Mr. Secord. Heaven speed thee, then, dear wife. I'll try to bear
The dreadful pangs of helplessness and dread
With calm demeanour, if a bursting heart.
Mrs. Secord. Then will you taste a woman's common lot
In times of strait, while I essay man's rôle
Of fierce activity. We will compare
When I return. Now, fare-thee-well, my husband.
(Fearful of being observed, they part without an embrace. Mrs. Secord walks down the garden slowly, and gathers a few clove pinks; a the gate she stops as though the latch were troublesome, raises the flowers to her lips, and makes a slight salute to her husband, who yet stands within the porch watching [!-- Begin Page 24 --] her. She then rapidly pursues her way, but soon encounters an American sentry, whom she essays to pass with a nod and a smile: the man prevents her by bringing his musket to the charge, and challenging.)
Mrs. Secord. Why do you stop me?
Sentry. Where is your pass?
You know that none may take the road without one.
Mrs. Secord. But surely I may go to milk my cow,
Yonder she is.
[A cow is seen in the clearing.
She's wandered in the night.
I'll drive her back again, poor thing.
She likes new pasture best, as well she may.