  The Western city with the Roman name, The vine-decked river winding round the hills, Are left behind; the pearly maid who came Down from the northern lake whose cool breath fills The whole horizon, like the green, salt sea, Is riding southward on the cautious train, That feels its way along, and nervously Hurries around the curve and o’er the bridge, Fearing a rebel ball from every ridge— The wild adventurous cavalry campaign That Morgan and his men, bold riders all, Kept up in fair Kentucky all those years, So hot with daring deeds, with glowing tears, That even Peace doth sometime seem a pall, When men in city offices feel yet The old wild thrill of “Boots and saddles all!” The dashing raid they cannot quite forget Despite the hasty graves that silent lie Along its route; at home the women sigh, Gazing across the still untrodden ways, Across the fields, across the lonely moor, “O for the breathless ardor of those days When we were all so happy, though so poor!” The maiden sits alone; The raw recruits are scattered through the car, Talking of all the splendors of the war, With faces grimed and roistering braggart tone. In the gray dawning, sweet and fair to view, Like opening wood-flower pearled with morning dew, She shines among them in her radiance pure, Notes all their lawless roughness, sadly sure They’re very wicked—hoping that the day Of long-drawn hours may safely wear away, And bring her, ere the summer sunset dies, To the far farm-house where her lover lies, Wounded—alone. The rattling speed turns slow, Slow, slower all the rusty car-wheels go, The axles groan, the brakes grind harshly down; The young conductor comes—(there was a face He noted in the night)—“Madam, your place Will soon be noisy, for at yonder town We take on other soldiers. If you change Your seat and join that little lady, then It will not seem so lonely or so strange For you, as here among so many men.” Lifting her fair face from the battered seat, Where she had slumbered like a weary child, To his young manhood’s eager craving, smiled And rose. Happy, the flushed youth led the way; She followed in her lovely disarray. The clinging silk disclosed the archÈd foot, Hidden within the dainty satin boot, Dead-black against the dead-white even hue Of silken stocking, gleaming into view One moment; then the lady sleepily Adjusted with a touch her drapery, And tried to loop in place a falling braid, And smooth the rippling waves the night had made; While the first sunbeams flashing through the pane Set her bright gems to flashing back again; And all men’s eyes in that Kentucky car Grew on her face, as all men’s eyes had done On the night-train that brought her from afar, Over the mountains west from Washington. The Lady (thinking). Haply met, This country maiden, sweet as mignonette, No doubt the pride of some small Western town:— Pity, that she should wear that hopeless gown, So prim—so dull—a fashion five years old! The Maiden (thinking). How odd, how bold, That silken robe—those waves of costly lace, That falling hair, the shadows ’neath the eyes, Surely those diamonds are out of place— Strange, that a lady should in such a guise Be here alone! The Lady. Allow me, mademoiselle, Our good conductor thinks it would be well That we should keep together, since the car Will soon be overcrowded, and we are The only women.—May I have a seat In this safe little corner by your side? Thanks; it is fortunate, indeed, to meet So sweet a friend to share the long day’s ride!— That is, if yours be long? The Maiden. To Benton’s Mill. The Lady. I go beyond, not far—I think we pass Your station just before Waunona Hill; But both are in the heart of the Blue Grass. Do you not love that land? The Maiden. I do not know Aught of it. The Lady. Yes; but surely you have heard Of the fair plains where the sweet grasses grow, Just grass, naught else; and where the noble herd Of blooded cattle graze, and horses bred For victory—the rare Kentucky speed That wins the races? The Maiden. Yes; I’ve heard it said They were good worthy horses.—But indeed I know not much of horses. The Lady. Then the land— The lovely, rolling land of the Blue Grass, The wild free park spread out by Nature’s hand That scarce an English dukedom may surpass In velvet beauty—while its royal sweep Over the country miles and miles away, Dwarfs man-made parks to toys; the great trees keep Their distance from each other, proud array How gracefully their swaying branches grow, While little swells of turf roll up and fall Like waves of summer sea, and over all You catch, when the straight shafts of sunset pass Over the lea, the glint of the Blue Grass.