id="id00134">André. Good, we'll go there. O Arnold, death is nothing;
  Our lives are forfeit to our country's cause.
  Which of us would not quit the world in peace
  After some act that scaled the walls of time,
  And stood on the rampart?

Arnold. Right, and bravely said! I've given my life
  As many times as I have mounted horse
  To reconnoitre—

André. But this is different, Arnold.

Arnold. Different, ay different! it saves men's lives:
  Without a drop of blood it ends a war.

André. You are a veteran, and know the feel
  Of imminent death. I could die bravely, too.

Arnold. Of course you could. All fear is bookish talk
  Cooked up by writers out of literature,
  To give the shudder to dyspeptic girls.
  Dying is easy. Come along, my friend!
  A glass of port shall cure us of such fears;
  Moments like this make mirth in after years.

[Exeunt Arnold and André.]

Father Hudson. Is there no way to stop them; can ye not Bring pause to these excited rushing men?

Leader of Men. Pause is unknown, as to your moving waters, That take their God-directed, downward course, Deaf to beseechment.

Father Hudson. 'Tis most pitiful.

Both Choruses. No, not to mirth can my voice be tuned, while these two men converse. Often their story comes to me in the night, and causes weeping.

One, the young troubadour, the boy poet, beloved by all, burning for fame; and, in his innocence, he performs the mean work of a spy.

And the other, the old hero, seven times baptized with immortality-in-action, who betrays his country out of foolishness.

To the first, death by hanging: to the second, one and twenty years of dishonored life.

Which of them shall have most of pity? Which of them could we see again with gladness, or greet with a gay demeanor?

The fate of the young man I deem the better; because he is young, and because death took him in his beauty.

Strange it is what souls are woven together by destiny; and out of what substance life is wrought.

All men become something incredible to themselves; for they are unwound like a cocoon, and know not which way the thread doth run.

They dance like motes in the sunbeam for a moment, and then are illumined no more. Legend takes some of them, and they become pictures; and the rest, it would seem, enter again into nothingness.

Grant me to know the desire of mine own heart beforehand; that I may not be deceived. Give me not much, but a true thing, and one that lasts forever.

[The distant sound of cannonading is heard.]

Father Hudson. Surely I hear a sound disquieting—

Leader of Men. Wait: you shall know the cause.

[Enter hurriedly, and meeting, Arnold and André on one side, Joshua Smith on the other.]

Joshua Smith. General Arnold! Major André!

Arnold. What is it? What has happened?

Joshua Smith. Colonel Livingston's redoubts on the eastern bank. He has fired on the Vulture. They are exchanging shots; and the Vulture is dropping down stream. She cannot bear the fire.

Major André. We are lost!

Arnold. No, no, no; not lost, not lost. You have only to drop down stream also. Mr. Smith goes with you; and you shall be put aboard the vessel a few miles below. Eh, Smith?

Joshua Smith. Not for the world, General! It is daylight now, and if I should be seen taking this gentleman to the Vulture, the Yankees would shoot both of us.

Arnold. Some truth in that. But what can we do?

Joshua Smith. Go the other way, General. You must give a pass to both Major André and me, allowing us to cross the river, and so on to New York. I'll go with the Major till we reach the British lines. It's a plain road to safety.

André. But my uniform—

Arnold. It is a case for a change of coats.

André. But the countrymen are swarming in every highway—

Joshua Smith. They are all my friends. Every rebel is my friend;—and—harkee,—every Tory is my friend—from Peekskill to New York! You'll be as safe as the General himself,—and much more comfortable,—till you reach the British Headquarters.

Arnold. [To André.] He's right, André, he's right. It's a safer way than the other when all's said. He knows every lane in the country. [More firing.] Here, take the papers. And God bless you! There's no time to lose. This pass covers all routes. The patriots know my hand and respect it. Off with you to King's Ferry, Peekskill, and White Plains! Off with you both! Smith has mounts for both of you; and you'll be in the city in twelve hours. All the words have been said: the rest is action.

André. [Shaking hands with Arnold.] Till we meet again.

Arnold. [With a gesture.] There in the fort!
      Sir Henry on his horse,
  And André like a Genius at his side,
  Guiding the host! That flag shall fall
  When next we meet: up run the British colors!
  England forever! Heart, take heart, my lad!
  We cannot fail. The rest is counting gains.

André. I think this exploit shall make England glad
  When I'm in the grave.

Arnold. Odso! Our names shall chronicle the hills,
  And school-boys learn us. Go in haste, good André!
  Keep your mouth shut. Let Smith do all the talking.
  These papers make you seem some Britisher,
  An agent or a spy. You will be safe.
  In every war are trusted underlings
  Who pass from camp to camp like contraband;
  Always suspected and yet always safe.

André. I like not such protection. Must I creep
  Beneath so mean a shelter,—seem a spy?
  I would to Heaven my purposes were known
  To every noble nature in the earth!

Arnold. Off! And the nearest way!

[Smith changes André's coat.]

Success is virtue; and we mean to win.

[Exit André _and _Smith.]

[Aside.] If we should fail, good youth, for history's eye,
  They'd write us up,—the traitor and the spy.
  Would God some power to telescope the hours
  Were lent me now! With André in New York
  I am revenged, rich, powerful, respected, everything
  My enemies begrudge. It cannot fail.
  O for a battle now to dry this sweat
  Of simple waiting! Sure, he cannot miss!
  My passes run the river up and down;
  And every day some messenger of mine
  Reaches New York; then why not he?
  If they should take him? But they will not take him.
  All these long months of waiting,—
  And not a soul to speak to; I could roar,—
  Sound it against the mountains,—that these peaks