DIALOGUE I.
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?