_Arnold_. A feather's, ay a feather's, just so; but when the scales are
turning, a feather counts too, and that is the predicament just now of
more minds than you think for, Colonel Leslie. A pretty dark horizon
around us just now, Sir,--another regiment goes off to-morrow, I hear.
Hey?
_Leslie_. Why, no. At least we hope not. We think we shall be able to
keep them yet, unless--that paper might work some mischief with them
perhaps, and it would be rather a fatal affair too, I mean in the way of
example.--These Green Mountain Boys----
_Arnold_. Colonel Leslie, Colonel Leslie, this army is melting away like
a snow-wreath. There's no denying it. Your General misses it. The news
of one brave battle would send the good blood to the fingers' ends from
ten thousand chilled hearts; no matter how fearful the odds; the better,
the better,--no matter how large the loss;--for every slain soldier, a
hundred better would stand on the field;----
_Leslie_. But then----
_Arnold_. By all that's holy, Sir, if I were head here, the red blood
should smoke on this grass ere to-morrow's sunset. I would have battle
here, though none but the birds of the air were left to carry the tale
to the nation.
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