He laughed and dodged the blows, and then took one of Elfie’s hands to draw in his arm and lead her on. But the enraged girl snatched her hand away, exclaiming: “Go on! I will follow, since I must. And if I seem to yield now to circumstances, it is only as the tiger crouches for a surer spring! Albert Goldsborough, I will have your life for this!” “The devotion of my whole life, Elfie,” he answered gravely. Corsoni was standing at the foot of the stone steps waving his hands for them to come on. CHAPTER XII. THE OUTLAW’S LOVE. I know not. I ask not if guilt’s in that heart; But I know that I love thee, whatever thou art.—MOORE. They followed him up into the porch and through the double doors to a broad, unfurnished central hall, where several guerrillas were on guard. Four doors on the right hand and four on the left opened into rooms on each side of this hall. Corsoni led the way to the third door on the right hand, saying: “My dear wife is in there. Had we not better consign Miss Fielding to her care?” “Thanks, yes! My fair travelling companion has been on horseback, riding hard and exerting herself in other violent exercises for about six hours; and must be greatly in need of aid and comfort just now,” answered Goldsborough. Corsoni opened the door and holding it open, bowed and said: “Miss Fielding, my dear wife is in there. Will you enter?” But before Elfie could answer, and indeed while Vittorio was still speaking, Alberta herself came out, and taking Elfie in her arms, kissed her on both cheeks, saying: “Welcome to the greenwood, Elfie!” and drew her into the room. It was a spacious apartment, with a wide fireplace. Over the fireplace was a richly-carved mantel-shelf. In the wall above there was an old fresco painting. A wood-fire burned on the hearth. Each side the chimney were tall windows, reaching from floor to ceiling. Every part of the room was dilapidated, and not by the gentle action of time but by the merciless desecration of war. The beautiful figures in the carved marble mantelpiece were chipped and broken off. The fresco painting was scraped until its subject could not even be guessed at. The glass in the windows was in many places broken and replaced by pasteboard. The gorgeous historical paper that had once covered the walls now hung in strips. And the room was almost entirely unfurnished; floor and windows were bare of covering. In one corner stood a rude, temporary bedstead, the work of some guerrilla carpenter; and on it was laid a mattress and pillows, with the redeeming accessories of clean sheets and blankets. There was a rough table, supporting a tin basin and a stone pitcher of water; with a clean towel laid over them. One low chair and two or three rude three-legged stools completed the “conveniences” of the room.