He led his party there and requested them to dismount. The poor parson very willingly obeyed, and got off the horse of which he was heartily tired. “I suppose there is nothing left now but to submit to our fate and trust in Providence,” said Elfie, as she also dismounted and seated herself upon a heap of dried leaves that the wind had drifted against the roots of a great oak tree. “Yes, my dear young lady, that is it! We are in the power of the men of Belial, but the arm of the Lord is mighty to deliver us,” murmured Mr. Simmons, when Colonel Goldsborough had passed out of hearing; he—Goldsborough—having taken the bridles of the two horses and led them to the other extremity of the grove, where he secured them to the trees. “You see he has led away our horses so as to prevent us from taking advantage of the battle to escape by flight!” said Elfie, despondently. “I see! I see, my dear young lady! but the arm of the Lord is strong to save. But hush! here comes the son of Beelzebub!” said the preacher, as the guerrilla leader returned. And in a few minutes the near galloping of other horses was heard, and the six men sent back by Mutchison rode up, in a cloud of dust. “Guard these two prisoners until farther orders!” said Colonel Goldsborough, as he put spurs to his horse and dashed onward after his band. He flew over the plain at a tremendous rate of speed, yet it was some ten minutes before he came up with his band. They were now within half a mile of their rendezvous, where the black, heavy clouds of dust and smoke, and the continuous sound of firing, assured them that a fierce battle was going on. On reaching his band, Colonel Goldsborough did but stop long enough to breathe his horse. And then he commanded a halt, and raising his hand cried out: “Attention, my men! The rendezvous has been surprised by the enemy! The Free Sword seems hard beset! We must free him! To the rescue, then!” A shout from the men responded to this speech. “Attention! Forward! March!” The guerrillas galloped as gayly onwards towards the field of blood “as to a festival.” As they approached the scene of action the evidences of a fearful engagement encircled them. Ascending the hill, they entered into a dense atmosphere of black and sulphurous smoke and dust through which sabres glanced and firearms blazed, and horses and riders loomed and vanished, and from which arose the confused sounds of the shouts of men, the neighs of steeds, the clash of steel, the report of musketry, and the shrieks and groans of the wounded and the dying. Over fallen steeds and writhing men—through flashing sabre strokes and whistling rifle shots—through smoke and dust—through blood and fire—the guerrillas dashed, striking here and there—striking everywhere where the blue coat of a Union soldier could be seen in the chaos.