Jan. Yes.
Helen. Well,—I am ready. (Lingering in the door.) I shall sit by that window no more. Never again shall I turn those blinds to catch the breeze or the sunshine. Yes—(returning), let me look down on that orchard once again. Never more—never more.
(She walks to the door, again pausing on the threshold.)
Helen. (solemnly.) Oh God, here, from childhood to this hour, morning and evening I have called on thee—forget me not. Farewell, Netty, you will see my mother—you will see them all—that is past.—Tell her I had seen the Indians, and was not afraid.
[She goes out.
Jan. It won't take much to make an angel of her, there's that in it.
(Looking cautiously through the shutters.)
There she comes! How every eye in that wild group flashes on her! And yet with what a calm and stately bearing she meets them. Holy Mary! she suffers that savage creature to lift her to her horse, as though he were her brother, and the long knife by his side too, glancing in the sunshine! The horse, one would think, he knew the touch of that white hand on his neck. How gently he rears his beautiful head. There they go. Adieu! Was there ever so sad a smile?
Another glimpse I shall have of them yet beyond those trees.—Yes, there they go—there they go. I can see that lovely plume waving among the trees still.—Was there ever so wild a bridal train?