CHAPTER XXIV.

AT MOTHER CHARCOAL'S.

With the return of spring brighter days dawned for the British troops

in the East. The worst troubles were ended; supplies of all kinds were

now flowing in in great profusion; the means of transport to the front

were enormously increased and improved, not only by the opportune

arrival of great drafts of baggage-animals, through the exertions of

men like McKay, but by the construction of a railway for goods

traffic.

The chief difficulty, however, still remained unsolved: the siege

still slowly dragged itself along. Sebastopol refused to fall, and,

with its gallant garrison under the indomitable Todleben, still

obstinately kept the Allies at bay.

The besiegers' lines were, however, slowly but surely tightening

round the place. Many miles of trenches were now open and innumerable

batteries had been built and armed. The struggle daily became closer

and more strenuously maintained. The opposing forces--besiegers and

besieged--were in constant collision. Sharpshooters interchanged shots

all day long, and guns answered guns. The Russians made frequent

sorties by night; and every day there were hand-to-hand conflicts for

the possession of rifle-pits and the more advanced posts.

It was a dreary, disappointing season. This siege seemed interminable.

No one saw the end of it. All alike--from generals to common men--were

despondent and dispirited with the weariness of hope long deferred.

Why did we not attack the place? This was the burden of every song.

The attack--always imminent, always postponed--was the one topic of

conversation wherever soldiers met and talked together.

It was debated and discussed seriously, and from every point of view,

in the council-chamber, where Lord Raglan met his colleagues and the

great officers of the staff. It was the gossip round the camp-fire,

where men beguiled the weary hours of trench-duty. It was tossed from

mouth to mouth by thoughtless subalterns as they galloped on their

Tartar ponies for a day's outing to Kamiesch, when released from

sterner toil.

The attack! To-morrow--next day--some day--never! So it went on, with

a wearisome, monotonous sameness that was perfectly exasperating.

"I give you Good-day, my friend. Well, you see the summer is now close

at hand, and still we are on the wrong side of the wall."

The speaker was M. Anatole Belhomme, Hyde's French friend. They had

met outside a drinking-booth in the hut-town of Kadikoi. Hyde was

riding a pony; the other was on foot.

"Ah! my gallant Gaul, is it you?" replied Hyde. "Let's go in and

jingle glasses together, hey?"

"A little tear of cognac would not be amiss," replied the Frenchman,

whose excessive fondness for the fermented liquor of his country was

the chief cause of his finding himself a sergeant in the Voltigeurs

instead of chief cook to a Parisian restaurant or an English duke.

Hyde hitched up his pony at the door, and they entered the booth,

seating themselves at one of the tables, if the two inverted

wine-boxes used for the purpose deserved the name. There were other

soldiers about, mostly British: a couple of sergeants of the Guards,

an assistant of the provost-marshal, some of the new Land Transport

Corps, and one or two Sardinians, in their picturesque green tunics

and cocked hats with great plumes of black feathers.

The demand for drink was incessant and kept the attendants busy. There

were only two of them: the proprietress, a dark-skinned lady,

familiarly termed Mother Charcoal, and a mite of a boy whom the

English customers called the "imp" and the French _polisson_ (rogue).

Mother Charcoal was a stout but comely negress, hailing originally

from Jamaica, who had come to Constantinople as stewardess in one of

the transport-ships. Being of an enterprising nature, she had hastened

to the seat of war and sunk all her ready-money in opening a canteen.

She was soon very popular with the allied troops of every nationality

and did a roaring trade.

"Some brandy--your best, my black Venus!" shouted Hyde.

"Who you call names? Me no Venus."

"Well, Mrs. Charcoal, then; that name suits your colour."

"What colour? You call me coloured? I no common nigger, let me tell

you, sah; I a Georgetown lady. Me wash for officers' wives and give

dignity-balls in my own home. Black Venus! Charcoal! You call me my

right name. Sophimisby Cleopatra Plantagenet Sprotts: that my right

name."

"Well, Mrs. S.C.P.S., I can't get my tongue round them all; fetch the

brandy or send it. We will talk about your pedigree and Christian

names some other time."

This chaffing colloquy had raised a general laugh and put Hyde on good

terms with the company.

"What news from the front, sergeant?" asked one of the Land Transport

Corps, a new comer.

"Nothing much on our side, except that they say there will be a new

bombardment in a few days. But the French, were pretty busy last

night, to judge from the firing."

"What was it?"

"Perhaps our friend here can tell you" and he turned to Anatole,

asking the question in French.

"A glorious affair, truly!" replied the Frenchman, delighted to have

an opportunity of launching out.

"I was there--I, who speak to you."

"Tell us about it," said Hyde; "I will interpret it to these

gentlemen."

"The Russians, you must understand, have been forming ambuscades in

front of our bastion Du Mât, which have given us infinite trouble.

Last night we attacked them in three columns, 10,000 strong, and drove

them out."

"Well done!"

"It was splendidly done!" went on Anatole, bombastically. "Three times

the enemy tried to retake their ambuscades; three times we beat them

back at the point of the bayonet, so!"

And the excitable Frenchman jumped from his seat and went through the

pantomime of charging with the bayonet.

"You lost many men?"

"Thousands. What matter? we have many more to come. The Imperial Guard

has landed, and the reserve, are at Constantinople."

"Yes, and there are the 'Sardines,'" said another pointing to the new

uniform.

"Plenty of new arrivals. M. Soyer, the great cook, landed yesterday."

"What on earth brings him?"

"He is going to teach the troops to make omelettes and biscuit-soup."

"We were ahead of him in that, I think," said Hyde, winking at

Anatole.

"He is with Miss Nightingale, you know, who has come out as head

nurse."

"Heaven bless her!"

"Well, for all the new arrivals, we don't get on very fast with the

siege."

"Why don't they go into the place, without all this shilly-shallying?"

cried an impetuous Briton. "We'd take the place--we, the rank and

file--if the generals only would let us do the work alone."

"They are a poor lot, the generals, I say."

"Halt, there! not a word against Lord Raglan," cried Hyde.

"He is so slow."

"Yes, but he is uncommon sure. Have you ever seen him in action? I

have. He knows how to command: so quiet and self-possessed. Such a

different man from the French generals, who always shout and swear and

make such a confounded row. What do you think of your generals,

Anatole?"

"Canrobert is an imbecile; he never knows his own mind."

"Well, we shan't be troubled with him much longer," said a fresh

arrival. "Canrobert has just resigned the chief command."

"Impossible!" said Anatole, when the news was interpreted to him.

"It is perfectly true, I assure you," replied the last speaker. "I

have just come from the English headquarters, and saw the new French

commander-in-chief there. Palliser, I think they call him."

"Pélissier," said the French sergeant, correcting him. "That is good

news. A rare old dog of war that. We shan't wait long to attack if he

has the ordering."

"They say the Russian generals have changed lately. Gortschakoff has

succeeded Mentschikoff."

"Confound those koffs! They are worse than a cold in the head."

"And just as difficult to get rid of. I'd like to wring their necks,

and every Russian's at Sebastopol."

"Mentschikoff could not have been a bad fellow, anyway."

"How do you know that?"

"Why, one of our officers who was taken prisoner at Inkerman has just

come back to camp. I heard him say that while he was in Sebastopol he

got a letter from his young woman at home. She said she hoped he would

take Mentschikoff prisoner, and send her home a button off his coat."

"Well?"

"The letter was read by the Russian authorities before they gave it

him, and some one told the general what the English girl had said."

"He got mad, I suppose?"

"Not at all. He sent on the letter to its destination, with a note of

his own, presenting his compliments, and regrets that he could not

allow himself to be taken prisoner, but saying that he had much

pleasure in inclosing the button, for transmission to England."

"A regular old brick, and no mistake! We'll drink his health."

It was drunk with full honours, after which Hyde, finding the party

inclined to be rather too noisy, got up to go.

"Here!" he cried out, "some of you. What have I got to pay? Hurry up,

my dusky duchess; I want to be off. Come, don't keep me waiting all

day," and he struck the table impatiently with his riding-whip.

Mother Charcoal's assistant, "the imp," ran up.

"How much?"

"One dollar: four shilling," said the lad, in broken English.

"There's your money!" cried Hyde, throwing it down, "and a 'bob' for

yourself. Stop!" he added. "Who and what are you? I have seen you

before."

The lad, a mere boy, frail-looking and slightly built, but with a

handsome, rather effeminate-looking face, tried to slink away.

"What's your name?" went on Hyde.

"Pongo," replied the boy.

"That's no real name. Smacks of the West Coast of Africa. Who gave it

you?"

"Mother Charcoal."

"What's your country? What language do you talk?"

"English."

"Monstrous little of that, my boy. What's your native lingo, I mean?

Greek, Turkish, Italian, Coptic--what?"

"Spanish," the boy confessed, in a low voice.

Hyde looked at him very intently for a few seconds; then, without

further remark, walked out with his French friend.

But he did not do more than say good-bye outside the shanty; and,

leaving his horse still hitched up near the door, he presently

re-entered the canteen.

The place had emptied considerably, and he was able to take his seat

again in a corner without attracting much attention. For half-an-half

or more he watched this boy, who seemed to interest him so much.

"There's not a doubt of it. I must know what it means," and he

beckoned the "imp" towards him.

"How did you get to the Crimea?" he asked, abruptly, speaking in

excellent Spanish, when the lad, shyly and most reluctantly, came up

to him. "What brings you here? I must and will know. It is very wrong.

This is no place for you."

"I came to save him; he is in pressing danger," said the boy, whose

large eyes were now filled with tears.

"Does he know you are in the Crimea?"

"I have been unable to find him. I lost all my money; it was stolen

from me directly I landed, and, if I had not found this place with the

black woman, I should have starved."

