There was no one to succor her; she beheld only the other villains, his accomplices in crime. Oh, how she wished that her noble Edgar was by her side, were it but for a moment.
“Make haste,” exclaimed the ruffian, impatiently.
“I refuse,” replied Imogene, with vehemence.
In an instant, before she could divine their intention, a large mantle was suddenly cast over her head to prevent her from making any outcry, and she was forcibly dragged from her saddle and borne into the woods. In a moment afterward the man who had held the rein of Imogene’s steed, uttering a cry of pain, dashed after them.
“What’s all this noise about?” sharply asked the ruffian leader, casting a savage look upon his comrade.
“The horse! the horse!” was all he could ejaculate, and holding up his hand which was sadly cut and mangled, “see there,” he cried, with an oath, “that infernal brute almost wrenched my arm out of its socket with his teeth,” and holding tightly on the wounded member, he groaned aloud with the excruciating pain.
“Ye’d better stop that howlin’ o’ yours, afore ye bring th’ whole rebel pack down upon us,” was the consoling remark. The wounded man, with a look of pain and hatred, obeyed.
The heavy tramp of horses denoted the rapid advance of the troopers, and the bushes had hardly closed on the form of the last of the retreating rascals, when they rode swiftly by the hiding-place of their foe, looking like so many ghostly images, as the moonbeams faintly reflected on their clanking sabers, and the garnished trappings of their steeds.
When the last sound of the retreating horsemen had died away in the distance, the leader of the party noiselessly emerged from his place of concealment, and took a short, quick survey of the surroundings.
Upon observing their freedom from all immediate danger, he ordered his companions to mount with all possible expedition. Carefully placing the swooning and almost inanimate form of Imogene on the back of his own horse, he exclaimed: