CHAPTER XXVII.
MIKE'S MISTAKE.
An hour before daybreak the Guerillas were in motion, and having taken a most ceremonious leave of us, they mounted their horses and set out upon their journey.

I saw their gaunt figures wind down the valley, and watched them till they disappeared in the distance.

"Yes, brigands though they be," thought I, "there is something fine, something heroic in the spirit of their unrelenting vengeance." The sleuth-hound never sought the lair of his victim with a more ravening appetite for blood than they track the retreating columns of the enemy.

Hovering around the line of march, they sometimes swoop down in masses, and carry off a part of the baggage, or the wounded.

The wearied soldier, overcome by heat and exhaustion, who drops behind his ranks, is their certain victim; the sentry on an advanced post is scarcely less so.