Chapter 9

illuminate the tops of the trees, while all below is dark and gloomy. Bats are on the wing, the night-hawk careers above the trees, fire-flies flit about, and the death-bird calls_.

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD, _showing signs of great fatigue_.

_Mrs. Secord_. Gloomy, indeed, and weird, and oh, so lone! In such a spot and hour the mind takes on Moody imaginings, the body shrinks as'twere, And all the being sinks into a sea Of deariness and doubt and death.

[_The call of the death-bird is heard_.

Thou little owl, that with despairing note Dost haunt these shades, art thou a spirit lost, Whose punishment it is to fright poor souls With fear of death?--if death is to be feared, And not a blank hereafter. The poor brave Who answers thee and hears no call respond, Trembles and pales, and wastes away and dies Within the year, thee making his fell arbiter. Poor Indian! Much I fear the very dread Engendered by the small neglectful bird, Brings on the fate thou look'st for. So fearless, yet so fearful, do we all, Savage and civil, ever prove ourselves; So strong, so weak, hurt by a transient sound, Yet bravely stalking up to meet the death We see.

[_A prolonged howl is heard in the distance_.

The wolves! the dreadful wolves! they've scented me. O whither shall I fly? no shelter near; No help. Alone! O God, alone!

[_She looks wildly round for a place to fly to. Another howl is heard_.

O Father! not this death, if I must die, My task undone, 'tis too, too horrible!

[_Another howl as of many wolves, but at a distance; she bends to listen, her hand upon her heart_.

Be still, wild heart, nor fill my list'ning ears With thy deep throbs.

[_The howl of the wolves is again heard, but faintly_.

Thank God, not me they seek! Some other scent allures the ghoulish horde. On, on, poor trembler! life for life it is, If I may warn Fitzgibbon.

[_She steps inadvertently into a little pool, hastily stoops and drinks gladly_.

Oh blessed water! To my parched tongue More precious than were each bright drop a gem From far Golconda's mine; how at thy touch The parting life comes back, and hope returns To cheer my drooping heart!

(_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 Tecumseh, 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.