“That glittering object on the left hand of the road!—Oh, I see what it is now!” exclaimed Wing. And they all looked and saw—not only one bayonet, but twenty or thirty, projecting from the thicket each side of the road, and gleaming faintly in the starlight. “It is the guerrilla band. Retreat!” cried Colonel Rosenthal, raising his hand and turning his horse’s head. His two followers also turned. But their road in the rear was bristling each side with bayonets. Retreat was cut off. “Dash forward, then!” exclaimed Colonel Rosenthal, drawing his sword, wheeling, and putting spurs to his horse. “Halt, you cursed Yankees!” yelled a guerrilla, leaping into the middle of the road, followed by all his band, who closed in upon the three travellers, surrounding them with a fence of fixed bayonets. Of course the travellers had no other alternative than to halt. “Surrender, blast you!” thundered the same voice that had ordered the halt. “Bring your leader here, or conduct us to his presence,” said Colonel Rosenthal, sternly. “I am the leader of this band, curse you! Hand me your sword before I wrench it out of your hand!” roared the brute. “I think you would find that a rather difficult feat to perform, my friend,” said the colonel, grasping his weapon with a firmer hold, and frowning so sternly that the guerrilla, surrounded by his band as he was, quailed before the soldier. “Will you hand me your sword, dash you?” thundered the bully, at length plucking up a spirit. “No—not to you! I ordered you to take me to your chief, or to bring him to me,” said Colonel Rosenthal, firmly. “And who are you, curse you, to give orders here?” demanded the guerrilla. “I am one who will be obeyed,” answered the colonel. The guerrilla replied by a volley of oaths which were, however, interrupted by another member of the band, who came suddenly upon the scene, and “spoke as one having authority.” “Crowfield, what is the meaning of this?” “It is this blasted Yankee prisoner, who won’t give up his sword until I tear it from his beastly hands. Demands to be taken before Major Monck, or to have Major Monck brought to him—devil burn him!” answered the savage. “Crowfield, you are wrong. This is Colonel Rosenthal, and Major Monck’s orders were strict, that when he should be taken, he should be treated with courtesy, and conducted at once to his head quarters.” “Oh, yes! that’s the way with the major! He’ll take a prisoner, feast a prisoner, and then hang a prisoner; but all in courtesy! Oh, yes! whatever the major does is always done in courtesy. As for me, I’d rather blast a Yankee and let him go, than bless him and hang him, as our major does. You’ll find worse fellows in the world than I am, if you wouldn’t give me up your sword, Colonel Prisoner,” said the guerrilla, nodding to Colonel Rosenthal. “Sergeant Crowfield, you are drunk! and I’ll give you until four o’clock to-morrow morning to get sober in!”