_Mess_. To the British camp! Lord bless you, Miss. I should be shot--I should be shot as true as you are a living woman. I should be shot for a deserter, or, what's worse, I should be hanged for a spy. _Helen_. What shall I do! _Mess_. And besides, there's Madame Grey will be wanting me by this time. See how the candles dance about the rooms there. _Helen_. Yes, you are right. We must go in and help them. Come. (_They enter the house_.) DIALOGUE IV. SCENE. _The British camp. Moonlight. A lady in a rich travelling dress, standing in the door of a log-hut_. _Lady Ackland_. (_Talking to her maid within_.) What is the matter, Margaret? What do you go stealing about the walls so like a mad woman for, with that shoe in your hand? _Maid_. (_Within_.) There, Sir!--your song is done!--there's one less, I am certain of that. _Coming to the door_.) If ever I get home alive, my lady--Ha!--(_striking the door with her slipper_.) If ever--you are there, are you? I believe I have broken my ear in two. The matter? Will your ladyship look here? _Lady A_. Well. _Maid_. And if ever I get back to London, I'll say well too. If ever I get back to London alive, my lady,--I'll see---- _Lady A_. What will you see, Margaret? Nothing lovelier than this, I am sure. Are you not ashamed to stand muttering there? Come here, and look at this beautiful night. _Maid_. La, Lady Harriet! _Lady A_. Listen! How still the camp is now! You can hear the rush of those falls we passed, distinctly. How pretty the tents look there, in that deep shade. These tuneful frogs and katy-dids must be our nightingales to-night. Indeed, as I stand now, I could almost fancy that fine wood there was my father's park; nay, methinks I see the top of the old gray turrets peeping out among the shadows there. Look, Margaret, do you see? _Maid_. La! I can see woods enough, my lady, if that is what you mean,--nothing else, and I have seen enough of them already to last me one life through. Yes, here's a pretty tear I have got amongst them!--Two guineas and a half it cost me in London,--I pray I may never set my eyes on a wood again, _Lady A_. This was some happy home once, I know. See that rose-bush, and this little bed of flowers.--Here was a pretty yard--there went the fence,--and there, where that waggon stands, by that broken pear-tree, swung the gate. And pleasant meetings there have been at this door, no doubt, and sorrowful partings too,--and hearts within have leaped at the sound of that gate, and merry tales have been told by that desolate hearth. In this little lonely unthought-of place, the mysterious world of the human soul has unfolded,--the drama of life been played, as grandly in the eyes of angels as in the proud halls where my life dawned. And there are hearts that cling to this desolate spot as mine does to that far-off home. We have driven them away in sorrow and fear. This is war!