_Mait_. Graves! Is it graves they are talking of? Will they bury this gay young bride! 'Tis but the name; there's nothing sad in it. In the lovely summer twilight shall her burial be, and thus; in all her bridal array, with the glory of the crimson sunset shining through the trees;--see what a fearful glow is kindling on her cheek, and that faint breeze--or, is it life that stirs these curls? Stay!--whose young brow is this?--Ha!--_whose_ smile is this? Who is this they would hurry away into the darkness of death? The grave! Could you fold the rosy and all-speading beauty of heaven in the narrow grave? Helen, is it thee?--my heaven, my long-lost heaven; and, even now, but for mine own deed--Oh God! was there no hand but mine?--but for me--They shall not utter it,--there, thus. There's but _one_ cry that could unfold this grief, but that would circle the round universe and fill eternity. A sad sight this! Is't known who killed this lady, Sir? _Leslie_. Of all the wrecks of beautiful humanity that strew these paths, we have found none so sad as this! _Elliston_. Mark you those groups of soldiers loitering on the road-side there? _An Officer_. Curiosity. The regiment that was dismissed to-day. They'll be here anon. _Leslie_. Ay, let them come. _Off_. Look,--who comes up that winding pathway through the trees, with such a swift and stately movement? A woman! See how the rude soldiers turn aside with awe. Ah, she comes hither. (_A voice without_.) Where is she?--stand aside!--What have you here in this dark ring?--Henry--nay, let me come. (_Mrs. Grey enters the glen_.) _Grey_. For God's sake, Madam, let me lead you hence. This is no place for you. Look at this group of men, officers, soldiers-- _Mrs. G_. Would you cheat me _thus_? Is it no place for _me_? What kind of place is't then for her, whose--Oh God!--think you I do not see that slippered foot, nor know whose it is,--and whose plumed bonnet is it that lies crushed there at their feet?--unhand me, Henry. _Leslie_. Nay, let her come,--'tis best. (_She passes swiftly through the parting group_.) _Mrs. G_. My daughter!--_Blood_? My stricken child smile you? No pity was there then? Speak to me, speak! Your mother's tears are on your brow, and heed you not? Nay, tell me all, my smitten one. This day's dark history will you never pour into my ear, that hath treasured so often your lightest grief? Alone through that wild anguish have you passed, and smile you now? I bade her trust in God. Did _God_ see this? (_Arnold, and a group of Soldiers, enter the glen_.) _Arnold_. Look there. Ay, ay, look there. You were right, Leslie;--this _is_ better than a battle-field. They'll find that this day's work will cost them dear.