PART THIRD.
* * * * *
FATE.
* * * * *
DIALOGUE I.
SCENE. _The hill--Night--Large fires burning--Sentinels dimly seen in
the back-ground. A young Indian steals carefully from the
thicket. He examines the ground and the newly-felled trees._
_Indian_. One, two, three. And this is ringed. The dogs have spoiled the
council-house.
(_Soldiers rush forward_.)
_1st Sol_. So, Mr. Red-skin! would not you like a scalp or two now, to
string on your leggings? Maybe we can help you to one or so. Hold fast.
Take care of that arm, I know him of old.
(_The Indian, with a violent struggle, disengages himself,
and darts into the thicket_.)
No? well,--dead or alive, we must have you on our side again.
(_Firing_.)
_2nd Sol_. _He's_ fixed, Sir.
_1st Sol_. Hark. Hark,--off again! Let me go. What do you hold me for,
you scoundrel?
_2nd Sol_. Don't make a fool of yourself, Will Wilson. There will be a
dozen of them yelling around you there. Besides, he is half way to the
swamp by this.
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