_Andre_. It may be so. Should we not be at the river by this?

_Mait_. Sunset was the time appointed. We are as safe here, till then.

_Andre_. 'Tis a little temple of beauty you have lighted on, in truth.
These pretty singers overhead, seem to have no guess at our hostile
errand. Methinks their peaceful warble makes too soft a welcome for such
warlike comers. Hark! [_Whistling_.] That's American. One might win
bloodless laurels here. Will you stand a moment just as you are,
Maitland;--'tis the very thing. There's a little space in my unfinished
picture, and with that _a la Kemble_ mien, you were a fitting mate for
this young Dian here, (_taking a pencil sketch from his
portfolio_,)--the beauty-breathing, ay, beauty-breathing, it's no
poetry;--for the lonesome little glen smiled to its darkest nook with
her presence.

_Mait_. What are you talking of, Andre? Fairies and goddesses!--What next?

_Andre_. I am glad you grow a little curious at last. Why I say, and
your own eyes may make it good if you will, that just down in this glen
below here, not a hundred rods hence, there sits, or stands, or did some
fifteen minutes since, some creature of these woods, I suppose it is;
what else could it be? Well, well, I'll call no names, since they offend
you, Sir; but this I'll say, a young cheek and smiling lip it had,
whate'er it was, and round and snowy arm, and dimpled hand, that lay
ungloved on her sylvan robe, and eyes--I tell you plainly, they lighted
all the glen.

_Mait_. Ha? A lady?--there? Are you in earnest?