— But you will see it. The Maiden. No; I cannot stay But a few hours—at most, a single day. The Lady (unheeding). I think I like the best, Of all dumb things, a horse of Blue-Grass breed, The Arab courser of our own new West, The splendid creature, whose free-hearted speed Outstrips e’en time itself. Oh! when he wins The race, how, pulsed with pride, I wave my hand In triumph, ere the thundering shout begins, And those slow, cautious judges on the stand, Have counted seconds! Is it not a thrill That stirs the blood, yet holds the quick breath still? The Maiden. I ne’er have seen race-horses, or a race. The Lady. I crave your pardon; in your gentle face I read reproof. The Maiden. I judge not any man. The Lady. Nor woman? The Maiden. If you force reply, I can Speak but the truth. The cruel, panting race, For gamblers’ prizes, seems not worthy place For women—nor for men, indeed, if they Were purer grown. Of kindred ill the play, The dinner loud with wine, the midnight dance, The deadly poison of all games of chance— All these are sinful. The Lady. Ah! poor sins, how stern The judge! I knew ye not for sins—I learn For the first time that ye are evil. Go, Avaunt ye! So my races are a woe— Alas! And David Garrick!—Where’s the harm In David? The Maiden. I know not the gentleman. The Lady. Nay, he’s a play; a comedy so warm, So pitiful, that, let those laugh who can, I weep. And must I yield my crystal glass, Dewy with ice, and fragrant with rare wine, That makes a dreary dinner-party pass In rosy light, where after-fancies shine— Things that one might have said?—And then the dance, The valse À deux temps, if your partner chance To be a lover— The Maiden. Madam, pray excuse My seeming rudeness; but I must refuse To dwell on themes like these. The Lady. Did I begin The themes, or you? The Maiden. But I dwelt on the sin, And you— The Lady. Upon the good. Did I not well? I gave you good for evil, mademoiselle. The Maiden. Forgive me, lady, but I cannot jest, I bear too anxious heart within my breast; One dear to me lies wounded, and I go To find him, help him home with tender care— To home and health, God willing. The Lady. Is it so? Strange—but ah! no. The wounded are not rare, Nor yet the grief, in this heart-rending war.— But he will yet recover; I feel sure That one beloved by heart so good, so pure As yours, will not be taken. Sweet, your star Is fortunate. The Maiden. Not in the stars, I trust. We are but wretched creatures of the dust, Sinful, and desperately wicked; still, It is in mercy our Creator’s will To hear our prayers. The Lady. And do you then believe He grants all heart-felt prayers? One might conceive A case: Suppose a loving mother prays For her son’s life; he, worn with life’s hard ways, And fervor. The Maiden. It is wrong to pray for death. The Lady. I grant it not. But, say in self-same hour A farmer prays for rain; with ’bated breath A mother, hastening to a dying child, Prays for fair weather?—But you do not deign To listen. Ah! I saw you when you smiled That little, silver smile! I might explain My meaning further; but why should I shake Your happy faith? The Maiden. You could not. The Lady. Nay, that’s true; You are the kind that walks up to the stake Unflinching and unquestioning. I sue For pardon, and I pray you tell me all This tale of yours. When did your lover fall— What battle-field? The Maiden. Not any well-known name; It was not Heaven’s pleasure that the fame Of well-known battle should be his. A band Of wild guerrillas raiding through the land, Shot him, and left him bleeding by the way. The Lady. Guerrillas? The Maiden. Yes; John Morgan’s. The Lady. Maybe so, And maybe not; they bear a seven-leagued name That many hide beneath; each shot, each blow, Is trumpeted as theirs, and all the blame Falls on their shoulders, be it what it may— Now truth, and now but falsehood. Morgan’s men Are bold Kentucky riders; every glen Knows their fleet midnight gallop; every map Kept by our soldiers here is scored with marks Where they have been; now near, now miles away, From river lowland to the mountain-gap, Swift as the rushing wind. No watch-dog barks When they ride by, no well-versed tongues betray Gives silent, helpful welcome when they pass Across her borders north from Tennessee, Heading their horses for the far Blue Grass, The land of home, the land they long to see, The lovely rolling land. We might have known That come they would! The Maiden. You are Kentucky-bred? The Lady. I come from Washington. Nay—but I read The doubt you try to hide. Be frank—confess— I am that mythical adventuress That thrives in Washington these troublous days— The country correspondent’s tale? The Maiden. Your dress— And—something in your air— The Lady. I give you praise For rare sincerity. Go on. The Maiden. Your tone, Your words, seem strange.