(_The call in the thicket above is repeated, and another
young officer enters the glen_.)

_2nd Off_. Hillo, Maitland! These woods yield fairies,--come this way.

_1st Off_. For God's sake, Andre! (_motioning silence_.) Are you mad?

_Andre_. Well, who are they?

_Mait_. _Who_? Have you forgotten that we are on the enemy's ground?
Soldiers from the fort, no doubt. They have crossed that opening twice
since we stood here.

_Andre_. Well, let them cross twice more. I would run the risk of a
year's captivity, at least, for one such glimpse. Nay, come, she will be
gone.

_Mait_. Stay,--not yet. There, again!

_Andre_. Such a villainous scratching as I got in that pass just now. It
must have cost the rogues an infinite deal of pains though. A regular,
handsome sword-cut is nothing to a dozen of these same ragged scratches,
that a man can't swear about. After all, Captain Maitland, these cunning
Yankees understand the game. They will keep out of our way, slyly
enough, until we are starved, and scratched, and fretted down to their
proportions, meanwhile they league the very trees against us.

_Mait_. As to that, we have made some leagues ourselves, I think, quite
as hard to be defended, Sir.