There, again!
_Andre_. Such a villainous scratching as I got in that pass just now. It
must have cost the rogues an infinite deal of pains though. A regular,
handsome sword-cut is nothing to a dozen of these same ragged scratches,
that a man can't swear about. After all, Captain Maitland, these cunning
Yankees understand the game. They will keep out of our way, slyly
enough, until we are starved, and scratched, and fretted down to their
proportions, meanwhile they league the very trees against us.
_Mait_. As to that, we have made some leagues ourselves, I think, quite
as hard to be defended, Sir.
_Andre_. It may be so. Should we not be at the river by this?
_Mait_. Sunset was the time appointed. We are as safe here, till then.
_Andre_. 'Tis a little temple of beauty you have lighted on, in truth.
These pretty singers overhead, seem to have no guess at our hostile
errand. Methinks their peaceful warble makes too soft a welcome for such
warlike comers. Hark! [_Whistling_.] That's American. One might win
bloodless laurels here. Will you stand a moment just as you are,
Maitland;--'tis the very thing. There's a little space in my unfinished
picture, and with that _a la Kemble_ mien, you were a fitting mate for
this young Dian here, (_taking a pencil sketch from his
portfolio_,)--the beauty-breathing, ay, beauty-breathing, it's no
poetry;--for the lonesome little glen smiled to its darkest nook with
her presence.
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