Having left orders for his men to scatter and spread themselves through the forest and take different roads to their secret rendezvous, the guerrilla colonel took the mountain path and flew over it at a reckless rate, with as little regard to his captive’s cries as to his own neck. Elfie was seated on the horse behind him and securely bound by a strong leathern girdle that passed around her waist and was clasped in front of his. Elfie never ceased to struggle and to scold. Her arms were free and she could reach his head, so she cuffed his cheeks and pulled his hair with all her might and main. And she poured out scorn like lava on him. But Goldsborough treated the pummelling and pulling as caresses, and the scolding as compliments; indeed, he scarcely noticed the one or replied to the other; until, after having reached the top of the mountain, they began to descend into a deep wooded dell, by a path so narrow and difficult that it was necessary to slacken speed. “Unbind me! Put me down! Shame of manhood! how dare you treat me so?” cried Elfie, furiously, seizing his ears and making her nails almost meet through them. “Blazes! what a little tigress she is, to be sure! I shall have to cut her claws,” laughed Albert Goldsborough. “I’ll cut your throat!” cried Elfie. “Oh, no you won’t, my dear! You will love me too well. You’ll love me as well as the Sabine girls loved the Roman youths who carried them off against their wills, just as I am carrying you!” laughed Albert. “I’ll see you hanged first!” fired Elfie. “Of course you will, my dear!—around your neck! Come, come, Elfie! Stop trying to tear my ears out by the roots, for I don’t think you’ll succeed. And do be reasonable! You don’t know what a gay life we are going to lead here in the green wood. Your most romantic dreams will be realized. You’ll think that you have slipped out of the nineteenth century and slid down into the twelfth. You’ll fancy yourself in Epping forest, living with Robin Hood and his merry men—except that we don’t wear _Lincoln_ green, Elfie; but Confederate gray. Come! shall I be your Robin Hood? And will you be my maid Marion?” “I’ll be your death!” blazed Elfie. “Oh, no you won’t, my dear. You’ll do as I said before.” “What are you going to do with me, you demon?” “Marry you, my angel!” “Marry me!” cried Elfie, nearly choking with rage. “Yes, my dear. We have a ‘Friar Tuck’ in our band, who will gladly solemnize the nuptial rites and dispense with the formality of a license or a wedding ring.” “And do you think—do you think, you matchless villain!” cried Elfie, again seizing his ears with her nails and wringing them with all her strength, “do you really think that I will consent to such an outrage?” “Friar Tuck will dispense with the bride’s consent as well as with the license, and the wedding ring!” answered Goldsborough, coolly.