_Helen. Well?_ Oh no, it would not have been well. Why, my home would have been with that pursuing army now, my fate bound up with that hollow cause,--these very hands might have fastened the sword of oppression; nay, the sword whose edge was turned against you, against you all, and against the cause, that with tears, night and morning, you were praying for, and with your heart's best blood stood ready to seal every hour. No, it is best as it is; or if my wish grows deeper still, if in my heart I envy, with murmuring thought, the blessed brides, on whose wedding dawns the laughing sun of peace, then with a wish I cast away the glory of these suffering times.--It is best as it is. I am content. _Annie_. I wish I could understand you, Helen. You say, "if he had kept faith to you;"--carried you off, you mean! Do you mean, sister Helen, that of your own will you would ever have gone with him, with Everard Maitland,--that traitor? _Helen. Gone with him_? Would I not? Would I not? Dear child, we talk of what, as yet, you know nothing of. Gone with _him_? Some things are holy, Annie, only until the holier come. _Annie_. (_looking toward the door_.) Stay, stay. What is it, George? (_George Grey comes in_.) _George_. I was seeking our mother. What should it be, but ill news? This tide is against us, and if it be not well-nigh full, we may e'en fold our arms for the rest. There, read that. (_Throwing her a letter_.) Every face you see looks as if a thunder-cloud were passing it. I heard one man say, just now, as I came in, that the war would be over in a fortnight's time. There'll be some blood spilt ere then, I reckon though. _Helen_. What paper is that that reddens her cheek so suddenly? _Annie_. The McGregor's!--think of it, Helen,--gone over to the British side, and St. John of the Glens, and--who brought you this letter, George? 'Tis false! I do not believe it, not a word of it. Why, here are twenty names, people that we know, the most honorable, too,--forsaking us now, at such a crisis! _George_. Self-defence, self-defence, sister; their lands and their houses must be saved from devastation. What sort of barracks think you, would that fine country-seat of McGregor's make?--and St. John's--_he_ is a farmer you know, and his fields are covered with beautiful grain, that a week will ripen, and so, he is for turning his sword into a sickle;--besides, there are worse things than pillage threatened here. Look, (_unfolding a hand-bill_.) Just at this time comes this villainous proclamation from Skeensborough, scattered about among our soldiers nobody knows how, half of them on the eve of desertion before, and the other half--what ails you, Helen? _Helen_. There he stands! _Annie_. Is she crazed? Why do you clasp your hands so wildly? for Heaven's sake, Helen!--her cheek is white as death.--Helen! _Helen_. Is he gone, Annie?