—But then, I’ve never known A woman like you. The Lady (aside). Yet we are not few, Thank Heaven, for the world’s sake! It would starve If gray was all its color, and the dew Its only nectar. With a pulsing haste It seeks the royal purples, and draws down The luscious bunches to its thirsty taste, And feels its blood hot-thrilled, a regal crown Upon its brow; and then, its hands do carve The vine-leaves into marble. But the hue Of thoughts like these she knows not—and in vain To tell her. Yet, sweet snow-drop, I would fain Hear her small story. (Speaks.) Did he fall alone, Your gallant soldier-boy? And how to you Came the sad news? The Maiden. A farmer heard him moan While passing—bore him to the camp, and there Ere the brigade moved on; which, when I heard, I left my mother, ill, for in despair He cried, they wrote, for me. He could not know That they had written, for hot fever drove His thoughts with whips of flame.—O cruel woe,—O my poor love— My Willie! The Lady. Do not grieve, fair child. This day Will see you by his side—nay, if you will, Then lay your head here—weep your grief away. Tears are a luxury—yes, take your fill; For stranger as I am, my heart is warm To woman’s sorrow, and this woman’s arm That holds you is a loyal one and kind. (Thinking.) O gentle maiden-mind, How lovely art thou—like the limpid brook In whose small depths my child-eyes loved to look In the spring days! Thy little simple fears Are wept away. Ah! could I call the tears At will to soothe the parched heat of my heart! —O beautiful lost Faith, I knew you once—but now, like shadowy wraith, You meet me in this little maiden’s eyes, And gaze from out their blue in sad surprise In truth, we’ve drifted—drifted. Gentle ghost Of past outgrown, thy land the hazy coast Of dreamless ignorance; I must put out My eyes to live with you again. The doubt, The honest, earnest doubt, is upward growth Of the strong mind—the struggle of the seed Up to the broad, free air. Contented sloth Of the blind clods around it sees no need For change—nay, deems, indeed, all change a crime; “All things remain as in our fathers’ time— What gain ye then by growing?” “Air—free air! E’en though I die of hunger and despair, I go,” the mind replies. The Maiden (thinking). How kind, how warm Her sympathy! I could no more resist Her questions, than the large clasp of her arm That drew me down. How tenderly she kissed My forehead! strange that so much good should dwell With so much ill. This shining, costly dress, A garb that shows a sinful worldliness, Troubles my heart. Ah, I remember well Telling of Willie—and my sisters all, How swift we sewed! For I had suffered shame At traveling in house-garb. —I feel a call To bring this wanderer back into the fold, This poor lost sinner straying in the cold Outside the church’s pale. Should I not try To show her all the sad deficiency, The desperate poverty of life like hers, The utter falseness of its every breath, The pity that within my bosom stirs For thinking of the horrors after death Awaiting her? The Lady. Quite calm, again? That’s well. Wilt taste a peach? My basket holds a store Of luscious peaches. Ah! she weaves a spell, This lovely sorceress of fruit; what more Can man ask from the earth? There is no cost Too great for peaches. I have felt surprise Through all my life that fair Eve should have lost That mythic Asian land of Paradise For a poor plebeian apple! Now a peach, Pulpy, pink-veined, hanging within her reach, Might well have tempted her. Oh, these long hours!— Whence comes this faint perfume of hot-house flowers— Tea-roses? The Maiden. Tangled in your loosened hair Are roses. The Lady (thinking). Nita must have twined them there— The opera—I know now; I have sped So swift across the country, my poor head Is turned.—The opera? Yes; then—O heart, How hast thou bled! [Dashes away tears.] (Speaks.) Sweet child, I pray you tell Again your budding romance, all the part Where he first spoke. You’d known him long and well, Your Willie? The Maiden. Yes; in childhood we had been Two little lovers o’er the alphabet; Then one day—I had grown to just sixteen— Down in the apple-orchard—there—we met, By chance—and— The Lady (thinking). Blush, thou fine-grained little cheek, It comforts me to see that e’en thy meek Child-beauty knows enough of love to blush. So prettily! Well, must I tell the rest? You knew, then, all at once, you loved him best, This gallant Willie? The Maiden (thinking). What has come to me That I do answer, from reserve so free, This stranger’s questions? Yet may it not chance My confidence shall win hers in return? I must press on, nor give one backward glance— Must follow up my gain by words that burn With charity and Christian zeal. (Speaks.) Yes; then We were betrothed. I wore his mother’s ring,— And Willie joined the church; before all men He made the promises and vows which bring A blessing down from God. Dear lady, strength From Heaven came to us. Could I endure This absence, silence, all the weary length Of hours and