Andre. That spy did not return a second time.
Mor. The rogues have made sure of him ere this, I fancy. They may have given us the slip,—who knows?
Andre. I would like to venture a stroll through that shady street if I thought so. A dim impression that I have somewhere seen this view before, haunts me unaccountably.
Mor. How I hate that sober, afternoon air, that hangs like an invisible presence over it all. You can see it in the sunshine on those white walls, you can hear it in the hum of the bee from the bending thistle here.
Andre. Of the mind it is. This were lovely as the morning light, but for the shade it gathers thence, from the thought of decline and the vanishing day. 'Tis a pretty spot.
Mor. Yes, but the quiet goings-on of life are all hushed there now.
Andre. Ay, this is the hour, when the home-bound children swing the gate with a merry spring, and the mother sits at her work by the open window, with her quiet eye, and the daughter, with the beauty of an untamed soul in her's, looks forth on the woods and meadows, and thinks of her walk at even-tide. I thought it was something like a memory that haunted me thus,—'tis the spot that Maitland talked of yesterday.
Mor. Captain Maitland? I saw him just now at the works above.
Andre. Here? On this hill?
Mor. Yes,—something struck me in his mien,—and there he stands with Colonel Hill, above, on the other side.—Mark him now. Your friend is handsome, Andre; he is handsome, I'll own,—but I never liked that smile of his, and I think I like it less than ever now.