Act 3 — SCENE 1.—Decau's house, a stone edifice of some pretensions. The parlour, with folding doors which now stand a little apart. A sentry is visible, on the other side of them. The parlour windows are barricaded within, but are set open, and a branch of a climbing rose with flowers upon it, swings in. The sun is setting, and gilds the arms that are piled in one corner of the room. A sword in its scabbard lies across the table, near which, in an arm-chair, reclines Lieutenant Fitzgibbon, a tall man of fine presence; in his right hand, which rests negligently on the back of the chair, he holds a newspaper of four pages, "The Times," from which he has been reading. Several elderly weather-beaten non-commissioned officers and privates, belonging to the 49th, 104th, and 8th regiments, together with a few militiamen and two cadets share the society of their superior officer, and all are very much at their ease both in appointments and manner, belts and stocks are unloosed, and some of the men are smoking.

Lieut. Fitzgibbon. 'Tis true, it seems, and yet most horrible; More than five hundred thousand fighting men Crossed with him o'er the front, and not a tenth Remains. Rather than let him find a place For winter quarters, two hundred thousand Happy families had to forsake their homes In dead of winter, and of the ancient seat Of Russian splendour, Rotopschin made a pyre, A blazing pyre of all its precious things: Moscow is burned.

First Sergeant. So Boney could but toast his freezing toes And march back home again: Fine glory that!

Fitzgibbon. Sad waste of precious lives for one man's will. But this mishap will seal his fate. The Czar Will see his interest is a strong alliance, And all the Powers will prove too great a match, Even for Buonaparte.

Second Sergeant. Where is he now, Lieutenant?

Fitzgibbon. In Paris, plotting again, I see; or was Nine weeks ago.

First Private. Yon news coom quick. Now when I were a bairn, that's forty year sin', We heard i' York 'at Merriky refused To pay the taxes, just three munth's arter; An' that wur bonnie toime, fur then t'coaäch Tuk but foive daäies ti mak' t' hull waai' doon, Two hunner moile, fra Lunnon.

Fitzgibbon (still scanning the newspaper). Well, Jimmy, here's a man, one Bell, Of Greenock, can send a boat by steam Against the wind and tide, and talks with hope Of making speed equal to both. He's tried it on the Clyde, so we may look For news from England in a month, ere long.

First Private. Na, na, sir; noo doant 'e pooak fun at me! Iver he doos ma' I go hang. Why neist They scatterbrain 'ull mayhap send a shep Jest whear tha' loike wi'oot a win' at all. Or promise till 't. 'Twere pity Nelson, noo, He'd noan o' sech at Copenháagen Mebbe tha' cu'd ha' gott tha' grunded sheps Afloat, an gett moor men to fe'ht them Dáans.

Fitzgibbon. The fewer men the greater glory, Jim. Why, man, he got his title by that fight.

Second Sergeant. And well deserved it! A finer man Never trod deck, sailor or officer; His voice gave courage, as his eye flashed fire. We would have died for him, and he for us; And when the fight was done he got our rights, Or tried at it. More than old Parker did.

First Sergeant. Parker was rich, and so forgot the poor, But Nelson forgot none.

Second Private. He was cliver, too. Dash't! how I laughed, All i' my sleeve o' course. The fight was hot, And getting hotter, for, gad, them Danes can fight! And quite a quarter o' the ships was stuck, The Admiral's among 'em. So Nelson held The squadron at command. Up comes the word, "The signal Thirty-nine is out, sir." Nelson turns, His stump a-goin' as his arm was used Afore he lost it, meets the officer, as says, "Sir, Thirty-nine is out, shall I repeat it?" "No, sir; acknowledge it." Then on he goes. Presently he calls out, "What's flying now?" "The same, sir." So he takes his glass And puts it to his eye, his blind eye, mind you, An' says he, "No signal can I see. No, Ne'er a one." Winking to Ferguson, says he, "I've but one eye, and may be blind sometimes. What! strike off now and lose the day? Not so: My signal keep for 'Closer battle,' flying. That's how I'll answer. Confound the signal! Nail mine to the mast." He won.

