Lenox. Prisoners, sir, and in disguise.
Adela. As I live, an Indian dandy!
Pendragon. A lady? [With an air of fashion.] Ma'am, your most devoted slave—inexpressibly happy to find a beautiful creature in this damn'd wilderness. You see, ma'am, I am a kind of a prisoner, but always at home, always at my ease, à-la-mode St. James—extremely rejoiced to have the honour of your acquaintance. A fine girl, LaRole, split me!
LaRole. Oh, oui, she is very fine, I like her ver mush.
Adela. Pray, sir, may I ask how came you to fancy that disguise?
Pendragon. Oh, it's not my fancy, 'pon honour, though I am one of the fancy; a mere russe de guerre. We on the other side of the water, have a kind of floating idea that you North Americans are half savages, and we must fight you after your own fashion.
Adela. And have you discovered that any difference exists in the last affair in which you have been engaged?
Pendragon. Why, 'pon my soul, ma'am, this Yankee kind of warfare is inexpressibly inelegant, without flattery—no order—no military arrangement—no deploying in solid columns—but a kind of helter-skelter warfare, like a reel or a country-dance at a village inn, while the house is on fire.
Adela. Indeed?
Pendragon. All true, I assure you. Why, do you know, ma'am, that one of your common soldiers was amusing himself with shooting at me for several minutes, although he saw from my air, and my dodging, that I was a man of fashion? Monstrous assurance! wasn't it?