SCENE. _The hill--Night--Large fires burning--Sentinels dimly seen in
the back-ground. A young Indian steals carefully from the
thicket. He examines the ground and the newly-felled trees._
_Indian_. One, two, three. And this is ringed. The dogs have spoiled the
council-house.
(_Soldiers rush forward_.)
_1st Sol_. So, Mr. Red-skin! would not you like a scalp or two now, to
string on your leggings? Maybe we can help you to one or so. Hold fast.
Take care of that arm, I know him of old.
(_The Indian, with a violent struggle, disengages himself,
and darts into the thicket_.)
No? well,--dead or alive, we must have you on our side again.
(_Firing_.)
_2nd Sol_. _He's_ fixed, Sir.
_1st Sol_. Hark. Hark,--off again! Let me go. What do you hold me for,
you scoundrel?
_2nd Sol_. Don't make a fool of yourself, Will Wilson. There will be a
dozen of them yelling around you there. Besides, he is half way to the
swamp by this. Look here; what's this, in the grass here?
_1st Sol_. There was something in his hand, but he clenched it through
it all,--this is a letter. Bring it to the fire.
_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, Dick.
[_Exeunt_.
* * * * *