Jan. Go with them!
Helen. There is no help for it.
Jan. With these wild creatures,—with these painted devils?—No—Like nothing human they look, I am sure. Ah see, see them in their feathers and blankets, and that long wild hair. See the knives and the tomahawks in their girdles! Holy Mary! Here's one within the court!
Helen. Yes, there he stands—there's life in it now.—There they stand—the chesnut boughs wave over them—this is the filling up of life. They are waiting for me. 'Tis no dream.
Jan. Dare you go with them? They will murder you.
Helen. If they were but human, I could move them—and yet it is the human in them that is so dreadful. To die were sad enough—to die by violence, by the power of the innocent elements, were dreadful, or to be torn of beasts; to meet the wild, fierce eye, with its fixed and deadly purpose, more dreadful; but ah, to see the human soul, from the murderers eye glaring on you, to encounter the human will in its wickedness, amid that wild struggle—Oh God! spare me.
Jan. If you fear them so, surely you will not go with them.
Helen. This letter says they are kind and innocent. One I should believe tells me there is no cause for fear. In his haste he could not find no other way to send for me.—The army will be here soon,—I must go with them.
Jan. But Captain Grey will come back here again this afternoon. Stay,—stay, and we will go with him.
Helen. You can—yes, you will be safe. For myself, I will abide my choice. Surely I need not dread to go where my betrothed husband trusts me so fearlessly. I count my life worth little more than the price at which he values it. Clasp this mantle, Netty.—And is it thus I go forth from these blessed walls at last?—Through all those safe and quiet hours of peace and trust, did this dark end to them lie waiting here?—Are they calling me?