days and months, were I not sure That God was with my Willie? If on you Sorrow has fallen, lady (and those tears Showed me its presence), seek the good, the true, In this sad life; a prayer can calm all fears; Yield all your troubles to your God’s control, Did I not know that in my Willie’s soul Came first the love of God, then love for me? The Lady. The Maiden. Would you have A mortal love come first? The Lady. Sweet heart, I crave Your pardon. For your gentle Christian zeal I thank you. Wear this gem—’twill make me feel That I am something to you when we part. But what the “silence?” The Maiden. Ten months (they seem years!) Since Willie joined the army; and my heart Bore it until his letters ceased; then tears Would come—would come! The Lady. Why should the letters cease? The Maiden. I know not; I could only pray for peace, And his return. No doubt he could not write, Perplexed with many duties; his the care Of a thronged camp, where, ever in his sight, The new recruits are drilled. The Lady (thinking). Oh, faith most rare! (Speaks.) Had you no doubts? The Maiden. Why should I doubt? We are Betrothed—the same forever, near or far! —He knew my trust Was boundless as his own. The Lady. But still you must In reason have known something—must have heard Or else imagined— The Maiden. For three months no word Until this letter; from its page I learned That my poor Willie had but just returned It seems he had been three months absent. The Lady. —Where? The Maiden. They did not say. I hope to bear him home To-morrow; for in truth I scarce could come, So ill my mother, and so full my hands Of household cares; but, Willie understands. The Lady (thinking). Ciel! faith like this is senseless—or sublime! Which is it? (Speaks). But three months—so long a time— The Maiden. Were it three years, ’twould be the same. The troth We plighted, freely, lovingly, from both Our true hearts came. The Lady (thinking). And may as freely go— Such things have happened! But I will not show One glimpse of doubt to mar the simple trust She cherishes; as soon my hand could thrust A knife in the dove’s breast. All will go well; take courage. Not severe His wound? The Maiden. Not unto death; but fever bound His senses. When the troops moved on, they found A kindly woman near by Benton’s Mill; And there he lies, poor Willie, up above In her small loft, calling, in tones that thrill: “Oh, come to me, my love, my love, my love!”— Here is his picture. The Lady. What! ’tis Meredith! The girl is mad!—Give it me forthwith! How came you by it? The Maiden. Madam, you will break The chain. I beg— The Lady. Here is some strange mistake. This picture shows me Meredith Reid. The Maiden. Yes, Reid Is Willie’s name; and Meredith, indeed, Like not long names, so gave him, lovingly, The pet name Willie. The Lady. O ye Powers above! The “pet name Willie!” Would you try to chain Phoebus Apollo with your baby-love And baby-titles? Scarce can I refrain My hands from crushing you!— You are that girl, Then, the boy’s fancy. Yes, I heard the tale He tried to tell me; but it was so old, So very old! I stopped him with a curl Laid playfully across his lips. “Nay, hold! Enough, enough,” I said; “of what avail The rest? I know it all; ’tis e’er the same Old story of the country lad’s first flame That burns the stubble out. Now by this spell Forget it all.” He did; and it was well He did. The Maiden. Never! oh, never! Though you prove The whole as clear as light, I’d ne’er receive One word. As in my life, so I believe In Willie! The Lady. Fool and blind! your God above Knows that I lie not when I say that he You dwarf with your weak names is mine, mine, mine! He worships me—dost hear? He worships me, Me only! What art thou, a feeble child, That thou shouldst speak of loving? Haste, aside, Lest we should drown you in the torrent wild Of our strong meeting loves, that may not bide Nor know your dying, even; feeble weed Tossed on the shore—[The maiden faints. Why could I not divine The truth at first? [Fans her. Fierce love, why shouldst thou kill This little one? The child hath done no ill, Poor wounded, broken blossom. I should pour My gentlest pity— The Maiden (recovering). Madam, thanks; no more Do I require your aid. The Lady (aside). How calm she seems, How cold her far-off eyes! Poor little heart. The pity of it! all its happy dreams, In one short moment. (Speaks.) Child, let us be friends; Not ours the fault, it is the work of Fate. And now, before your hapless journey ends, Say, in sweet charity, you do not hate Me for my love. Trust me, I’ll tend him well; As mine own heart’s blood, will I care for him Till strong again. Then shall he come and tell The whole to you—the cup from dregs to brim— How, with undoubting faith In the young fancy that he thought was love For you, he came a-down the glittering path