"Poor child! Alone and unprotected in this terrible place. It was

sheer madness your coming."

"But I could tell him in no other way."

"Tell him what?"

"He has two bitter and implacable enemies, who are sworn to take his

life."

Hyde shook his head gravely.

"It is true, as Heaven is my witness--perfectly true. But read this if

you doubt me," and the boy, who was no other than Mariquita in

disguise, produced the scrap of paper she had picked up in the shop in

Bombardier Lane.

"I did not doubt your words. I was thinking of those enemies--one of

them, at least--and wondering why she is permitted to live."

He took the letter, and read it slowly.

"Her handwriting! I was sure of it. To whom was this addressed?"

"Benito Villegas. Perhaps you know him--he is a native of the Rock."

"I remember him years ago. And has he carried out these instructions?

Is he here?"

"I cannot make out. I have looked for him, but have been unable to

find him."

"Not at the address stated here? You have been to it?"

"Several times, but have never seen him."

"He is probably in some disguise; that would suit his purpose best. We

will hunt him up, never fear. But Stanislas must first be warned."

"You will go to him--at once?"

"This very day. And you--won't you come too?"

"No, no! I cannot." Mariquita blushed crimson. "He would chide me. It

is wrong, I know; I have no right to be here, but he was in such

danger. I risked everything: his displeasure, my life, my good name."

"Yes," said Hyde, thoughtfully; "this is no place for you; it is a

pity you came to it. Still, we should not have known but for you; as

it is, you had better stay here."

"With Mother Charcoal?"

"Just so. She is a worthy old soul, and can be trusted. It will be

best, I think, to tell her the exact state of the case. Leave that to

me."

"You will not delay in warning Stanislas?" said Mariquita, placing her

hand on his arm.

"No; I will go directly after I have spoken to our black friend. Be

easy in your mind, little woman, or Señor Pongo, or whatever you like

to be called, and expect to see me again, and perhaps some one else

you know, within a day or two from now."

Fate, however, decreed that Hyde should be unavoidably delayed in his

errand of warning.

On leaving Mother Charcoal's shanty the second time, he found that his

horse had disappeared. It had been hitched up to a hook near the

doorway, in company with several others, and all were now gone.

"Some mistake? Scarcely that. One of those rascally sailor thieves,

rather; not a four-footed beast is safe from them. What a nuisance it

is! I suppose I must walk back to camp."

What chafed Hyde most was the delay in getting to headquarters. He had

already made up his mind to find McKay as soon as he could, and tell

him exactly what had occurred.

"He will, of course, think first of Mariquita; but that matter can be

easily settled. We will send her on board one of the hospital-ships,

where she will be with nurses of her own sex. What is really urgent is

that McKay should look to himself. We must manage, through his

interest and authority, to make a thorough search for this villain

Benito, and get him expelled from the Crimea. That would make McKay

safe, if only for a time, although I suppose Cyprienne would soon

devise some new and more diabolical scheme. If I could only get on a

little faster! It is most annoying about the horse. I will go straight

to headquarters on foot, taking the camp of the Naval Brigade on my

way."

There was wisdom in this last resolution. The sailors' camp was the

Crimean pound. All animals lost or strayed, or, more exactly, stolen,

if the truth is to be told, found their way to it. Jack did a large

business in horseflesh. Often enough a man, having traced his missing

property, was obliged to buy it back for a few shillings, or a glass

or two of grog.

It was a general joke in the Crimea that the infantry were better

mounted than the cavalry, and that the sailors had the pick of the

infantry horses.

"I suppose I must go to the sailors' camp, but it's rather out of my

road," said Hyde, as he trudged along under the hot sun.

Many more fortunate comrades, all mounted, overtook and passed him on

the way. Each time he heard the sound of hoofs his rage increased

against the dishonest rogue who had robbed him of his pony.

"Like a lift, guv'ner?" said a voice behind him. "You shall have this

tit chape. Half a sov., money down."

Hyde turned, and saw a blue-jacket astride of the missing pony.

"Buy it, you rascal! why it belongs to me! Where did you get it?"

"I found it, yer honour."

"Stole it, you mean. Get off this instant, or I'll give you up to the

provost!" And, so saying, Hyde put out his hand to seize the reins.

"Avast heaving there, commodore," said Jack, digging his heels into

the horse, and lifting it cleverly just out of Hyde's reach. "Who

finds keeps. Pay up, or you shan't have him. Why, I deserve a pound

for looking after the dumb baste."

Hyde looked around for help, but no one was in sight. He was not to be

baulked, however, and made a fresh attempt to get alongside the pony.

But each time the sailor forged a little ahead, and this tantalising

game continued for half-an-hour.

At last, disgusted and despairing, Hyde thought it better to make

terms. He was losing valuable time.

"I give in, you rogue! Pull up, and you shall have your money."

"Honour bright, guv'ner?"

"Here it is," said Hyde, taking out the money.

"It's a fair swap. Hand over the money."

"No; you give up the pony first."

"I shan't. That's not my way of doing business."

"You shall!" cried Hyde, who had been edging up towards the sailor,

and now suddenly made a grab at his leg.

He caught it, and held it with an iron grip. But Jack was not disposed

to yield quietly. With a loud oath, he struck viciously at the pony's

side with his disengaged foot.

It was a lively little beast, and went off at once, Hyde still

clinging tenaciously to his prey.

But Jack was determined not to be beaten. With one hand he tried to

beat off Hyde, and with the other incited the pony to increase its

pace.

In the end Hyde was thrown to the ground, and received two nasty

kicks--one in the forehead, the other in the breast--from the heels of

the excited horse.

The sailor got clear away, and our friend Hyde was picked up senseless

half-an-hour later by a passing ambulance-cart, and carried back to

camp.

* * * * *

THE THIN RED LINE.

VOLUME II

CHAPTER I.

SECRET SERVICE.

McKay, on returning to the Crimea, had resumed his duties at

headquarters. He was complimented by Lord Raglan and General Airey on

the manner in which he had performed his mission.

"Matters have improved considerably in the month or two you were

absent," said the latter to him one day. "Thanks to the animals you

got us, we have been able to bring up sufficient shot and shell."

"When is the new bombardment to take place, sir?"

"At once."

"And the attack?"

"I cannot tell you. Some of the French generals are altogether against

assaulting the fortress. They would prefer operations in the open

field."

"What do they want, sir?"

"They would like to divide the whole allied forces into three distinct

armies: one to remain and guard the trenches, another to go round by

sea, so as to cut the Russian communications; and the third, when this

is completed, to attack the Mackenzie heights, and get in at the back

of the fortress."

"It seems rather a wild plan, sir."

"I agree with you--wild and impossible."

"Does the French commander-in-chief approve of it, sir?"

"General Canrobert does; but I think we have nearly seen the last of

him. I expect any day to hear that he has given up the command."

"Who will succeed him, sir?"

"Pélissier, I believe--a very different sort of man, as we shall see."

A few days later the change which has already been referred to took

place, and Marshal Pélissier came over to the English headquarters to

take part in a council of war. All the principal general officers of

both armies were present, and so was McKay, whose perfect acquaintance

with French made him useful in interpreting and facilitating the free

interchange of ideas.

The new French commander-in-chief was a prominent figure at the

council--a short, stout, hard-featured man, brusque in movements and

abrupt in speech; a man of much decision of character, one who made up

his mind quickly, was intolerant of all opposition, and doggedly

determined to force his will upon others.

When it came to the turn of the French generals to speak, one of them

began a long protest against the attack as too hazardous. Several

others brought forward pet schemes of their own for reducing the

place.

"Enough!" said Pélissier, peremptorily. "You are not brought here to

discuss whether or how we should attack. That point is already settled

by my lord and myself."

He looked at Lord Raglan, who bowed assent.

"We have decided to attack the outworks on the 7th of the month."

"But I dissent," began General Bosquet.

"Did you not hear me? I tell you we have decided to attack. You are

only called together to arrange how it can best be carried out."

"I have a paper here in which I have argued out the principles on

which an attack should be conducted," said another, General Niel, an

engineer.

"Ah!" said Pélissier, "you gentlemen are very clever--I admit your

scientific knowledge--but when I want your advice I will ask for it."

While this conversation was in progress, the English officers present

were whispering amongst themselves with undisguised satisfaction at

finding that the new commander-in-chief of the French, unlike his

predecessor, was well able to keep his subordinates in order; and,

all useless discussion having been cut short, the plan of attack was

soon arranged.

"Well," said Lord Raglan, "it is all clear. We shall begin by a heavy

cannonade."

"To last four-and-twenty-hours," said Pélissier, "and then the

assault."

"At what hour?" asked Lord Raglan.

"Daylight, of course!" cried two or three French generals in a breath.

"One moment," interposed General Airey. "Day-break is the time of all

others that the enemy would expect an attack; they would therefore be

best prepared for it then."

A sharp argument followed, and lasted several minutes, each side

clinging tenaciously to its own opinion.

"Do not waste your energies, gentlemen," said Marshal Pélissier, again

interfering decidedly. "Lord Raglan and I have settled that matter for

ourselves. The attack will take place at five o'clock in the

afternoon. That will allow time for us to get established in the

enemy's works in the night after we have carried them."

"Of course, gentlemen," said Lord Raglan, in breaking up the council,

"you will all understand the importance of secrecy. Not a word of what

has passed here must be repeated outside. It would be fatal to success

if the enemy got any inkling of our intentions."

"It's quite extraordinary," said General Airey to McKay and a few

more, as they passed out from the council-chamber, "how the enemy gets

his information."

"Those newspaper correspondents, I suspect, are responsible," said

another general. "They let out everything, and the news, directly it

is printed, is telegraphed to Russia."

