Mr. Secord (rising and taking his crutch). I'll walk a piece with you, friend Penn,
And see you past the lines.
[His little daughter, HARRIET, hands him his hat.
Quaker. That's right, 'twill do thee good:
Thy wounds have left thee like an ailing girl,
So poor and pale.
[Exeunt Quaker and MR. SECORD.
Charlotte. Oh, dear, I wish I were a man, to fight
In such brave times as these!
Enter MARY, a girl of fourteen.
Mary. Were wishing aught
Soon should another sword strike for the King,
And those dear rights now rudely overlooked.
Mrs. Secord. My child?
Mary. Oh naught, mamma, save the old tale: no nook
That's not invaded, even one's books
Borrowed without one's leave. I hate it all!
Mrs. Secord. We must be patient, dear, it cannot last.