Of Washington society; above The throng I saw his noble Saxon head, Sunny with curls, towering among the rest In calm security—scorn that is bred Of virtue, and that largeness which your West With its wide sweep of fields gives to her sons— A certain careless largeness in the look, As though a thousand prairie-miles it took Within its easy range. Ah! blindly runs Our fate. We met, we two so far apart In every thought, in life, in soul, in heart— Our very beings clashed. He, fair, severe; Lighted by conscience; I, in waking dream Of colors, music, warmth, the scents of flowers, The sweep of velvet, and the diamond’s gleam, A cloud of romance heavy on the air, The boudoir curtained from the light of day, Where all the highest came to call me fair, And whispered vows I laughed in scorn away. Was it my fault that Nature chose to give The splendid beauty of this hair, these eyes, This creamy skin? And if the golden prize Of fortune came to me, should I not live In the rich luxury my being craved? I give my word, I no more thought of time— Whether ’twas squandered, trifled with, or saved, Than the red rose in all her damask prime. Each day I filled with joys full to the brim— The rarest fruits and wines, the costliest lace, The ecstasy of music, every whim For some new folly gratified, the grace Of statues idealized in niches, touch Of softest fabrics. Ah! the world holds much For those who love her; and I never heard In all my happy glowing life one word Against her, till—he came! We met, we loved, So sudden, strange, the white intensity— Intensity resistless! Swift there moved Within his heart a force unknown before, That swept his being from that early faith Across a sea, and cast it on the shore Prone at my feet. He minded not if death Came, so he could but gaze upon my face. —But, bending where he lay (the youthful grace Of his strong manhood, in humility Prone, by love’s lightnings), so I bended me Down to his lips, and gave him—all! Sweet girl, Forgive me for the guiltless robbery, Forgive him, swept by fateful Destiny! He spoke of one, the child-love of his youth; I told of my child-marriage. But, in truth, No barrier, had it been a thousand-fold Stronger than boyish promise, e’er could hold Natures like ours! You see it, do you not? You understand it all. —I had forgot, But this the half-way town; the train runs slow, Give me one silent hand-clasp, little pearl. I ask you not to speak, for words would seem Too hard, too hard. Yet, some time, when the dream Of girlhood has dissolved before the heat Of real love, you will forgive me, sweet. The Maiden. I fail to comprehend you. Go? Go where? The Lady. Back to your home; here waits the north-bound train; ’Twill bear you safely. To go on were pain Most needless—cruel. The Maiden. I am not aware That I have said aught of returning. Vain Your false and evil story. I have heard Of such as you; but never, on my word As lady and as Christian, did I think To find myself thus side by side with one Who flaunts her ignominy on the brink Of dark perdition! Ah! my Willie won The strong heart’s victory when he turned away From your devices, as I know he turned. Of sin, I know your evil smiles he spurned With virtuous contempt—the son of prayers, The young knight of the church! My bosom shares His scorn; take back your ring, false woman. Go! Move from my side. The Lady. Dear Heaven, now I know How pitiless these Christians! Unfledged girl, Your little, narrow, pharisaic pride Deserves no pity; jealousy’s wild whirl Excuse might be, since that is born of love; But this is scorn, and, by the God above, I’ll set you in your place! Do you decide The right and wrong for this broad world of ours, Poor little country-child, whose feeble eyes Veiled o’er with prejudice are yet so wise That they must judge the earth, and call it good Or evil as it follows their small rules, The petty, narrow dogmas of the schools That hang on Calvin! Doubtless prairie-flowers Esteem the hot-house roses evil all; Go into mourning therefor! Oh, the small, Most small foundation for a vast conceit! Is it a merit that you never learned But one side of this life? Because you dwelt Down in a dell, there were no uplands sweet, No breezy mountain-tops? You never yearned For freedom, born a slave! You never felt The thrill of rapture, the wild ecstasy Of mere existence that strong natures know, The deep and long-drawn breaths, the burning glow Of blood that sunward leaps; but, in your dell, You said: “This is the world. If all, like me, Walked on this one straight line, all would go well!” O fool! O blind! O little ant toiling along the ground! You cannot see the eagle on the wind Soaring aloft; and so you go your round And measure out the earth with your small line, An inch for all infinity! “Thus mine Doth make the measure; thus it is.” Proud