"That does not entirely explain it. They must be always several weeks

behind. I am referring more particularly to what happens at the

moment. Everything appears to be immediately known."

"Why, only the other day a Russian spy walked coolly through our

second parallel," said a French officer, "and counted the number of

the guns. He passed himself off as an English traveller."

"Great impudence, but great pluck. I wish we had men who would do the

same. That's what I complain of. We want a better organised secret

service, and men like Wellington's famous Captain Grant in the

Peninsular War, bold, adroit, and quick-witted, ready to run any

risks, but bound to get information in the long run. I wish I could

lay my hands on a few Captain Grants."

McKay smarted under the sting of these reproaches, feeling they

applied, although scarcely so intended, to him. But there was no man,

after all, on the headquarter staff better fitted to remove them. With

his enterprising spirit and intimate acquaintance with many tongues,

he ought to be able to secure information that would be useful to his

chiefs.

Full of this idea, he rode down that afternoon to Balaclava, the

centre of all the rascaldom that had gathered around the base of the

Crimean army. He was in search of agents whom he could employ as

emissaries into the enemy's lines.

Putting up his horse, he mixed amongst the motley crowd that thronged

the "sutlers' town," as it was called, which had sprung up half-a-mile

outside Balaclava, to accommodate the swarms of strangers who, under

the strict rule of Colonel Harding, had been expelled from the port

itself.

The place was like a fair--a jumble of huts and shanties and ragged

canvas tents, with narrow, irregular lanes between them, in which the

polyglot traders bought and sold. Here were grave Armenians, scampish

Greeks from the Levant, wild-eyed Bedouins, Tartars from Asia Minor,

evil-visaged Italians, scowling Spaniards, hoarse-voiced, slouching

Whitechapel ruffians, with a well-developed talent for dealing in

stolen goods.

As McKay stood watching the curious scene, and replying rather curtly

to the eager salesmen, who pestered him perpetually to buy anything

and everything--food, saddlery, pocket-knives, horse-shoes, fire-arms,

and swords--he became conscious of a stir and flutter among the crowd.

It presently became strangely silent, and parted obsequiously, to

give passage to some great personage who approached.

This was Major Shervinton, the provost-marshal, supreme master and

autocrat of all camp-followers, whom he ruled with an iron hand. Close

behind him came two sturdy assistants--men who had once been drummers,

and were specially selected in an army where flogging was the chief

punishment for their prowess with the cat-o'-nine-tales.

Woe to the sutler, whatever his rank or nation, who fell foul of the

terrible provost! Summary arrest, the briefest trial, and a sharp

sentence peremptorily executed, in the shape of four dozen, was the

certain treatment of all who offended against martial law.

"Hullo, McKay!" cried Shervinton, a big, burly, pleasant-faced man,

whose cheery manner was in curious contrast with his formidable

functions. "What brings a swell from headquarters into this den of

iniquity? Lost your servant, or looking out for one? Don't engage any

one without asking me. They are an abominable lot, and deserve to be

hanged, all of them."

"You are the very fellow to help me, Shervinton," and McKay, taking

the provost-marshal aside, told him his errand.

"I firmly believe every second man here is a spy, or would be if he

had the pluck."

"Are any of them, do you think, in communication with the Russians?"

"Lots. They come and go through the lines, I believe, as they please."

"I wish I could find a few fellows of this sort."

"Perhaps I can put you in the way; only I doubt whether you can trust

to a single word that they will tell you."

"But where shall we come upon them?"

"The best plan will be to consult Valetta Joe, the Maltese baker at

the end of the lines. I have always suspected him of being a Russian

spy; but I dare say we could buy him over if you want him. If he tries

to play us false we will hang him the same day."

Valetta Joe was in his bread-store--a small shed communicating with

the dark, dirty, semi-subterranean cellar behind, in which the dough

was kneaded and baked. The shed was encumbered with barrels of

inferior flour, and all around upon shelves lay the small short rolls,

dark-looking and sour-tasting, which were sold in the camp for a

shilling a piece.

"Well, Joe, what's the news from Sebastopol to-day?" asked Shervinton.

"Why you ask me, sare? I a poor Maltee baker--sell bread, make money.

Have nothing to do with fight."

"You rascal! You know you're in league with the Russians. I have had

my eye on you this long time. Some of these days we'll be down upon

you like a cart-load of bricks."

"You a very hard man, Major Shervinton, sare--very unkind to poor Joe.

I offer you bread every day for nothing; you say No. Why not take

Joe's bread?"

"Because Joe's a scoundrel to offer it. Do you suppose I am to be

bribed in that way? But here: I tell you what we are after. This

gentleman," pointing to McKay, "wants news from the other side."

"Why you come to me? I nothing to do with other side."

"You can help him, you know that, and you must; or we will bundle you

out of this and send you back to Constantinople."

The provost-marshal's manner was not to be mistaken.

"What can I do, sare?"

"Find out some one who can pass through the lines and bring or send

him to my friend."

"Who is this gentleman?"

"He is one of Lord Raglan's staff; his name is Mr. McKay."

A close observer would have seen that the baker started slightly at

the name and that he bent an eager, inquisitive look upon McKay.

"Will the gentleman give promise to do no harm to me or my people?"

"So long as you behave properly,--yes."

"I think I know some one, then."

"Produce him at once."

"He not here to-day; out selling bread. Where he find you, sare,

to-morrow, or any time he have anything to tell?"

"Let him come to the headquarters and ask for my tent," said McKay.

"There is my name on a piece of paper; if he shows that to the sentry

they will let him through."

"Very good, sare; you wait and see."

"No humbug, mind, Joe; or I'll be down on you!" added the

provost-marshal. "Is that all you want, McKay?"

Our hero expressed himself quite satisfied, and, with many thanks to

the provost-marshal, he remounted and rode away.

CHAPTER II.

AMONG THE COSSACKS.

McKay was in His tent next morning finishing dressing when his servant

brought him a piece of crumpled paper and said there was a messenger

waiting to see him. The paper was the pass given the day before to

Valetta Joe; its bearer was a nondescript-looking ruffian, in a long

shaggy cloak of camel's hair, whose open throat and bare legs hinted

at a great scantiness of wardrobe beneath. He wore an old red fez,

stained purple, on the back of his bullet-head; he had a red, freckled

face, red eyebrows, red eyes, red hair, and a pointed red beard, both

of which were very ragged and unkempt.

"Have you got anything to tell me?" asked McKay, sharply, in English;

and when the other shook his head he tried him in French, Spanish,

and last of all in Italian.

"News," replied the visitor, at length, laconically; "ten dollars."

McKay put the money in his hand and was told briefly--

"To-morrow--sortie--Woronzoff Road."

And this was all the fellow would say.

McKay passed on this information to his chief, but rather doubtfully,

declining to vouch for it, or say whence it had come.

It was felt, however, that no harm could be done in accepting the news

as true and preparing for a Russian attack. The event proved the

wisdom of this course. The sortie was made next night. A Russian

column of considerable strength advanced some distance along the

Woronzoff Road, but finding the English on the alert immediately

retired.

The next piece of information that reached McKay from the same source,

but by a different messenger, was more readily credited. He learnt

this time that the Russians intended to establish a new kind of

battery in front of the Karabel suburb.

"What kind?" asked McKay.

The messenger, a hungry-looking Tartar who spoke broken English, but

when encouraged explained himself freely in Russian, said--

"Big guns; they sink one end deep into the ground, the other point

very high."

"I understand. They want to give great elevation, so as to increase

the range."

"Yes, you see. They will reach right into your camp."

Again the information proved correct. Within a couple of days the

camps of the Third and Fourth Divisions, hitherto deemed safe from the

fire of the fortress, were disturbed by the whistling of round-shot in

their midst. The fact was reported in due course to headquarters.

"You see, sir, it is just what I was told," said McKay to General

Airey.

"Upon my word, you deserve great credit. You seem to have organised an

intelligence department of your own, and, what is more to the purpose,

your fellow seems always right."

McKay was greatly gratified at this encouragement, and eager to be

still more useful. He visited the Maltese baker again, and urged him

to continue supplying him with news.

"Trust to Joe. Wait one little bit; you know plenty more."

Several days passed, however, without any fresh news. Then a new

messenger came, another Tartar, a very old man with a flowing grey

beard, wearing a long caftan like a dressing-gown to his heels, and an

enormous sheepskin cap that came far down over his eyes, and almost

hid his face. He seemed very decrepit, and was excessively stupid,

probably from old age. He looked terribly frightened when brought to

McKay's tent, stooping his shoulders and hanging his head in the

cowering, deprecating attitude of one who expects, but would not dare

to ward off, a blow.

He was tongue-tied, for he made no attempt to speak, but merely thrust

forward one hand, making a deep obeisance with the other. There was a

scrap of paper in the extended hand, which McKay took and opened

curiously. A few lines in Italian were scrawled on it.

"The Russians are collecting large forces beyond the Tchernaya," ran

the message. "Expect a new attack on that side."

"Who gave you this?" asked McKay, in Russian.

The old fellow bowed low, but made no answer.

He repeated the question in Italian and every other language of which

he was master, but obtained no reply. The man remained stupidly,

idiotically dumb, only grovelling lower and more abjectly each time.

"What an old jackass he is! I shall get nothing out of him, I'm

afraid. But it won't do to despise the message, wherever it comes

from. Take him outside," he said to his orderly, "while I go and see

the general." "You have no idea where this news comes from?" was

General Airey's first inquiry.

"The same source, I don't doubt; but of course I can't vouch for its

accuracy."

"It might be very important," the general was musing. "I am not sure

whether you know what we contemplate in these next few days?"

