rims the branches, and affection keeps
the foliage ever green. But come, let us in.

[_JASPER and JENKINS enter the cottage._

_Pastoral Music.--LENOX and CHRISTINE are seen winding down the
mountains--his left arm is in a sling._

CHRISTINE. At last we are at home.--O my breath is nearly gone. You
soldiers are so accustomed to marching and countermarching, that you
drag me over hedge and briar, like an empty baggage-wagon. Look at my
arm, young Mars, you've made it as red as pink, and as rough as--then my
hand--don't attempt to kiss it, you--wild man of the woods.

LENOX. Nay, dear Christine, be not offended; if I have passed rapidly
over rocks and mountains, it is because you were with me. My heart ever
feels light and happy when I am permitted to walk with you; even the air
seems newly perfumed, and the birds chaunt more melodiously; and see, I
can take my arm out of confinement--your care has done this; your voice
administered comfort, and your eyes affection. What do I not owe you?

CHRISTINE. Owe me? Nothing, only one of your best bows, and your
prettiest compliments. But I do suspect, my serious cavalier, that your
wounds were never as bad as you would have me think. Of late you have
taken your recipes with so much grace, have swallowed so many bitter
tinctures with a playful smile, that I believe you've been playing the
invalid, and would make me your nurse for life--O sinner as you are,
what have you to say for yourself?

LENOX. Why, I confess, dear Christine, that my time has passed with so
much delight, that even the call of duty will find me reluctant to quit
these scenes, so dear to memory, hospitality, and, let me add, to love.
Be serious, then, dear Christine, and tell me what I have to hope; even
now I expect orders from my commanding officer, requiring my immediate
presence at the camp; we are on the eve of a battle--Speak!

CHRISTINE. Why, you soldiers are such fickle game, that if we once
entangle you in the net, 'tis ten to one but the sight of a new face
will be sufficiently tempting to break the mesh--you're just as true as
the smoke of your cannon, and you fly off at the sight of novelty in
petticoats, like one of your Congreve rockets--No, I won't love a
soldier--that's certain.

LENOX. Nay, where is our reward then for deserving well of our country?
Gratitude may wreath a chaplet of laurel, but trust me, Christine, it
withers unless consecrated by beauty.