_Jan_. It is all over with us,--what use is there? Do you hear that trampling?--in the street!--they are coming! _Helen_. Janette--Hear me. Will you throw away your life and mine? For shame! Be calm. These Indians cannot know that we are here. They will see these houses _all_ deserted. Why should they stop to search _this?_ Hush! hush! they are passing now. _Jan_. They have stopped!--the trampling has stopped!--I hear the gate,--they have come into the yard. (_A long wild yell is heard under the window. They stand, looking silently at each other. Again it trembles through the room, louder than before_.) _Helen_. I am sorry you stayed here with me. Perhaps--Hark! What was that? What was that? Was it not _Maitland_ they said then? It was--it is--Don't grasp me so. _Jan_. Nay--what would you do? _Helen_. I must speak with them. Let go my arm! Do you not hear? 'Tis Maitland they are talking of. How strangely that blessed name sounds in those tones! _Jan_. You must not--we have tempted Heaven already--this is madness. _Helen_. Let go, Janette. It is not you they seek. You can conceal yourself. You shall be safe. _Jan_. She is wild! Nay, I was mad myself, or I should never have stayed here. It were better to have lived always with them, than to be murdered thus. (_Helen opens the window, and stands for a moment, looking silently down into the court. She turns away, shuddering_.) _Helen_. Can I meet those eyes again? (_Again the name of Maitland mingles with the wild and unintelligible sounds that rise from without_.) _Helen_. Can I? (_She turns to the window_.) What can it mean? His own beautiful steed! How fiercely he prances beneath that unskilful rein. Where's your master, Selma, that he leaves me to be murdered here? A letter! He bids me unfasten the door, Janette. _Jan_. And will you? _Helen_. They are treacherous I know. This will do.--(_Taking a basket from the toilette_.) Give me that cord. (_She lets down the basket from the window, and draws it up, with a letter in it_.) _Helen_. (_Looking at the superscription_.) 'Tis his! I thought so. Is it ink and paper that I want now? (_Breaking it open_.) Ah, there's no forgery in this, 'Tis his! 'tis his! _Jan_. How can she stand to look at that little lock of hair now?--smiling as if she had found a bag of diamonds. But there's bad news there. How the color fades out, and the light in her eye dies away. What can it be? _Helen_. (_Throwing the letter down, and walking the floor hastily_.) This is too much! I cannot, I cannot, _I cannot go with them_! How could he ask it of me? _This is_ cruel. He knew, perfectly well, how I have always feared them--I cannot go with them. (_She takes up the letter_.)