"In the direction of the Tchernaya, sir?"

"Precisely. Now that the Sardinian troops have all arrived, Lord

Raglan thinks we are strong enough to extend our position as far as

the river."

"I had heard nothing of it, sir?"

"If this news be true, the Russians appear to be better informed than

you are, McKay."

"And are preparing to oppose our movement?"

"That's just what I should like to know, and what gives so much

importance to these tidings. I only wish we could verify them. Where

is your messenger? Who is he?"

"A half-witted old Tartar; you will get nothing out of him, sir. I

have been trying hard this half-hour."

"But you know where the news comes from. Could you not follow it up to

its source?"

"I will do so at once, sir;" and within half-an-hour McKay was in his

saddle, riding down to Balaclava.

Valetta Joe was in his shop, distributing a batch of newly-baked bread

to a number of itinerant vendors, each bound to retail the loaves in

the various camps.

McKay waited until the place was clear, then accosted the baker

sharply.

"What was the good of your sending that old numbskull to me?"

"He give you letter. You not understand?"

"Yes, yes, I understand; but I want to be certain it is true."

"When Joe tell lies? You believe him before; if you like, believe him

again."

"But can't you tell me more about it? How many troops have the

Russians collected? Since when? What do they mean to do?"

"You ask Russian general, not me; I only know what I hear."

"But it would be possible to tell, from the position of the enemy,

something of their intentions. I could directly if I saw them."

"Then why you not go and look for yourself?" asked Joe, carelessly;

but there was a glitter in his eyes which gave a deep meaning to the

simple question.

"Why not?" said McKay, whom the look had escaped. "It is well worth

the risk."

"I'll help you, if you like," went on Joe, with the same outwardly

unconcerned manner.

"Can you? How?"

"Very easy to pass lines. You put on Tartar clothes same as that old

man go to you to-day. He live near Tchorgaun; he take you right into

middle of Russian camp."

"When can he start?" asked McKay eagerly, accepting without hesitation

all the risks of this perilous undertaking.

"To-night, if you choose. Come down here by-and-by; I have everything

ready."

McKay agreed, and returned to headquarters in all haste, where he

sought out his chief and confided to him his intentions.

"You are really prepared to penetrate the enemy's lines? It will be a

daring, dangerous job, McKay. I should be wrong to encourage you."

"It is of vital importance, you say, that we should really know what

the enemy is doing beyond the Tchernaya. I am quite ready to go, sir."

"Lord Raglan--all of us--indeed, will be greatly indebted to you if

you can find out. But I do not like this idea of the disguise, McKay.

You ought not to go under false colours."

"I should probably learn more."

"Yes; but do you know what your fate would be if you were discovered?"

"I suppose I should be hanged, sir," said McKay, simply.

"Hanged or shot. Spies--everyone out of uniform is a spy--get a very

short shrift at an enemy's hand. No; you must stick to your legitimate

dress. I am sure Lord Raglan would allow you to go under no other

conditions."

"As you wish, sir. Only I fear I should not be so useful as if I were

disguised."

"It is my order," said the general, briefly; and after that there was

nothing more to be said.

McKay spent the rest of the afternoon at his usual duties, and towards

evening, having carefully reloaded his revolver, and filled his

pockets with Russian rouble notes, which he obtained on purpose from

the military chest, he mounted a tough little Tartar pony, used

generally by his servant, and trotted down to the hut-town.

Valetta Joe heard with marked disapprobation McKay's intention of

carrying out his enterprise without assuming disguise.

"You better stay at home: not go very far like that."

"Lend me a _greggo_ to throw over my coat, and a sheepskin cap, and I

shall easily pass the Cossack sentries. Where is my guide?"

"Seelim--Jee!" shouted Joe, and the old gentleman who had visited

McKay that morning came ambling up from the cellar below.

"Is that old idiot to go with me? Why, he speaks no known tongue!"

cried McKay.

"Only Tartar. You know no Tartar? Well, he understand the stick. Show

it him--so," and Joe made a motion of striking the old man, who bent

submissively to receive the blow.

"Does he know where he is to take me? What we are going to do?"

"All right. You trust him: he take you past Cossacks." Joe muttered a

few unintelligible instructions to the guide, who received them with

deep respect, making a low bow, first to Joe and then to McKay.

"I give him _greggo_ and cap: you put them on when you like."

McKay knew that he could only pass the British sentries openly,

showing his uniform as a staff officer, so he made the guide carry the

clothes, and the two pressed forward together through Kadikoi, towards

the formidable line of works that now covered Balaclava.

He skirted the flank of one of the redoubts, and, passing beyond the

intrenchments, came at length to our most advanced posts, a line of

cavalry vedettes, stationed at a considerable distance apart.

"I am one of the headquarter staff," he said, briefly, to the sergeant

commanding the picket, "and have to make a short reconnaissance

towards Kamara. You understand?"

"Are we to support you, sir?"

"No; but look out for my coming back. It may not be till daybreak, but

it will be as well, perhaps, to tell your men who I am, and to expect

me. I don't want to be shot on re-entering our own lines."

"Never fear, sir, so long as we know. I will tell the officer, and

make it all right."

McKay now rode slowly on, his guide at his horse's head. They kept in

the valleys, already, as night was now advancing, deep in shade, and

their figures, which could have been clearly made out against the sky

if on the upper slopes, were nearly invisible on the lower ground.

It was a splendid summer's evening, perfectly still and peaceful, with

no sounds abroad but the ceaseless chirp of innumerable grasshoppers,

and the faint hum of buzzing insects ever on the wing. Only at

intervals were strange sounds wafted on the breeze, and told their own

story; the distant blare of trumpets, and the occasional "thud" of

heavy cannon, gun answering gun between besiegers and besieged. As

they fared along, McKay once or twice inquired, more by gesture than

by voice, how far they had to go.

Each time the guide replied by a single word--"Cossack"--spoken almost

in a whisper, and following by his placing finger on lip.

Half-a-mile further, the guide motioned to McKay to dismount and leave

his horse, repeating the caution "Cossack!" in the same low tone of

voice.

McKay, who had now put on the _greggo_ and sheepskin cap, did as he

was asked, and the two crept forward together, having left the horse

tethered to a bush, the guide explaining by signs that they would

presently come back to it.

A little farther and he placed his hand upon McKay's arms, with a

motion to halt.

"H--sh!" said the old man, using a sound which has the same meaning in

all tongues, and held up a finger.

McKay listened attentively, and heard voices approaching them.

Instinctively he drew his revolver and waited events. The voices grew

plainer and plainer, then gradually faded away.

"Cossack!" repeated the guide, and McKay gathered that these were a

couple of Cossack sentries, from whose clutches he had narrowly

escaped.

Again our hero was urged forward, and this time with all speed. The

guide ran, followed by McKay, for a couple of hundred yards, then

halted suddenly. What next? He had thrown himself on the ground, and

seemed closely examining it; in this attitude he crept forward

cautiously.

The movement was presently explained. A slight splash told of water

encountered. He had been in search of the river, and had found it.

This was the Tchernaya--a slow sluggish stream, hidden amidst long

marshy grass, and everywhere fordable, as McKay had heard, at this

season of the year.

The guide now stood up and pointed to the river, motioning McKay to

enter it and cross.

Our hero stepped in boldly, and in all good faith, expecting his guide

to follow. But he was half-way towards the other bank, and still the

old man had made no move.

Why this hesitation?

McKay beckoned to him to come on. The guide advanced a step or two,

then halted irresolute.

McKay grew impatient, and repeated his motion more peremptorily. The

guide advanced another step and again halted. He seemed to suffer from

an invincible dislike to cold water.

"Is he a cur or a traitor?" McKay asked himself, and drew his

revolver to quicken the old man's movements, whichever he was.

The sight of the weapon seemed to throw the guide into a paroxysm of

fear. He fell flat on the ground, and obstinately refused to move.

All this time McKay was in the river, up to his knees, a position not

particularly comfortable. Besides, valuable time was being wasted--the

night was not too long for what he had to do. Hastily regaining the

bank, he rejoined the guide where he lay, and kicked him till he stood

erect.

"You old scoundrel!" cried McKay, putting his revolver to his head.

"Come on! do you understand? Come on, or you are a dead man!"

The gesture was threatening, not that McKay had any thought of firing.

He knew a pistol-shot would raise a general alarm. Still the old man,

although trembling in every limb, would not move.

"Come on!" repeated McKay, and with the idea of dragging him forward

he seized him fiercely by the beard.

To his intense surprise, it came off in his hand.

"Cursed Englishman!" cried a voice with which he was perfectly

familiar, and in Spanish. "You are at my mercy now. You dare not fire;

your life is forfeited. The enemy is all around you. I have betrayed

you into their hands."

"Benito! Can it be possible?" But McKay did not suffer his

astonishment to interfere with his just revenge.

"On your knees, dog! Say your prayers. I will shoot you first,

whatever happens to me."

"You are too late!" cried Benito, wrenching himself from his grasp,

and whistling shrilly as he ran away.

McKay fired three shots at him in succession, one of which must have

told, for the scoundrel gave a great yell of pain.

The next instant McKay was surrounded by a mob of Cossacks and quickly

made prisoner.

They had evidently been waiting for him, and the whole enterprise was

a piece of premeditated treachery, as boldly executed as it had been

craftily planned.

McKay's captors having searched his pockets with the nimbleness of

London thieves, and deprived him of money, watch, and all his

possessions, proceeded to handle him very roughly. He had fought and

struggled desperately, but was easily overpowered. They were twenty to

one, and their wild blood was aroused by his resistance. He was

beaten, badly mauled, and thrown to the ground, where a number of them

held him hand and foot, whilst others produced ropes to bind him fast.

