“Bring your leader here, or conduct us to his presence,” said Colonel Rosenthal, sternly.
“I am the leader of this band, curse you! Hand me your sword before I wrench it out of your hand!” roared the brute.
“I think you would find that a rather difficult feat to perform, my friend,” said the colonel, grasping his weapon with a firmer hold, and frowning so sternly that the guerrilla, surrounded by his band as he was, quailed before the soldier.
“Will you hand me your sword, dash you?” thundered the bully, at length plucking up a spirit.
“No—not to you! I ordered you to take me to your chief, or to bring him to me,” said Colonel Rosenthal, firmly.
“And who are you, curse you, to give orders here?” demanded the guerrilla.
“I am one who will be obeyed,” answered the colonel.
The guerrilla replied by a volley of oaths which were, however, interrupted by another member of the band, who came suddenly upon the scene, and “spoke as one having authority.”
“Crowfield, what is the meaning of this?”
“It is this blasted Yankee prisoner, who won’t give up his sword until I tear it from his beastly hands. Demands to be taken before Major Monck, or to have Major Monck brought to him—devil burn him!” answered the savage.