Hear me--not with lip service, I beseech thee now, but with the
earnestness that stays the rushing heart's blood in its way.--Hear me.
Let the high cause of right and freedom, whose sad banner, now, on
yonder hill, floats in this summer air; whose music on this soft
night-breeze is borne--let it prevail--though _I_, with all this
sensitive, warm, shrinking life; with all this new-found wealth of love
and hope, lie on its iron way.
I am safe now.--This life that I feel now, steel cannot reach.
(_Annie enters_.)
_Annie_. Dear Helen, dress yourself. It is all true! We must go
to-night, we must indeed. They are dismantling the fort now.--Come to
the door, and you can hear them if you will; and here is word from
Henry, we must be ready before morning--the British are within sight. Do
you hear me, Helen? Do not stand looking at me in that strange way.
_Helen_. To-night!
_Annie_. I was frightened myself at first, sadly; but there is no
danger, not the least. We shall be in Albany to-morrow, Henry says.
Come, Helen, there is no one to see to any thing but ourselves. They are
running about like mad creatures there below, and the children, are
crying, and such a time you never saw.
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