The brutal indignities to which he was subjected made McKay wild with

rage. He addressed them in their own language, protesting vainly

against such shameful ill-usage.

"Hounds! Miscreants! Sons of burnt mothers! Do you dare to treat an

English officer thus? Take me before your superior. Is there no one

here in authority? I claim his protection."

"Which you don't deserve, scurvy rogue," said a quiet voice. "You are

no officer--only a vile, disreputable spy."

"I can prove to you--"

"Bah! how well you speak Russian. We know all about you; we expected

you. But enough: we must be going on."

"I don't know who you may be," began McKay, hotly, "but I shall

complain of you to your superior officer."

"Silence!" replied the other, haughtily. "Have I not told you to hold

your tongue? Fill his mouth with clay, some of you, and bring him

along."

This fresh outrage nearly maddened McKay.

"You shall carry me, then," he spluttered out, from where he still lay

upon the ground.

"Ah! we'll see. Get up, will you! Prick him with the point of your

lance, Ivanovich. Come, move yourself," added the officer, as McKay

slowly yielded to this painful persuasion, "move yourself, or you

shall feel this," and the officer cracked the long lash of his

riding-whip.

"You shall answer for this barbarity," said McKay "I demand to be

taken before the General at once."

"You shall see him, never fear, sooner than you might wish, perhaps."

"Take me at once before him; I am not afraid."

"You will wait till it suits us, dog; meanwhile, lie there."

They had reached a rough shelter built of mud and long reeds. It was

the picket-house, the headquarters of the troop of Cossacks, and a

number of them were lying and hanging about, their horses tethered

close by.

The officer pointed to a corner of the hut, and, giving peremptory

instructions to a couple of sentries to watch the prisoner, for whom

they would have to answer with their lives, he disappeared.

Greatly dejected and cast down at the failure of his enterprise, and

in acute physical pain from his recent ill-usage and the tightness of

his bonds, McKay passed the rest of the night very miserably.

Dawn came at length, but with it no relief. On the contrary, daylight

aggravated his sufferings. He could see now the cruel scowling visages

of his captors, and the indescribable filth and squalor of the den in

which he lay.

"Get up!" cried a voice; but McKay was too much dazed and distracted

by all he had endured to understand that the command was addressed to

him.

It was repeated more arrogantly, and accompanied by a brutal kick.

He rose slowly and reluctantly, and asked in a sullen voice--

"Where are you taking me?"

"Before his Excellency. Step out, or must we prick you along?"

A march of half-an-hour under a strong escort brought them to a large

camp. They passed through many lines of tents, and halted presently

before a smart marquee.

The Cossack officer in charge entered it, and presently returned with

the order--

"March him in!"

McKay found himself in the presence of a broadly-built, middle-aged

man, in the long grey great-coat worn by all ranks of the Russian

army, from highest to lowest, and the flat, circular-topped cap

carried also by all. There was nothing to indicate the rank of this

personage but a small silver ornament on each shoulder-strap, and

another in the centre of the cap. At a button-hole on his breast,

however, was a small parti-coloured rosette, the simple record of

orders and insignia too precious to carry in the field.

There was unbounded arrogance and contempt in his voice and manner as

he addressed the prisoner, who might have been the vilest of created

things.

"So"--he spoke in French, like most well-educated Russians of that

day, to show their aristocratic superiority--"you have dared, wretch,

to thrust yourself into the bear's mouth! You shall be hanged in

half-an-hour."

"I claim to be treated as a prisoner of war," said McKay, boldly.

"You! impudent rogue! A low camp-follower! A sneaking, skulking

spy--taken in the very act! You!"

"I am a British officer!" went on McKay, stoutly. He was not to be

browbeaten or abashed.

"Where is your uniform?"

"Here!" replied McKay, throwing open the _greggo_, which he still

wore, and showing the red waistcoat beneath, and the black breeches

with their broad red stripe.

"You said he was a civilian in Tartar disguise," said the

general,--for such was the officer's rank,--turning to one of his

staff and seeming rather staggered at McKay's announcement. He spoke

in Russian.

"Take care, Excellency; the prisoner speaks Russian."

"Is that so?" said the general to McKay. "An unusual accomplishment

that, in English officers, I expect."

"Yes, I am acquainted with Russian," said McKay. Why should he deny

it? They had heard him use that language at the time of his capture.

"How and when did you learn it?"

"I do not choose to say. What can that matter?"

Again the staff-officer interposed and whispered something in the

general's ear.

"Of course; I had forgotten." Then, turning to McKay, he went on:

"What is your name?"

"McKay."

"Your Christian names in full?"

"Stanislas Anastasius Wilders McKay."

"Exactly. Stanislas Alexandrovich McKay. I knew your father when he

was a captain in the Polish Lancers; was he not?"

"I cannot deny it."

"He was a Russian, in the service of our holy Czar, and you, his son,

are a Russian too."

"It is false! I am an Englishman. I have never yielded allegiance to

the Czar."

"You will find it hard to evade your responsibility. It is not to be

put on or off like a coat. You were born a Russian subject, and a

Russian subject you remain!"

"I bear a commission in the army of the British Queen. I dare you to

treat me as a Russian now!"

"We will treat you as we find you, Mr. McKay: as an interloper

disguised for an improper purpose within our lines."

"What shall you do with me?" asked McKay, in a firm voice, but with a

sinking heart.

"Hang you like a dog to the nearest tree. Or, stay! out of respect for

your father, whom I knew, and if you prefer it, you shall be shot."

"I am in your power. But I warn you that, if you execute me, the

merciless act will be remembered throughout Europe as an eternal

disgrace to the Russian arms."

This bold speech was not without its effect. The general consulted

with his staff, and a rather animated discussion followed, at the end

of which he said--

"I am not to be deterred by any such threats: still, it will be better

to refer your case to my superiors. I shall send you into Sebastopol,

to be dealt with as Prince Gortschakoff may think fit, only do not

expect more at his hands than at mine. Rope or rifle--one of them will

be your fate. See he is sent off, Colonel Golopine, will you? And now

take him away."

McKay was marched out of the marquee, still under the escort of

Cossacks. But outside he was presently handed over to a fresh party;

they brought up a shaggy pony--it might have been the fellow of the

one he had left behind the previous night--and curtly bade him mount.

When, with hands still tied, he scrambled with difficulty into his

saddle, they tied his legs together by a long rope under the pony's

belly, and, placing him in the centre of the escort, they started off

at a jog-trot in the direction of the town.

CHAPTER III.

A PURVEYOR OF NEWS.

Mr. Hobson gave his address at Duke Street, St. James's, a

lodging-house frequented by gentlemen from the neighbouring clubs. But

he was never there except asleep. There was nothing strange in this as

none of the occupants of the house were much there, except at

night-time--they lived at their clubs.

So, for all the landlady knew, did Mr. Hobson. But we know better. He

had no club, and his daily absence from breakfast--simply a cup of

coffee and a roll, which he took in the French fashion, early--till

late at night was to be accounted for by his constant presence at his

office or place of business, although it was both and neither. This

was in a little street off Bloomsbury, the first floor over a

newspaper shop.

Mr. Hobson passed here as an agent for a country paper. It was

supposed to be his business to collect and transmit news to his

principals at a large seaport town on the East Coast. These were days

before the present development of newspaper enterprise, when leading

provincial journals have their own London offices and a private wire.

Mr. Hobson's principles were very liberal according to the idea of

that time; they seemed to grudge no expense with regard to the

transmission of news.

Telegrams were costly things in those days, but Mr. Hobson sometimes

sent off half-a-dozen in the course of a morning. He was served too,

and exceedingly well, by special agents of his own, who came to him at

all hours--in cabs driven recklessly, or on foot, in a stealthy,

apologetic way, as though doubtful whether the news they brought would

be acceptable.

The office upstairs bore out the notion of the news-agency. Its chief

furniture consisted of two long, sloping tables, on which lay files of

daily papers. There was one big book-case handy near the fireplace,

and over the desk at which Mr. Hobson sat. On the shelves of this were

ranged a couple of dozen volumes, each bearing a label on which were

various letters and numerals.

On the desk itself were the usual writing appliances, a large pair of

scissors, and a wide-mouthed bottle of gum.

Let us look in at Mr. Hobson on his first arrival at his office, soon

after eight o'clock.

His first business was to ring his bell, which communicated with the

shop below.

"My papers! It is past eight."

"Here they are, sir, the whole lot--_Times_, _'Tizer_, _Morning

Chronicle_, and _Morning Post_."

"Why do you oblige me to ask for them? Can't you bring them as I have

told you? It makes me so late with my work." And, having delivered

himself of these testy remarks, he threw himself into an arm-chair

and proceeded to devour the morning's news.

"Nothing fresh from the East?" As he now talked to himself, this

smooth-shaven, typical Englishman spoke, strange to say, in French.

"Have Messieurs the correspondents no news? No letter in the _Post_?

None in the _Morning Chronicle_? How disappointing! Ha! what's this?

Two columns in the _Times_. How admirably that excellent paper is

served! Let's see what it says."

He hastily ran his eye down the columns, muttering to himself: "Ha!

mostly strong language--finding fault. How kind of you to be

dissatisfied with the administration, and to tell us why. The siege

practically suspended, eh? Fuses won't fit the shells--so much the

better, then the mortars can't fire.

"But that's no news: my friends and good masters will have found that

out for themselves. Anything else? 'Our new battery, which is only

seven hundred yards from the enemy's guns, is nearly completed.'

Which battery does he mean? Has he referred to it before?"

And Mr. Hobson, as we shall still call him, got up from his seat and

took a volume down from the shelf. It was labelled "T. 14, M. 55."

