Did I not promise in our marriage vow, And to thy mother, to guard thee as myself.

_Mrs. Secord_. And so you will if now you let me go.

For you would go yourself, without a word Of parley, were you able; leaving me The while in His good hands; not doubting once But I was willing. Leave me there now, James, And let me go; it is our country calls.

_Mr. Secord_. Ah, dearest wife, thou dost not realize All my deep promise, "guard thee as myself?"

I meant to guard thee doubly, trebly more.

_Mrs. Secord_. There you were wrong. The law says "as thyself Thou shalt regard thy neighbour."

_Mr. Secord_. My neighbour! Then is that all that thou art To me, thy husband? Shame! thou lovest me not.

My neighbour!

_Mrs. Secord_. Why now, fond ingrate! What saith _the Book?_ "THE GOOD, with all thy soul and mind and strength; Thy neighbour as thyself." Thou must _not_ love Thyself, nor me, as thou _must_ love the Good.

Therefore, I am thy neighbour; loved as thyself: And as thyself wouldst go to warn Fitzgibbon If thou wert able, so I, being able, Thou must let me go--thy other self.

Pray let me go!

_Mr. Secord_ (_after a pause_). Thou shalt, dear wife, thou shalt.

I'll say no more.

Thy courage meets the occasion. Hope shall be My standard-bearer, and put to shame The cohorts black anxiety calls up.

But how shall I explain to prying folks Thine absence?

_Mrs. Secord_. Say I am gone to see my brother, 'Tis known he's sick; and if I venture now 'Twill serve to make the plot seem still secure.

I must start early.

_Mr. Secord_. Yet not too soon, lest ill surmise Aroused by guilty conscience doubt thy aim.

_Mrs. Secord_. That's true.

Yet at this time of year do travellers start Almost at dawn to avoid the midday heats.

Tell not the children whither I am bound; Poor darlings! Soon enough anxiety Will fall upon them; 'tis the heritage Of all; high, low, rich, poor; he chiefly blest Who travels farthest ere he meets the foe.

There's much to do to leave the household straight, I'll not retire to-night.

_Mr. Secord_. Oh, yes, dear wife, thou shalt not spend thy strength On household duties, for thou'lt need it all Ere thy long task be done. O, but I fear--

_Mrs. Secord_ (_quickly_). Fear nothing!

Trust heaven and do your best, is wiser.

Should I meet harm,'twill be in doing duty: Fail I shall not!

_Mr. Secord_. Retire, dear wife, and rest; I'll watch the hours Beside thee.

_Mrs. Secord_. No need to watch me, James, I shall awake.

[_Aside_. And yet perhaps 'tis best.

If he wake now he'll sleep to-morrow Perforce of nature; and banish thus Some hours of sad anxiety.]

_Mr. Secord_. I'd better watch.

_Mrs. Secord_. Well then, to please you! But call me on the turn Of night, lest I should lose an hour or two Of cooler travel.

SCENE 4--_Daybreak on the_ 23_rd June_, 1813.

_The porch of_ Mr. Secord's _farmhouse. A garden path, with a gate that opens on to the high road from Newark to Twelve-Mile Creek_.

_Enter_ JAMES SECORD _and his wife_.

_Mr. Secord_. Heaven speed thee, then, dear wife. I'll try to bear The dreadful pangs of helplessness and dread With calm demeanour, if a bursting heart.

_Mrs. Secord_. Then will you taste a woman's common lot In times of strait, while I essay man's role Of fierce activity. We will compare When I return. Now, fare-thee-well, my husband.

(_Fearful of being observed, they part without an embrace_. Mrs.

Secord _walks down the garden slowly, and gathers a few clove pinks; a the gate she stops as though the latch were troublesome, raises the flowers to her lips, and makes a slight salute to her husband, who yet stands within the porch watching her. She then rapidly pursues her way, but soon encounters an American sentry, whom she essays to pa.s.s with a nod and a smile: the man prevents her by bringing his musket to the charge, and challenging_.)

_Mrs. Secord_. Why do you stop me?

_Sentry_. Where is your pa.s.s?

You know that none may take the road without one.

_Mrs. Secord_. But surely I may go to milk my cow, Yonder she is.

[_A cow is seen in the clearing_.

She's wandered in the night.

I'll drive her back again, poor thing.

She likes new pasture best, as well she may.

_Sentry_. Keep you your kine at home, you've land enough.

_Mrs. Secord_. Why, that's our land, and those our barns and sheds.

_Sentry_. Well, pa.s.s!

[_He suddenly observes the flowers_.

But where's your milking pail?

I guess the bunch of flowers is for the cow.

_Mrs. Secord_ (_gently_). You are too rough! The pinks weep dewy tears Upon my hand to chide you. There, take them;

[_She offers him the flowers_.

And let their fragrance teach you courtesy, At least to women. You can watch me.

_Sentry_. Madam, suspicion blunts politeness. Pa.s.s.

I'll take your flowers, and thank you, too; 'Tis long since that I saw their fellows in The old folks' garden.