girl! You call me evil. There is not a curl In all this loosened hair which is not free From sin as your smooth locks. Turn; look at me! Beside my mother’s chair, by God’s own truth, I’ve led a life as sinless as your own. Your innocence is ignorance; but I Have seen the Tempter on his shining throne, And said him nay. You craven weaklings die From fear of dangers I have faced! I hold Those lives far nobler that contend and win The close, hard fight with beautiful, fierce Sin, Than those that go untempted to their graves, Deeming the ignorance that haply saves Their souls, some splendid wisdom of their own! You fold Yourself in scornful silence? I could smile, O childish heart, so free from worldly guile, Were I not angered by your littleness. You judge my dress The garb of sin? Listen. I sat and heard The opera; by chance there fell a word Behind me from a group of men who fill Night after night my box. My heart stood still. I asked—they told the name. “Wounded,” they said, “A letter in the journal here.” I read, Faced them with level eyes; they did not know, But wondered, caught the truth, to see me go We reached it, breathless. Had I worn fair white, A ballroom-robe, I’d do the same to gain One moment more of time. The Maiden. And by what right— Are you his wife? The Lady. I am not; but to-night I shall be, if I live. Your scorn, poor child, Is thrown away. Bound by his soldier’s oath, I would not keep him. No Omphale I, Though he be Hercules. We plighted troth, And then, when called, he went from me—to die If need be. I remember that I smiled When they marched by! Love for my country burns Within my heart; but this was love for him. I could not brook him, one who backward turns For loving wife; his passion must not dim The soldier’s courage stern. Then I had wealth, The golden wealth left me by that old man Who called me wife for four short months; by stealth He won me, but a child; the quiet plan My mother dead—one kind thought was to save My budding youth from harm. The thoughtless vow I made was soon dissevered by the grave, And I was left alone. Since then I’ve breathed All pleasures as the flowers breathe in the sun, At heart as innocent as they; red-wreathed My careless life with roses, till the one Came! Then the red turned purple deep, the hope Found itself love; the rose was heliotrope. There needed much To do with lawyers’ pens ere I could give My hand again; so that dear, longed-for touch Was set by me for the full-blooming day When Peace shall drive the demon War away Forever. I was wrong. Oh, let him live, Kind God! Love shall be wronged no more—no more. All my own heart’s life will I gladly pour For one small hour of his.—Wait—wait—I fly To thee, my love, on swiftest wings! Thy cry The depths of grief too hot for tears doth move: “Oh, come to me, my love, my love, my love!” The Maiden. It was not you he called! The Lady. Ah! yes. The Maiden. He is Not false; I’ll ne’er believe it, woman. The Lady. His The falseness of the pine-tree, felled, uptorn By the great flood, and onward madly borne With the wild, foaming torrent miles away.— No doubt he loved the violet that grew In the still woods ere the floods came; he knew Not then of roses! The Maiden. Cruel eyes, I say But this to all your flashings—you have lied To me in all! The Lady. Look, then, here at my side His letters—read them. Did he love me? Read! Aha! you flush, you tremble, there’s no need To show you more; the strong words blanch your cheek. See, here his picture; could I make it speak, How it would kill you! Yes, I wear it there That lies beside it? The Maiden. Should he now confess The whole—yes, tell me all your tale was true, I would not leave him to you, sorceress! I’d snatch him from the burning—I would sue His pardon down from heaven. I shall win Him yet, false woman, and his grievous sin Shall be forgiven. (Bows her head upon her hands.) O God let him die Rather than live for one who doth belie All I have learned of Thee! Train stops suddenly.—Enter Conductor. Conductor. The bridge is down, The train can go no farther. Morgan’s band Were here last night! There is a little town Off on the right, and there, I understand, You ladies can find horses. Benton’s Mill Is but a short drive from Waunona Hill.— Can I assist you? The Maiden. Thanks; I must not wait. [Exit. The Lady. Yes; that my basket—that my shawl. O Fate! How burdened are we women! Sir, you are Most kind; and may I trouble you thus far? Find me the fleetest horses; I must reach Waunona Hill this night. I do beseech All haste; a thousand dollars will I give For this one ride. [Exeunt. A Soldier. Say, boys, I’d like to live Where I could see that woman! I could fight A regiment of rebels in her sight— Couldn’t you? The Others. Yes—yes! [Exeunt omnes. |
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