“There is the place where we shall halt to-night, Wing. As we have no tents, the trees must give us shelter. And I am told that there is a fine spring of water. Our tired and hungry men will be comfortable there,” said Colonel Rosenthal, pointing to the grove. “And the wounded, my Colonel?” inquired Wing, gently. “You always remember the wounded, my boy. Well, they will be taken care of. Captain Hopkins and Surgeon Sharpe are in charge of the wounded. And lest you should also think the dead may be neglected, I will inform you that Lieutenant Barnwell and Chaplain Jones are entrusted with the arrangements for their Christian burial. Are you satisfied now, Wing?” “Thanks, my Colonel, for your information, and also for your kind indulgence of what might be called impertinence in me,” said Wing, respectfully raising his cap. Colonel Rosenthal smiled wistfully, but did not reply. The sun had long set, and the moon had not yet risen. But it was a clear, bright, starlight night, and they continued their way across the plain, strangely soothed by the sweet stillness and peacefulness of the scene. They rode along, drawing nearer and nearer to the grove, until at length, when they were within a few hundred yards of it, they were startled by screams issuing from its shadows, a woman’s piercing screams, mingled with cries of— “Murder! Murder! Help! Help!” CHAPTER XXVI. ELFIE IN THE GROVE. Ask me not what the maiden feels, Left in that dreadful hour alone; Perchance her reason stoops or reels Perchance a courage not her own, Braces her mind to desperate tone.—SCOTT. “Quick, boys! There is something dreadful going on in that grove! Some woman in extreme peril!” hastily exclaimed Justin Rosenthal, as he put spurs to his horse, and galloped forward, hotly followed by Wing and Hay. The grove, at the point at which they approached it, was too thickly grown to admit the entrance of their horses. So Colonel Rosenthal threw himself from his saddle, fastened his horse to a tree, drew his sword and plunged into the thicket. This example was quickly followed by his companions. The cries of distress had ceased; and the silence and the darkness of the place rendered it rather difficult for our Don Quixote to decide where to turn his steps and the point of his sword for the delivery of the distressed damsel. “We must scatter ourselves, boys! Each must take a different direction and beat about the woods until we discover the cause of those cries! And he who first comes upon the scene of violence must shout for the others! Now go! And may Heaven grant that we may be in time!” hastily exclaimed Justin, waving his sword in the directions he wished the others to take, and then turning and striking deeper into the shadows of the grove.