I thought it was something like a memory that
haunted me thus,--'tis the spot that Maitland talked of yesterday.
_Mor_. Captain Maitland? I saw him just now at the works above.
_Andre_. Here? On this hill?
_Mor_. Yes,--something struck me in his mien,--and there he stands with
Colonel Hill, above, on the other side.--Mark him now. Your friend is
handsome, Andre; he is handsome, I'll own,--but I never liked that smile
of his, and I think I like it less than ever now.
_Andre_. Why, that's the genuine Apollo-curl,--a line's breadth deeper
were too much, I'll own.
(_Maitland and another Officer enter_.)
_Off_. That is all,--that is all, I believe, Captain Maitland. Yonder
pretty dwelling among the trees seems an old acquaintance of yours. It
has had the ill manners to rob me of your eye ever since we stood here,
and I have had little token that the other senses were not in its
company. Andre, has your friend never a ladye-love in these wilds, you
could tell us of?
_Mor_. He is sworn to secresy. Did you mark that glance?
_Mait_. Love! I hold it a pretty theme for the ballad-makers, Colonel
Hill; but for myself, I have scarce time for rhyming just now.
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