First Militiaman. Just touch and go for hanging, that.

Fitzgibbon. Success ne'er saw a scaffold, Jeremy.

A Cadet. Fine-looking fellow Nelson-was, I guess?

First Sergeant. To look at? No, a little, thin, pale man With a long queue, one arm, and but one eye, But that a blazer!

Second Militiaman. These little uns has lots o' spunk: Boney's a little un, I've heerd.

First Private. Just so: and Wellington ain't big.

Fitzgibbon (rising and drawing himself to his full height). Come, boys, you're getting personal. See me! If none but little men may win renown, I hope I'm two in one, for your sakes. And you forget the lion-hearted Brock.

All (interrupting him). No! no! no!

Fitzgibbon. A man of height exceeding any here, And yet whose alt of metred inches Nobly enlarged to full, fair, Saxon mould, And vested in the blazonments of rule, Shewed not so kingly to the obeisant sight As was his soul. Who than ye better knew His bravery; his lofty heroism; His purity, and great unselfish heart? Nature in him betrayed no niggard touch Of corporate or ethereal. Yet I yield That men of lesser mould in outward form Have been as great in deeds of rich renown. But then, I take it, greatness lies not in The flesh, but in the spirit. He is great Who from the quick occasion of the time Strikes out a name. And he is also great Who, in a life-long struggle, throws the foe, And binds on hoary locks the laurel crown. Each is a high exemplar. One with concentrate vigour strikes a blow That rings around the world; the other draws The world round him—his mighty throes And well-contested standpoints win its praise And force its verdict, though bleak indifference— A laggard umpire—long neglect his post, And often leaves the wrestler's best unnoted, Coming but just in time to mark his thews And training, and so decides: while the loud shock Of unexpected prowess starts him aghast, And from his careless hand snatches the proud award. But mark me, men, he who is ever great Has greatness made his aim— The sudden blow or long-protracted strife Yields not its secret to the untrained hand. True, one may cast his statue at a heat, But yet the mould was there; And he who chips the marble, bit by bit, Into a noble form, sees all the while His image in the block. There are who make a phantom of their aim— See it now here, now there, in this, in that, But never in the line of simple duty; Such will accomplish nothing but their shame: For greatness never leaves that thin, straight mark; And, just as the pursuit diverges from it, Greatness evanishes, and notoriety Misleads the suitor. I'd have you think of this.

All. Aye, aye, sir.

Fitzgibbon. Order the lights, for darkness falls apace, And I must write.

[Exit First Private.

Fitzgibbon (cutting the newspaper and handing the halves to the sergeants). There, read to the rest, and let me have them back when done with.

Enter a Soldier with lights.

[A voice is heard in the next room, beginning to sing.

Who's that?

First Private. It's Roaring Bill, sir; shall I stop him?

Fitzgibbon. No; let him sing. It cheers our loneliness, and does us good.

First Sergeant. Another of his own, I guess; homespun And rough, like country cloth.

Fitzgibbon. Hush! what is that he says?

[A Cadet gently pushes one of the folding doors a little wider open.

Roaring Bill. 'Tis but a doleful ditty, boys, With ne'er a chorus; yet I'll be bound You'll hardly quarrel with it.

A Comrade. Let's have it, Bill; we ain't red Injuns, As likes palaver.

Roaring Bill—

SONG.

