_Andre_. What do you say?--There?--Yes, I left her there at least. Come,
come. I'll show you one will teach you to unlearn this fixed contempt of
gentle woman. Come.

_Mait_. Let go, if you please, Sir. She who gave me my first lesson in
that art, is scarcely the one to bid me now unlearn it, and I want no
new teaching as yet, thank Heaven. Will you come? We have loitered here
long enough, I think.

_Andre_. What, under the blue scope--what the devil ails you, Maitland?

_Mait_. Nothing, nothing. This much I'll say to you,--_that lady is my
wife_.

_Andre_. Nonsense!

_Mait_. There lacked--three days, I think it was, three whole days, to
the time when the law would have given her that name; but for all that,
was she mine, and is; Heaven and earth cannot undo it.

_Andre_. Are you in earnest? Why, are we not here in the very heart of a
most savage wilderness, where never foot of man trod before,--unless you
call these wild red creatures men?

_Mait_. You talk wildly; that path, followed a few rods further, would
have brought you out within sight of her mother's door.

_Andre_. Ha! you have been in this wilderness then, ere now?