These expressions expanded meant that it contained extracts from the

_Times_, the 14th volume, for May, 1855.

After referring to an alphabetical index, he quickly turned over the

leaves of the book till he found a certain page.

"Ah! here it is," he said. "'We have commenced another battery just in

front of the quarries, the nearest to the enemy's works. It will be

armed with the heaviest ordnance,' &c. &c. And now it is nearly ready.

That must be passed on without delay."

Mr. Hobson turned to his desk and indited a telegram. It was addressed

to Arrowsmith, Hull, and said--

"New shop, as already indicated, will be opened at once. Let our

Gothenburg correspondent know."

"I will take it over myself. But let me first see whether there is

anything to add."

He resumed his reading, and presently came to the following passage:--

"'Lord Lyons had just returned from a cruise in the Black Sea. This

confirms my impression that some new movement is contemplated.

Regiments have been placed under orders, and there is great stir among

the fleet. A secret expedition is on the point of being despatched

somewhere, but the real destination no one as yet knows. Camp-gossip

is, of course, busy; but I will not repeat the idle and misleading

rumours that are on every lip.'

"Another expedition planned! I must know more of this. Where can it be

going? Is it meant for the Sea of Azof and Kertch, like the last,

which alarmed us so, and never got so far?

"What a business that was! We heard of it long beforehand;

preparations for transport, and the embarkation of the troops. The

fleet left Kamiesch, steering northward, past Sebastopol, and we

thought the latter would be attacked. But lo! next morning the enemy

were not in sight; the fleet had returned to Kamiesch Bay. What did it

mean? It was weeks before I learnt the right story, and then it came

from Paris. General Canrobert had changed his mind. The Emperor had

told him not to send away any troops, but to keep all concentrated

before Sebastopol. So the expedition to Kertch--for it was directed

against Kertch, and the northward move was only intended to deceive

us--all ended in smoke. Can they be going again to Kertch? It is

hardly likely. They have some deeper designs, I feel sure. This would

tally with my latest advice. Let me read once more what the Prince

says."

He took a key from his pocket, opened his desk, and unlocked an inner

receptacle, from which he took a letter in cypher.

"'We have learnt,' he read, fluently, without using any key, 'that the

enemy contemplate a great change in their plan of operations. It is

reported that they propose to raise the siege, or at least reduce it

to a mere blockade. The great bulk of the allied army would then be

transferred to sea to another point where it would take the field

against our line of communications. It is essential that we should

know at the earliest date whether there is any foundation in this

report. Use every endeavour to this end.'

"Yes; there can be no doubt that this surmise is corroborated by the

latest news. But I must have more precise and correct information

without delay. How is it to be obtained? Which of my agents can help

me best? Lavitsky? He works in Woolwich Arsenal--he might know if more

wheeled transport had been ordered. Or Bauer, at Portsmouth--he would

know of any movements in the fleet. Or--

"Of course!" and he slapped his forehead, despising his own stupidity.

"Cyprienne--she can, and must, manage this."

He proceeded to put back the papers into the secret drawer; he

replaced the volume on the shelf, and, taking the telegram he had

written in his hand, left the office, carefully locking the door

behind him.

Hailing a cab, he was driven first to a telegraph-station, where he

sent off his despatch, only adding the words:--

"Other important transactions in the shipping interest will shortly

be undertaken; more precise details will speedily follow."

Then he directed the cabman to drive to Thistle Grove, Brompton.

"Is Mrs. Wilders visible yet?" he asked the servant, on reaching her

house.

"Madame does not receive so early," replied the man, a foreigner,

speaking broken English, who was new to the establishment, and had

never seen Mr. Hobson before.

"Take in my name!" said Mr. Hobson, peremptorily. "It is urgent, say.

I must see her at once."

"I will tell madame's maid."

"Do so, and look sharp about it. Don't trouble about me--be off and

tell the maid. I know my way;" and Mr. Hobson marched himself into the

morning-room.

This room, in the forenoon, was on the shady side of the house--it

looked on to a pretty garden, a small, level lawn of intensely green

grass, jewelled with flowers. The windows, reaching to the ground,

were wide open, and near one was drawn a small round table, on which

was set a dainty breakfast-service of pink-and-white china, glistening

plate, and crimson roses, standing out in pleasant relief upon the

snowy damask.

"Beyond question, madame has a knack of making herself comfortable. I

have seldom seen a cosier retreat on a broiling summer's day, and in

this dusty, dirty town. She has not breakfasted yet, nor, except for

my cup of coffee, have I. I will do myself the pleasure of joining

her. A cutlet and a glass of cool claret will suit me admirably just

now, and we can talk as we eat."

While he stood there, admiring cynically, Mrs. Wilders came in.

She was in a loose morning wrapper of pale pink, and had seemingly

taken little trouble with her day's toilette as yet. Her _negligé_

dress hinted at hurry in leaving her room, and she addressed her

visitor in a hasty, impatient way.

"What is this so urgent that you come intruding at such an unseemly

hour?"

"You grow indolent, my dear madame. Why, it is half-past eleven."

"I have not yet breakfasted."

"So I see. I am delighted. No more have I."

"Was it to ask yourself to breakfast that you came here this morning?"

"Not entirely; another little matter brought me; but we can deal with

the two at the same time. Pray order them to serve: I am excessively

hungry."

Mrs. Wilders, without answering, pettishly pulled the bell.

"Lay another cover," she told the man, "and bring wine with the

breakfast. You will want it, I suppose," she said to her guest; "I

never touch it in the morning."

"How charmingly you manage! You have a special gift as a housewife.

What a delightful meal! I have seen nothing more refined in Paris."

There was a delicious lobster-salad, a dish of cold cutlets and jelly,

and a great heap of strawberries with cream.

"Now get to business," said Mrs. Wilders, in a snarling, ill-tempered

way; "let's have it out."

"It's a pity you are out of humour this morning," observed Mr. Hobson,

with a provoking forbearance. "I have come to find fault."

Mrs. Wilders shrugged her shoulders, implying that she did not care.

"It may seem ungracious, but I must take you to task seriously. How is

it you give me no news?"

"I tell you all I hear; what more do you want?"

"A great deal. Look here, Cyprienne, I am not to be put off with

stale, second-hand gossip--the echoes of the Clubs; vague, empty

rumours that are on everybody's tongue long before they come to me. I

must have fresh, brand-new intelligence, straight from the

fountain-head. You must get it for me, or--"

The old frightened look which we have seen on Mrs. Wilders's face

before when brought into antagonism with this man returned to it, and

her voice was less firm, her manner less defiant, as she said--

"Spare me your threats. You know I am most anxious to oblige you--to

help you."

"You have put me off too long with these vague promises. I must have

something more tangible at once."

"It is so difficult to find out anything."

"Not if you go the right way to work. A woman of your attractions,

your cleverness, ought to be able to twist any man round her finger.

You have done it often enough already, goodness knows. Now, there's

old Faulks; when did you see him last?"

"Not a week ago."

"And you got nothing out of him? I thought he was devoted to you."

"He is most attentive, most obliging, but still exceedingly wary. He

will talk about anything rather than business. I have tried him

repeatedly. I have introduced the subject of his nephew, of whom he is

now so proud."

"Your enemy, you mean--that young McKay."

"Exactly. I thought that by bringing the conversation to the Crimea I

might squeeze out something important. But no! he is always as close

as an oyster."

"He will be ready enough to talk about his dear nephew before long.

You may look out for some startling news about McKay."

"Really?" said Mrs. Wilders, growing suddenly excited. "Your plan has

succeeded, then?"

"Any day you may hear that he has been removed effectually, and for

ever, from your path. But for the moment that will keep. What presses

is that you should squeeze old Faulks. There is something that I must

know to-day, or to-morrow at latest. You must go and see him at once."

"At his office?"

"Why not?"

"But on what pretence? I have never been there as yet. He has always

come here to lunch or dine. He is fond of a good dinner."

"Ask him again."

"But I could do that by letter. He may suspect me if I go to him

without some plausible excuse."

"Trump up some story about his nephew. Only get to him; he will soon

give you an opening you can turn to account. I trust to your

cleverness for that; only lose no time."

"Must I go to-day?"

"This very afternoon; directly you leave the house."

CHAPTER IV.

IN WHITEHALL.

The Military Munitions' department was one of a dozen or more seated

at that period in and about Whitehall. Its ostensible functions, as

its title implied, were to supply warlike and other stores to the

British army when actively engaged. But as wars had been rare for

nearly half-a-century it had done more during that time towards

providing a number of worthy gentlemen with comfortable incomes than

in ministering to the wants of troops in the field.

It was an office of good traditions: highly respectable, very

old-fashioned, slow moving, not to say dilatory, but tenacious of its

dignity as regards other departments, and obstinately wedded to its

own way of conducting the business of the country.

The most prominent personage in the department for some little time

before the outbreak of hostilities with Russia, and during the war,

was Mr. Rufus Faulks, brother to the Captain Faulks we met on board

the _Burlington Castle_, and also uncle to Stanislas McKay.

Mr. Faulks had entered the office as a lad, and, after long years of

patient service, had worked his way up through all the grades to the

very top of the permanent staff. He had no one over him now but the

statesman who, for the time being, was responsible for the department

in Parliament--a mere politician, perfectly raw in official routine,

who had the good taste and better sense to surrender himself blindly

to the guidance of Mr. Faulks. What could a bird of passage know of

the deep mysteries of procedure it took a life-time to learn?

He was the true type and pattern of a Government official. A prim,

plethoric, middle-aged little man; always dressed very carefully;

walking on the tips of his toes; speaking precisely, with a priggish,

self-satisfied smirk, and giving his opinion, even on the weather,

with the air of a man who was secretly better informed than the rest

of the world.

