SCENE I. _York, in Upper Canada; a Tavern meanly furnished._ _Enter LAROLE, in pursuit of the chambermaid._ LAROLE. Come here, you littel demoiselle--you bootiful sauvage, vy you run vay from me--hay? MAID. I wish you would let me alone, mounsure, you officers' gentlemen are very disagreeable things. LAROLE. Disagreeable? ma foi! I am one joli garçon, one pretti batchelor; disagreeable? I vill tell you, ma belle grizette, I am maître de mode, I give de leçons for dance, to speake de English, and de Française aussi; I can fence, aha! or fight de duel, or de enemi, je suis un soldat. MAID. Well, if you're a soldier, you have no business to be following me up and down the house like a pet lamb. Why don't you go to camp? LAROLE. Camp? vat is de camp? Oho, le champ de bataille; I shall tell you, mademoiselle, I did fight at the bataille de Vittoria, com un diable, like littel devil. I did kill beaucoup d'Anglais. Mai my maître, le capitain, he did give me a dam tump on my head wis his rapier, and did knock me down from on top of my horse, and make a me von prisonier. MAID. Poor fellow! And so, mounsure, you were made prisoner? LAROLE. Oui, ven I could not run avay, begar I surrender like von brave homme, and now I am jentiman to capitain Pendragoon; I do brus his coat, poudre his hair, and pull his corset tight, and ven he was order to come to Amérique, and fight wis de Yankee Doodel, begar me come too. I arrive ici, I am here, to make a littel de love to you. MAID. Well now, once for all, I tell you not to be following me; I don't like Frenchmen--I can't parlyvoo. LAROLE. You no like de Frenchiman? O quell barbare! vy you ave von abominable goût, mademoiselle, von shockin taste. I shall tell you, mademoiselle, en my contree, en France, de ladies are ver fond of me. O beaucoup, I am so charmant--so aimable, and so jentee, I have three five sweetheart, ami de coeur, mai for all dat I do love you ver mush, par example. MAID. Let me go! [_Bell rings._] There, your master calls you. [_Exit._ LAROLE. Dam de littel bell, I vill not come; mon maître he always interrupt me ven I make de love to the pretti ladi, he be jealous, begar I vill not come. [_Exit opposite side._ _Enter CAPTAIN PENDRAGON, dressed in the British uniform, but in the extreme of fashion--throws himself into a chair._ PENDRAGON. Oh, curse such roads! My bones are making their way out of their sockets--such vile, abominable, detestable--Waiter!--If my friends at Castle Joram only knew the excruciating fatigues which I am undergoing in this barbarous land--Why, waiter!--or if his highness the commander-in-chief was only sensible of my great sacrifices to--Why, waiter! where the devil are you? _Enter WAITER._ WAITER. Here I be, sir.