October blasts had strown the wreaths that erstwhile hung so gay, Above the brows of Queenston Heights where we impatient lay; Niagara fretted at our feet, as chafing at his post, And impotence to turn the fleets that bore the aggressive host. And gray the dawn and cold the morn of Rensselaer's attack, But warm and true the hearts, though few, that leapt to beat him back. "On, Forth-ninth! On, volunteers! Give tongue, ye batteries twain!" Bold Dennis spake: the guns boomed forth, and down he rushed amain. They sink! They fly! They drop down stream.—Ah, too delusive sight! A long-abandoned path they find, and gain the wooded height. The batteries now must guard the shore—above, our struggle lies; But down they pour, like surging flood, that skill and strength defies. Down, down, they press us, inch by inch, beyond the village bound, And there, o'erwhelmed, but not o'ercome, we keep our sullen ground. Short time we stand. A ringing cheer proclaims our hero nigh; Our darling leader, noble Brock—hark to his gallant cry! "Follow me, boys!" the hero cries. We double to the wall— Waving his gleaming sword on high, he climbs, and follow all; Impetuous up the mountain side he strides in warlike glee, All heedless of the leaden hail that whistles from each tree: For on and up proud Victory lures—we touch her laurel crown— When by malign, deliberate aim the hero's stricken down. He falls! We fire, but ah, too late—the murderous work is done. No more that voice shall cheer us on, with "Vict'ry!" in its tone. He falls: nor word nor look may cheer young Jarvis' anxious quest; Among his stricken men he sinks, his hand but seeks his breast. O, Death, could none but him suffice thy cold, insatiate eye? Nor knewed'st thou how many there for him would gladly die! Nor lonely speeds the parting soul, nor lonely stands the bier— Two forms the bastion-tomb enfolds, two claim the soldier's tear. "Avenge the General!" was the cry. "AVENGE!" McDonell cries, And, leading madly up the Height, McDonell falls and dies.

[Several of the men pass their hands over their eyes; MR. JARVIS goes to the open window, as if to observe something without.

An 8th man. A mournful ditty to a mournful tune, Yet not unworthy of the heroic theme, Nor of a soldier's heart.

Mr. Jarvis (in a low voice). Indeed, you're right. I thank the singer for his memories, Though sad to me, who caught Brock's latest breath.

Fitzgibbon. I did not think there had been such a stroke Of genius in the lad. (Another voice.) But who's this, now?

Second Cadet. It's young Jack Kelley, sir; he has a voice, And emulates old Bill.

Jack Kelley (with the airs of an amateur.) Ugh! ugh! I'm hoarse. Now mind the coal-box, byes, and sing it up. "The Jolly Midshipman's" the tune.

SONG.

I. It was a bold Canadian boy That loved a winsome girl; And he was bold as ancient knight, She, fair as day's own pearl. And to the greenwood they must go, To build a home and name, So he clasped hands with Industry, For fortune, wealth and fame.

CHORUS (In which all join, the leader beating time upon his knees with his fists.)

For fortune, wealth and fame, For fortune, wealth and fame; So he clasped hands with Industry, For fortune, wealth and fame. II. And when the jocund Spring came in, He crowned the wedded pair. And sent them forth with hearts elate Their wildwood home to share. For he had built a snug log-house, Beneath a maple tree; And his axe had cleared a wide domain, While store of goods spun she. CHORUS. While store of goods spun she, While store of goods spun she, And his axe had cleared a wide domain, While store of goods spun she. III. The husband whistles at his plough, The wife sings at her wheel, The children wind the shrilly horn That tells the ready meal. And should you roam the wide world o'er, No happier home you'll see, Than this abode of loving toil Beneath the maple tree. CHORUS. Beneath the maple tree, Beneath the maple tree, Than this abode of loving toil Beneath the maple tree.

A 49th man. Hurrah, Jack! that's a good tune, Let's have the chorus again.

All—

Beneath the maple tree, Beneath the maple tree, Than this abode of lov—

[The Sentry challenges, and a Corporal enters and salutes FITZGIBBON.

Fitzgibbon. Well, Corporal.

Corporal. Sir, here is Mishe-mo-qua and a woman. They say they've news, and wish to speak with you.

Fitzgibbon. Then, Corporal, show them in.

[Exit Corporal.

Enter MRS. SECORD and the Indian Chief, who salutes LIEUT. FITZGIBBON.

Several Militiamen (in surprise, aside to each other.) 'Tis Mrs. Secord, Captain Secord's wife; What can her errand be? So tired, too, And in rags.

Mrs. Secord (courtesying). You are the Captain, sir?

Fitzgibbon. At your service.

Mrs. Secord. I bring you news of great importance, sir.

