[In his agitation he rises.
Mrs. Secord. Oh, calm thee, dear; thy strength is all to me.
Fitzgibbon shall be warned, or aid be sent.
Mr. Secord. But how, wife? how? Let this attempt succeed,
As well it may, and vain last year's success;
In vain fell Brock: in vain was Queenston fought:
In vain we pour out blood and gold in streams:
[!-- Begin Page 20 --] For Dearborn then may push his heavy force
Along the lakes, with long odds in his favour.
And I, unhappy wretch, in such a strait
Am here, unfit for service. Thirty men
Are all Fitzgibbon has to guard the stores
And keep a road 'twixt Bisshopp and De Haren.
Those stores, that road, would give the Yankee all.
Mrs. Secord. Why, be content now, dear. Had we not heard,
This plot might have passed on to its dire end,
Like the pale owl that noiseless cleaves the dark,
And, on its dreaming prey, swoops with fell claw.
Mr. Secord. What better is it?
Mrs. Secord. This; that myself will go to Beaver Dam,
And warn Fitzgibbon: there is yet a day.
Mr. Secord. Thou! thou take a task at which a man might shrink?
No, no, dear wife! Not so.
Mrs. Secord. Ay, prithee, let me go;
'Tis not so far. And I can pass unharmed
Where you would be made prisoner, or worse.
They'll not hurt me—my sex is my protection.
Mr. Secord. Oh, not in times like these. Let them suspect
A shadow wrong, and neither sex, nor tears,
Nor tenderness would save thy fate.
Mrs. Secord. Fear not for me. I'll be for once so wise
The sentries shall e'en put me on my way.
Once past the lines, the dove is not more swift
Nor sure to find her distant home than I
To reach Fitzgibbon. Say I may go.