“What?” inquired the colonel, drawing rein.
“Where?” questioned Hay, riding up.
“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.