Fitzgibbon. I am indebted, madam, for what I see Has been no common task. Be seated, pray.

[A Cadet places a chair.

Chief, will you also rest?

[He indicates a couch.

Mishe-mo-qua. No. Woman, she Come far, to tell white chief great words.

Fitzgibbon. I thank her much.

Mrs. Secord. I came to say that General Dearborn tires. Of his inaction, and the narrow space Around his works, he therefore purposes To fall upon your outpost here, to-night, With an o'erwhelming force, and take your stores:

Fitzgibbon. Madam!

Mrs. Secord. Five hundred men, with some dragoons and guns, Start e'en to-night, soon as the moon goes down; Lieutenant-Colonel Boerstler in command. A train of waggons, too, is sent for spoil.

Fitzgibbon. And may I ask on what authority To trust such startling news? I know you not.

Mrs. Secord. My name is Secord, I'm Captain Secord's wife, Who fought at Queenston Heights, and there received The wounds that leave him now a helpless cripple. Some here may know him.

Fitzgibbon. I remember now.

Mrs. Secord. We live within the Yankee lines, and hence By victor's right our home is free to them. Last night a sergeant and his new-changed guard Came in and asked for supper; a boy and girl I left to wait on them, seeing the table set With all supplies myself, and then retired. But such their confidence; their talk so loud And free, I could not help but hear some words That raised suspicion; then I listened close And heard, 'mid gibe and jest, the enterprise That was to flout us; make the Loyalist A cringing slave to sneering rebels; make The British lion gnash his teeth with rage;— The Yankee, hand-on-hip, guffawing loud The while. At once, my British blood was up, Nor had I borne their hated presence more, But for the deeper cause. My husband judged As I did, but his helpless frame forbade His active interference, so I came, For well we knew your risk, warning denied.

Fitzgibbon. Alone? You surely did not come alone?

Mrs. Secord. Sir, I have walked the whole way through the woods, For fear of spies, braving all other foes. Nor, since at early morn I left St. David's Mill, Until I met your sentry on the ridge,— Who begged me tell you so, and said "all's well,"— Spoke I, or saw, a soul. Since then, the chief, Whose senior sent him with me for a guide, Has been my kind protector to your post.

Fitzgibbon (to the chief). I thank you, Mishe-mo-qua, and your chief.

(To Mrs. Secord, bowing.) But you, oh; madam, how shall I thank you? You have, indeed, performed a woman's part, A gentle deed; yet at expense of more Than woman's fitting means. I am not schooled In courtly phrases, yet may I undertake To thank you heartily, not on our part Alone, but in our good King George's name, For act so kind achieved. Knew he your care For his brave men—I speak for those around— Of whom some fought for him at Copenhagen, He would convey his thanks, and the Queen's, too— Who loves all nobleness—in better terms Than I, his humble servant. Affliction Leaves him in our hands to do him justice; And justice 'tis, alike to him and you, To thank you in his name, and in the Regent's.

The Soldiers. Hurray! hurray! hurray!

[They toss up their caps.

Mrs. Secord. Sir, you make quite too much of my poor service, I have but done my duty; and I beg Let me not interrupt your movements now: I would not be an obstacle across The path I made.

Fitzgibbon. You add an obligation, madam.

[At a signal the men from the next room file in.

(To the men.) We've hot work coming, boys. Our good friend here Has walked from Queenston, through the woods, this day, To warn me that a sortie from Fort George Is sent to take this post, and starts e'en now. You, Cummings, mount—you know the way—and ride With all your might, to tell De Haren this; He lies at Twelve-Mile Creek with larger force Than mine, and will move up to my support: He'll see my handful cannot keep at bay Five hundred men, or fight in open field. But what strength can't accomplish cunning must— I'll have to circumvent them.

[Exit CUMMINGS.

(To Mishe-mo-qua.) And you, chief, What will you do? You've stood by me so long, So faithfully, I count upon you now.

Mishe-mo-qua. White chief say true: we good King George's men. My warriors yell! hide! shoot! hot bullet fly Like dart of Annee-meekee. We keep dam Long-Knife back. I go just now.

