the sentry's tread O'er the hard road, it might have been old times.

But--but--you're agitated, dear; what's wrong?

I see our unasked visitors were here.

Was that--?

_Mrs. Secord_. Not that; yet that. Oh, James, I scarce can bear The stormy swell that surges o'er my heart, Awaked by what they have revealed this night.

_Mr. Secord_. Dear wife, what is't?

_Mrs. Secord_. Oh, sit you down and rest, for you will need All strength you may command to hear me tell.

[_Mr. Secord sits down, his wife by him_.

That saucy fellow, Winter, and a guard Came and demanded supper; and, of course, They had to get it. Pete and Flos I left To wait on them, but soon they sent them off, Their jugs supplied,--and fell a-talking, loud, As in defiance, of some private plan To make the British wince. Word followed word, Till I, who could not help but hear their gibes, Suspected mischief, and, listening, learned the whole.

To-morrow night a large detachment leaves Fort George for Beaver Dam. Five hundred men, With some dragoons, artillery, and a train Of baggage-waggons, under Boerstler, go To fall upon Fitzgibbon by surprise, Capture the stores, and pay for Stony Creek.

_Mr. Secord_. My G.o.d! and here am I, a paroled cripple!

Oh, Canada, my chosen country! Now-- Is't now, in this thy dearest strait, I fail?

I, who for thee would pour my blood with joy-- Would give my life for thy prosperity-- Most I stand by, and see thy foes prevail Without one thrust?

[_In his agitation he rises_.

_Mrs. Secord_. Oh, calm thee, dear; thy strength is all to me.

Fitzgibbon shall be warned, or aid be sent.

_Mr. Secord_. But how, wife? how? Let this attempt succeed, As well it may, and vain last year's success; In vain fell Brock: in vain was Queenston fought: In vain we pour out blood and gold in streams: For Dearborn then may push his heavy force Along the lakes, with long odds in his favour.

And I, unhappy wretch, in such a strait Am here, unfit for service. Thirty men Are all Fitzgibbon has to guard the stores And keep a road 'twixt Bisshopp and De Haren.

Those stores, that road, would give the Yankee all.

_Mrs. Secord_. Why, be content now, dear. Had we not heard, This plot might have pa.s.sed on to its dire end, Like the pale owl that noiseless cleaves the dark, And, on its dreaming prey, swoops with fell claw.

_Mr. Secord_. What better is it?

_Mrs. Secord_. This; that myself will go to Beaver Dam, And warn Fitzgibbon: there is yet a day.

_Mr. Secord_. Thou! thou take a task at which a man might shrink?

No, no, dear wife! Not so.

_Mrs. Secord_. Ay, prithee, let me go; 'Tis not so far. And I can pa.s.s unharmed Where you would be made prisoner, or worse.

They'll not hurt me--my s.e.x is my protection.

_Mr. Secord_. Oh, not in times like these. Let them suspect A shadow wrong, and neither s.e.x, nor tears, Nor tenderness would save thy fate.

_Mrs. Secord_. Fear not for me. I'll be for once so wise The sentries shall e'en put me on my way.

Once past the lines, the dove is not more swift Nor sure to find her distant home than I To reach Fitzgibbon. Say I may go.

_Mr. Secord_ (_putting his arm 'round her tenderly_).

How can I let thee go? Thy tender feet Would bleed ere half the way was done. Thy strength Would fail 'twixt the rough road and summer heat, And in some, gloomy depth, faint and alone, Thou would'st lie down to die. Or, chased and hurt By wolf or catamount, thy task undone, Thy precious life would then be thrown away.

I cannot let thee go.

_Mrs. Secord_. Not thrown away! Nay, say not that, dear James.

No life is thrown away that's spent in doing duty.

But why raise up these phantoms of dismay?

I did not so when, at our country's call, You leapt to answer. Said I one word To keep you back? and yet my risk was greater Then than now--a woman left with children On a frontier farm, where yelling savages, Urged on, or led, by renegades, might burn, And kill, and outrage with impunity Under the name of war. Yet I blenched not, But helped you clean your musket, clasped your belt, And sent you forth, with many a cheery word.

Did I not so?

_Mr. Secord_. Thou didst indeed, dear wife, thou didst.

But yet,-- I cannot let thee go, my darling.