"This hand, to tyrants ever sworn the foe,
For freedom only deals the deadly blow;
Then sheathes in calm repose the vengeful blade,
For gentle peace in freedom's hallowed shade."
John Quincy Adams.
My vespers were done, and I was bethinking me of retiring to rest, when I heard the plaintive voice of Ethel beseeching me to let her come within my tent. I had scarce time to reply when the poor child came rushing into my tent, bathed in tears, and in great distress. I soothed her as best I could. Then I gently inquired as to the cause of her grief, when, without answering me, she thrust into my hand the letter of the Prince. "I scarce know what he means," she said, burying her face in her hands.
I read the letter with a burning sense of shame and indignation, and my heart ached for this poor child who, in the purity of her patriotism and her unquenchable love for her country and the Saxon cause, had braved this rough journey and its exposure, in the hope that her woman's devotion might nerve the arms of the remnant of Saxon leaders still left to the cause. But this ghastly unmasking of a Prince who was false, fickle, shameless, and altogether worthless, was a cruel wound to her—a wound that would fester and rankle, but was destined never to heal again. She quietly lifted her tear-stained face, and timidly inquired, "Is it as I feared, Father?"
"Alas! my child," said I, "'tis a vile, dishonouring missive, and altogether without excuse. To come from a prince, and from a would-be king also—'tis sad to think of it."
"My country! my unhappy country! what will become of thee?" was the heart-broken exclamation as she fell at my feet, her long, fair hair falling in dishevelled tresses around.
"Comfort thee, my poor child," said I, though I scarce had heart or hope for anything. I endeavoured to calm her with such soothing, hopeful words as I had at command; but I saw that words were in vain.
"Father," said she, "my life is a weary burden. My people's woes are breaking my heart. I had vainly hoped that our scattered and hunted people might have been rallied by the presence amongst them of their Prince—that factions would have come together, and a bold stand might have been made for liberty; but to find my Prince so poor in valour and so rich in all cowardly and licentious feeling—so bereft of honour and chivalry as to offer dishonourable proposals to a forlorn and wretched girl like myself—this is more than I can bear. I have watched and prayed these two nights, hoping that favouring Heaven would smile upon us again, and upon this council. But as I watched in lonely vigil, I could hear no answering voice, saving the soughing of the night-winds in the passes of these lonely hills; and they seemed to bear no message to me, saving a message of desolation and death. Is there any rest, any joy, for one like me in life, Father? Surely the grave is the only hope for me!"
"My poor child," said I, "let us not think of death until He who gave us life shall say 'It is enough.' Let us obey, and submit to the chastening hand of our Father in heaven. Perhaps we err greatly in cherishing thoughts of resistance and of bloodshed. Let us rejoice that there is a kingdom which is stable, and which shall know no end; whose Prince is the Prince of Peace. Angels are its heralds, and saints its warriors. Love and mercy are the twin pillars of our Prince's throne; and gentle hands and loving hearts may battle for His supremacy. 'Tis a Kingdom in which torn and bleeding hearts may find the herb called heartsease, and sweet content. Into this Kingdom let us press, my child, and for it let us contend, for the kingdoms of this world are fickle, and built up on fraud and wrong; and they will ultimately shrivel up and pass away like the mists of the morning, and be no more."