Andre. Why, that's the genuine Apollo-curl,—a line's breadth deeper were too much, I'll own.
(Maitland and another Officer enter.)
Off. That is all,—that is all, I believe, Captain Maitland. Yonder pretty dwelling among the trees seems an old acquaintance of yours. It has had the ill manners to rob me of your eye ever since we stood here, and I have had little token that the other senses were not in its company. Andre, has your friend never a ladye-love in these wilds, you could tell us of?
Mor. He is sworn to secresy. Did you mark that glance?
Mait. Love! I hold it a pretty theme for the ballad-makers, Colonel Hill; but for myself, I have scarce time for rhyming just now. Captain Andre, here are papers for you.
[He walks away, descending the road.
Col. Hill. So! So! What ails the boy?
(Looking after him for a moment, and then ascending the hill.)
Andre. (Reading.) Humph! Here's prose enough! Will you walk up the hill with me, Mortimer? I must cross the river again.
Mait. First let me seek this horse of mine,—the rogue must have strayed down this path, I think.