_Mr. Secord_. What better is it?

_Mrs. Secord_. This; that myself will go to Beaver Dam,
And warn Fitzgibbon: there is yet a day.

_Mr. Secord_. Thou! thou take a task at which a man might shrink?
No, no, dear wife! Not so.

_Mrs. Secord_. Ay, prithee, let me go;
'Tis not so far. And I can pass unharmed
Where you would be made prisoner, or worse.
They'll not hurt me--my sex is my protection.

_Mr. Secord_. Oh, not in times like these. Let them suspect
A shadow wrong, and neither sex, nor tears,
Nor tenderness would save thy fate.

_Mrs. Secord_. Fear not for me. I'll be for once so wise
The sentries shall e'en put me on my way.
Once past the lines, the dove is not more swift
Nor sure to find her distant home than I
To reach Fitzgibbon. Say I may go.

_Mr. Secord_ (_putting his arm 'round her tenderly_).
How can I let thee go? Thy tender feet
Would bleed ere half the way was done. Thy strength
Would fail 'twixt the rough road and summer heat,
And in some, gloomy depth, faint and alone,
Thou would'st lie down to die. Or, chased and hurt