He was very punctual in his attendance at the office, passing the

threshold of the private house in a side-street near Whitehall, where

the department was lodged all by itself, every morning at eleven, and

doing the same thing every day at the same time with the most

praiseworthy, methodical precision. His first step was to deposit his

umbrella in one corner, his second to hang his hat in another, his

third to take an old office-coat out of a bottom drawer in his desk,

substituting it for the shiny black frock-coat he invariably wore;

then he looked through his letters, selected all of a private and

confidential nature, and placing the morning's _Times_ across his

knees deposited himself in an arm-chair near the fire. He was supposed

to be digesting the morning's correspondence, and no one during this

the first half-hour of his attendance would have ventured to intrude

upon him unsummoned.

It was with a very black face, therefore, that when thus occupied upon

the morning that Mr. Hobson visited Mrs. Wilders he saw his own

private messenger enter the room.

"What is it, Lightowlar? I have forbidden you to disturb me till

twelve."

"Beg pardon, sir; very sorry, sir!" replied the messenger, who had

been confidential valet to a Cabinet Minister, and prided himself on

the extreme polish of his language and demeanour. "I am aware that you

have intimidated your disapprobation of unseasonable interruption,

but--"

"Well, well! out with it, or take yourself off."

"Sir 'Umphry, sir; he have just come to the office quite unforseen."

Sir Humphrey Fothergill was the Parliamentary head of the office at

this time.

"Sir Humphrey here! What an extraordinary thing!"

The proper time for the appearance of this great functionary was at 4

p.m., on his way to the House and Mr. Faulks felt quite annoyed at the

departure from the ordinary rule.

"Sir 'Umphry 'ave took us all aback, sir. His own messenger, Mr.

Sprott, was not in the way for the moment, and Sir 'Umphry expressed

himself in rather strong terms."

"Serve Sprott right. But what has all that to do with me?"

"Sir 'Umphry, sir, 'ave sent, sir"--the man could hardly bring himself

to convey the message; "he 'ave sent, sir, to say he wishes to see you

at once."

"Me? At this hour? Impossible!"

This pestilent Sir Humphrey was upsetting every tradition of the

office.

Mr. Faulks again settled himself in his arm-chair, with the air of a

man who refused to move--out of his proper groove.

"Mr. Faulks! Mr. Faulks!" Another unseemly intrusion. This time it was

Sprott, the chief messenger, flurried and frightened, no doubt, by

recent reproof. "Sir Humphrey's going on awful, sir; he's rung his

bell three times, and asked how long it took you to go upstairs."

Sullenly, and sorely against his will, Mr. Faulks rose and joined his

chief.

"I have asked for you several times," said Sir Humphrey Fothergill, a

much younger man than Mr. Faulks, new to official life, but a

promising party politician, with a great belief in himself and his

importance as a member of the House of Commons; "you must have come

late."

"Pardon me, I was here at my usual time; but in the thirty-five years

that I have had the honour to serve in the Military Munition

Department I never remember a Parliamentary chief who came so early as

you."

"I shall come when I choose--in the middle of the night, if it suits

me or is necessary, as is more than probable in these busy times."

Mr. Faulks waved his hands and bowed stiffly, as much as to say that

Sir Humphrey was master of his actions, but that he need not expect to

see him.

"You all want stirring up here," said Sir Humphrey abruptly. "It is

high time to give you a fillip."

"I am not aware--" Mr. Faulks began, in indignant protest, but his

chief cut him short.

"Did you read what happened in the House last night?"

"I have only just glanced at the _Times_," replied Mr. Faulks, in a

melancholy voice, thinking how rudely his regular perusal of the great

journal had been interrupted that morning.

"It's not pleasant reading. There was a set attack upon this

department, and they handled us very roughly, let me tell you. It made

my ears tingle."

"We have been abused cruelly--unfairly abused for the last twelve

months," said Mr. Faulks with a most injured air.

"You richly deserved it. Amongst you the troops in the Crimea have

been dying from starvation, perishing from cold."

"I can assure you that is distinctly unjust. I can assure you great

quantities of warm clothing were dispatched in due course."

"Ay, but when?"

"I can't give you the exact dates, but we have been advised of their

arrival these last few weeks."

"Warm clothing in May? A very seasonable provision! But it's all of a

piece. How about those fuzes?"

"To what do you refer, may I ask?" said Mr. Faulks very blandly; but

his blood was boiling at the indignity of being lectured thus by a

young man altogether new to the office.

"It is all in this morning's _Times_. The siege is at a standstill;

the fuzes won't fit the shells. There are plenty of 10-inch fuzes, but

only 13-inch shells. Who is to blame for that?"

"Our ordnance branch, I fear. But it shall be seen to: I will address

a communication to the head, calling his attention to the error."

"And when will he get the letter?"

"In the course of the next two or three days."

"And his reply will take about the same time to reach you, I suppose?"

"Probably: more or less."

"Where is the office of the ordnance branch? In this house?"

"Oh, no!" replied Mr. Faulks, in a voice full of profound pity for the

lamentable ignorance of his chief. "It is at No. 14."

"Just round the corner--in fact, half-a-dozen yards off?"

"Yes, about that."

"Well, look here, Mr. Faulks: you just put on your hat and go round

the corner and see the head of the ordnance branch, and settle all

this with him in the next five minutes, d'ye hear?"

"What, I? personally? That would be altogether against precedent and

contrary to the rules of the office. I really must decline to

introduce such a radical change."

"You will obey my order, this very instant! It is utterly preposterous

to waste six days sending letters backwards and forwards about a

paltry matter that can be settled by word of mouth in as many minutes.

No wonder the troops have died like rotten sheep!"

"I have been five-and-thirty years in this office--" began Mr.

Faulks.

"Oh! don't bother me with your historical reminiscences," said Sir

Humphrey, cutting him short.

"And never, during all that period--" went on Mr. Faulks, manfully.

"--Have you done anything to-day that could be put off till

to-morrow? But now go and see about this at once--do you

understand?--and then come back to me; I have other matters to

arrange. We have news that a fresh expedition will shortly start for

Kertch, and we are requested to send out with all dispatch

considerable supplies of salt rations."

"It will be necessary to refer to the Admiralty: they will require

proper notice."

"You will get the rations within twenty-four hours, notice or no

notice. But we will discuss that by-and-by. Meanwhile, hurry off to

the ordnance branch."

Mr. Faulks went to the door, protesting and muttering to himself.

"Stay! one word more! It is wrong of me, perhaps, to hint that your

zeal requires any stimulus, Mr. Faulks."

"Hardly, I hope. I have endeavoured for the last five-and-thirty

years--"

"Yes, yes, we know all about that. But I have been told that you

looked for some special recognition of your services--a decoration,

the Order of the Bath--from the last Administration. Now, unless you

bestir yourself, don't expect anything of the kind from us."

"I do not pretend to say that I have earned the favour of my

Sovereign; but in any case it would depend upon her most gracious

Majesty whether--"

"Don't make any mistake about it. You can only get the Bath through

the recommendation of your immediate superiors. There's stimulus, if

you want it. But don't let me detain you any more."

Mr. Faulks went slowly downstairs, and still more slowly resumed his

out-of-door frock-coat; he took up his hat and stick in the same

deliberate fashion, and started at a snail's pace for round the

corner.

He drawled and dawdled through the business, which five minutes' sharp

talk could have ended, and it was nearly lunch-time before he returned

to his chief.

"Well, you might have been to the Crimea and back!" said Sir Humphrey,

impatiently.

"Matters of such moment are not to be disposed of out of hand. Haste

is certain to produce dangerous confusion, and it has been my unvaried

experience during five-and-thirty years--"

"Which it has taken you to find the shortest way next door. But there!

let us get on with our work. Now, about this expedition to Kertch?"

And Sir Humphrey proceeded to discuss and dispose of great questions

of supply in a prompt, off-hand way that both silenced and terrified

Mr. Faulks.

CHAPTER V.

MR. FAULKS TALKS.

Mr. Faulks was rather fond of good living, and, as a rule, he never

allowed official cares to interfere with his lunch, a meal brought in

on a tray from an eating-house in the Strand. To make a proper

selection from the bill of fare sent in every morning was a weighty

matter, taking precedence over any other work, however pressing.

But to-day he scarcely enjoyed the haricot of lamb with new potatoes

and young peas that he found waiting, and slightly cold, when he went

downstairs to his own room.

"For two pins I'd take my retirement; I can claim it; where would they

be then?"

This estimable personage shared with thousands the strange

superstition that the world cannot do without them.

"This cook is falling off most terribly. The lamb is uneatable, the

potatoes are waxy, and the peas like pills. Ugh! I never made a worse

lunch!"

A large cigar and the perusal of the long-neglected _Times_ did not

pacify him much, and he was still fretting and fuming when his

messenger brought in a three-cornered note and asked if there was any

reply.

"The lady, sir--a real lady, I should think--'ave brought it in her

own bruffam, and was most particular, sir, as you should 'ave it at

once."

Mr. Faulks took the letter and examined it carefully.

"From that charming woman, Mrs. Wilders, my cousin, or rather Stanny's

cousin; but his relations are mine. I am his uncle; some day, if he

lives, I shall be uncle to an earl. They will treat me better perhaps

when I have all the Essendine interest at my back. Whippersnappers

like this Fothergill will scarcely dare to snub me then. A good lad

Stanislas; I always liked him. I wish he was back amongst us, and not

at that horrid war."

"The lady, sir, is most anxious, sir, to have a answer," put in the

messenger, recalling Mr. Faulks's attention to the letter.