Fitzgibbon (handing the chief a twist of tobacco, which he puts into his girdle with a grunt of satisfaction). A Mohawk is my friend, and you are one.

[FITZGIBBON shakes hands with the Chief, who retires well pleased.

(To Mrs. Secord.) Madam, how may I serve you to secure Your safety? Refreshment comes; but here Is no protection in our present strait.

Mrs. Secord. I thank you, sir, but will not tax you more Than some refreshment. I have friends beyond A mile or two, with whom I'll stay to-night.

Fitzgibbon. I'll spare an escort; Mr. Jarvis here will—

[MRS. SECORD faints.

Poor soul! poor soul! she is exhaust indeed.

(The men run out and bring water, Fitzgibbon gets brandy from a buffet, and Mr. Jarvis unloosens her bonnet and collar. They bathe her hands with the spirit and sprinkle her face with the water, and at last MRS. SECORD sighs heavily.)

Fitzgibbon. She's coming to. Back, men; give her more air.

(MR. JARVIS and another Cadet support MRS. SECORD, while LIEUT. FITZGIBBON offers her coffee, into which he has poured a little brandy, feeding her with the spoon.)

An 8th man (aside). She'll never walk to reach her friends to-night.

A 49th man (to a comrade). Jack, thou an' me can do't. 'Tyent the fust time We've swung a faintin' comrade 'twixt us two; An' her's just like a babby. Fatch a pole An' blanket, an' we'll carry her.

A Sergeant. You'll then be in the rear, for we're to move.

Second 49th man. We'll catch ye oop a foight'n'; its summat wuth To await o' sech as she.

Fitzgibbon (to Mrs. Secord). Are you better now?

Mrs. Secord (trying to stand). I think I am. Oh, sir, I'm losing you The time I tried to save! Pray leave me— I shall be better soon, and I can find my way.

Fitzgibbon. Nay, be not anxious; we are quite prepared. Sheathed though our claws may be, they're always sharp. Pray drink again, nor fear the potent touch That snatches back the life when the spent heart, Oppressed by cruel tasks, as yours, can scarcely beat.

[MRS. SECORD drinks the coffee, and again rises, but can scarcely stand.

49th man (saluting). Sir, me an' Bill has here a hammock ready, An' volunteers to see the lady safe. Among her friends.

Mrs. Secord. But I can walk.

Fitzgibbon. Madam, you cannot. Let these carry you; An honour I do grudge them. I shall move With better heart knowing you cared for.

Mrs. Secord. I'll go at once—

Fitzgibbon. Men, bring your hammock hither.

(The hammock is brought, and MRS. SECORD is assisted into it by LIEUT. FITZGIBBON, who wraps a blanket round her. The men fall into line, and salute as she passes. At the door she offers her hand to FITZGIBBON.)

Mrs. Secord. Farewell, sir. My best thanks for all your goodness, Your hospitality, and this, your escort; You do me too much honour.

Fitzgibbon. Should we not Show our respect for one has done so much For us? We are your debtors, madam.

[He points to the sky, set thick with brilliant stars, the moon having already set.

See how the eyes of heaven look down on you,

And smile, in gentle approbation

Of a most gentle deed. I pray they light

You safely to your friends.

Mrs. Secord. And you to victory, sir. Farewell.

[FITZGIBBON bows. [Exeunt MRS. SECORD and her escort.

Fitzgibbon (to the men who have crowded round the door, and are awaiting orders). Men, never forget this woman's noble deed. Armed, and in company, inspirited By crash of martial music, soldiers march To duty; but she, alone, defenceless, With no support but kind humanity And burning patriotism, ran all our risks Of hurt, and bloody death, to serve us men, Strangers to her save by quick war-time ties. Therefore, in grateful memory and kind return, Ever treat women well.

Men. Aye, aye, sir.

Fitzgibbon. Now, then, for action. I need not say, Men, do your duty. The hearts that sprung To follow Nelson; Brock; have never failed. I'm proud, my men, to be your leader now.