Once more, one horizon circles, for a day, our long-parted destinies; another, and another wave of these wild times will drift them asunder again, forever; and I count myself his wife. His wife?--nay, his bride, his two years' bride, to-night, his wife, to-morrow. He must meet me there, (_writing_) at noon, I will say.--I did not think that little hut of logs should have been my marriage-hall;--he must meet me there, and to-morrow is my bridal day. PART THIRD. * * * * * FATE. * * * * * DIALOGUE I. SCENE. _The hill--Night--Large fires burning--Sentinels dimly seen in the back-ground. A young Indian steals carefully from the thicket. He examines the ground and the newly-felled trees._ _Indian_. One, two, three. And this is ringed. The dogs have spoiled the council-house. (_Soldiers rush forward_.) _1st Sol_. So, Mr. Red-skin! would not you like a scalp or two now, to string on your leggings? Maybe we can help you to one or so. Hold fast. Take care of that arm, I know him of old. (_The Indian, with a violent struggle, disengages himself, and darts into the thicket_.) No? well,--dead or alive, we must have you on our side again. (_Firing_.) _2nd Sol_. _He's_ fixed, Sir. _1st Sol_. Hark. Hark,--off again! Let me go. What do you hold me for, you scoundrel? _2nd Sol_. Don't make a fool of yourself, Will Wilson. There will be a dozen of them yelling around you there. Besides, he is half way to the swamp by this. Look here; what's this, in the grass here? _1st Sol_. There was something in his hand, but he clenched it through it all,--this is a letter. Bring it to the fire. _2nd Sol_. (_reading_.) "_This by the Indian, as in case I am taken, he may reach the camp in safety. Not over three thousand men in all, I should think,--very little ammunition, soldiers mostly discouraged.--In Albany, they are tearing the lead off the windows of the houses, and taking the weights from the shops for ball. Talk of retreating on Thursday to the new encampment, five miles below. More when I get to you_." _More!_ Humph! A pretty string of lies he has got here already. This must go to the General, Dick. [_Exeunt_. * * * * * DIALOGUE II. SCENE. _Chamber in the Parsonage. Moonlight. Annie sitting by the window, the door open into an adjoining room_. _Annie_. (_Calling_.) Come, come,--why do you sit there scribbling so late, Helen? Come, and enjoy this beautiful night with me. Ay, what a world of invisible life amid the dew and darkness utters its glad voices; even the little insect we never saw by day, makes us feel for once the great brotherhood of being. This day week we shall be in Albany,--no more such scenes as this then.