"Ah! to be sure. One moment," and he read the note:--

"Cannot I see you?" it said. "I am oppressed with fears for

our dear Stanislas. Do please spare me a few minutes of your

valuable time.

"CYPRIENNE W."

"I will go down to her at once, say." And, seizing his hat, Mr. Faulks

followed the messenger into the street, where he found Mrs. Wilders in

her tiny brougham, at the door of the office.

"Oh, how good of you!" she said, putting out a little hand in a

perfectly-fitting grey glove. "I would not disturb you for worlds, but

I was so anxious."

"What has happened? Nothing serious, I trust?"

"I do not know. I cannot say. I am terribly upset."

"Do tell me all about it."

"Of course; that is why I came. But it will take some time. Will you

get into the carriage? Are you going anywhere? I can take you, and

tell you upon the road."

"I am afraid I cannot leave just at present." He had misgivings as to

his arbitrary young chief. "But if I might suggest, and if you will

honour me so far, will you not come upstairs to my room?"

"Oh! willingly, if you will allow me."

This was all that she wished. Very soon, escorted by her obsequious

friend, she found herself in his arm-chair, pouring forth a long and

intricate, not to say incomprehensible, story about Stanislas McKay.

She had heard, she said--it was not necessary to say how--that they

meant to send him on some secret expedition, full of danger, she

understood, and she thought it such a pity--so wrong, so unfair!

"He ought really to return to England and take up his proper

position," she went on. "Lord Essendine wishes it, and so, I am sure,

must you."

"No one will be more pleased to welcome him back than myself," said

Mr. Faulks. "I should be glad indeed of his countenance and support

just now. They do not treat me too well here."

"Can it be possible!" she exclaimed, in a voice of tenderest interest.

"You whom I have always thought one of the most useful, estimable men

in the public service."

"Things are not what they were, my dear lady; they do not appreciate

me here. They deny me the smallest, the most trifling recognition.

Would you believe it that, after five-and-thirty years of

uninterrupted service, they still hesitate to give me a decoration? I

ought to have had the Companionship of the Bath at the last change of

Ministry."

"Of course you ought; I have often heard Lord Essendine say so."

"Has he now, really?" asked Mr. Faulks, much flattered.

"Frequently," went on Mrs. Wilders, fluently, availing herself readily

of the opening he had given her. "I am sure he has only to know that

you are disappointed in this matter and he will give you the warmest

support. You know he belongs to the party now in power, and a word

from him--"

"If he will deign to interest himself on my behalf the matter is, of

course, settled."

"And he shall, rely on me for that."

"How can I ever thank you sufficiently, dear lady, for your most

gracious, most generous encouragement? If I can serve you in any way,

command me."

"Well, you can oblige me in a little matter I have much at heart."

"Only name it," he cried, earnestly.

"Come and dine with me to-night in Thistle Grove."

"Is that all? I accept with enthusiasm."

"Only a small party: four at the most. You know I am still in deepest

mourning. My poor dear general--" she dropped her voice and her

eyes.

"Ah!" said Mr. Faulks, sympathetically; "you have known great sorrows.

But you must not brood, dear lady: we should struggle with grief." He

took her hand, and looked at her in a kindly, pitying way.

The moment was ill-timed for interruption, but the blame was Sir

Humphrey's, who now sent the messenger with a fresh and more imperious

summons for the attendance of Mr. Faulks.

He got up hurriedly, nervously, saying--

"I must leave you, dear lady; there are matters of great urgency to be

dealt with to-day."

"No apologies: it's my fault for trespassing here. I will run away.

To-night--do not forget me, at eight," and Mrs. Wilders took her

departure.

The little house in Thistle Grove wore its most smiling aspect at

evening, with its soft-shaded lamps, pretty hangings, and quantities

of variegated, sweet-smelling flowers; it was radiant with light, full

of perfume, bright in colour.

Mrs. Wilders's guests were three--Mrs. Jones, a staid, hard-featured,

middle-aged lady in deep black, an officer's widow like herself, as

she explained, who lived a few doors down, and was an acquaintance of

the last month or two, Mr. Hobson, and Mr. Faulks.

The dinner was almost studied in simplicity, but absolutely perfect of

its kind. Clear soup, salmon cutlets, a little joint, salad, and quail

in vine-leaves. The only wine was a sound medium claret, except at

dessert, when, after the French fashion, Mrs. Wilders gave champagne.

Through dinner the talk had been light and trivial, but with dessert

and coffee it gradually grew more serious, and touched upon the topics

of the day.

"These must be trying times for you Government officials," said Mr.

Hobson, carelessly.

"Yes, indeed," replied Mr. Faulks, with a deep sigh. "I often feel

that life is hardly worth having."

"The public service is no bed of roses," remarked Mrs. Jones. "It

killed my poor dear husband."

"It is so disheartening to slave day after day as you do," went on

Mrs. Wilders to Mr. Faulks, "and get no thanks."

"Very much the other thing!" cried Mr. Hobson; "you are about the best

abused people in the world, I should say, just now."

"It is hard on us, for I assure you we do our best. We are constantly,

uninterruptedly at work. I never know a moment that I may not be

wanted--that some special messenger may not be after me. I have to

leave my address so that they can find me wherever I am, and at any

time."

"Is it so now?" asked Mrs. Wilders. "Cannot you even give me the

pleasure of your society for an hour or two without its being known?"

"I do it in this way, dear lady. I leave a sealed envelope on my hall

table, which is only opened in case of urgency."

"You don't expect to be summoned to-night, I hope?" inquired the fair

hostess.

"I cannot say; it is quite probable."

"There are, perhaps, important movements intended in the Crimea?"

asked Mr. Hobson, as he picked his strawberries and prepared himself a

sauce of sugar and cream.

"You have heard so?" replied Mr. Faulks.

"There was something in the _Times_ this morning from their special

correspondent. Some new expedition was talked of."

"They ought to be all shot, these correspondents," said Mr. Faulks,

decisively. "They permit themselves to canvass the conduct and

character of persons of our position with a freedom that is

intolerable."

"Pardon me," said Mr. Hobson, "but as one of the British public, a

taxpayer and bearer of the public burden, I feel grateful to these

newspaper gentlemen for seeing that our money is properly spent."

"I am sorry to hear you commend them," said Mr. Faulks, in a way that

implied much resentment.

"Well, but without them we should hear of nothing that is going on.

This new expedition, for instance, which I have a shrewd suspicion

covers some deep design."

"You think so, do you? On what ground, pray?" said Mr. Faulks, with

the slight sneer of superior knowledge.

"The _Times_ man hints as much. There has long been a rumour of some

change in the plan of operations, and he seems to be right in his

conjecture."

"He knows nothing at all about it--how can he?" said Mr. Faulks,

contemptuously.

"You must forgive my differing with you. It is not my business to say

how he obtains his information, but I have generally found that he is

right. Now, this great expedition--"

"Is all moonshine!" cried Mr. Faulks, losing his temper, and thrown

off his guard. "It's quite a small affair--a trip round the Sea of

Azof, and the reduction of Kertch."

"The old affair revived, in fact."

"Neither more nor less. There is no intention at the present moment of

drawing any large detachment from the siege. On the contrary, every

effort is being strained to bring it to an end."

"Quite right too; it ought to be vigorously prosecuted--attack should

follow attack."

"We shall hear of one or more before long," went on Mr. Faulks,

growing more and more garrulous. "Our advanced trenches are creeping

very near, and I expect any day to hear that the French have stormed

the Mamelon, and our people the Quarries."

"Indeed? That is very interesting. And we shall take them--do you

think?"

"We must. The attacking columns will be of great strength, and the

attack will be preceded by a tremendous cannonade."

"So we may expect great news in the next few days?" said Mrs. Wilders,

eagerly.

"More bloodshed!" added Mrs. Jones, with a deep sigh. "This terrible

war!"

"You can't make omelettes without breaking eggs," said Mr. Hobson,

sententiously. "The more terrible a war is, the sooner it is ended."

"We are getting very ghastly in our talk," said Mrs. Wilders. "Suppose

we go into the drawing-room and have some tea."

As they passed out of the dining-room, Mr. Hobson managed to whisper a

few words.

"I have squeezed him dry: that was all I wanted to know. I need not

stay any longer, I think."

"Who knows? His special messenger may come down with the very latest.

If so, you ought to be able to extract that from him too."

Mrs. Wilders spoke these words carelessly; but, as often happens, they

correctly foretold what presently occurred.

When they were all seated cosily around the tea-table, Mrs. Wilders's

man brought in a great dispatch upon a salver.

"For Mr. Faulks," he said, and with an air of the greatest importance

the hard-worked, indispensable official tore open the cover.

It contained a few hurried lines from Sir Humphrey Fothergill to the

following effect:--

"A telegram has just been received from Lord Raglan. It contains

painful news for you; but I thought it best to let you have it at

once."

He opened the telegram with trembling hands and read--

"Yesterday, Mr. McKay, of the quartermaster-general's staff, ventured

through the enemy's lines in the direction of the Tchernaya to make a

special reconnaissance. He unfortunately was captured. I sent a flag

of truce into Sebastopol, asking that he might be exchanged, but have

been peremptorily refused. Gortschakoff asserts that he is a Russian

subject and was taken red-handed as a spy. He is to be executed

immediately. Will renew request with strong protest, but fear there is

no hope."

Mr. Faulks groaned heavily and let the telegram fall on the ground.

"What has happened?" asked Mrs. Wilders, eagerly.

"You were right--too right. That poor boy--"

"Stanislas?"

"Yes; my poor nephew has fallen into the hands of these bloodthirsty

Russians, who are resolved to execute him as a traitor and a spy."

CHAPTER VI.

MARIQUITA'S QUEST.

Hyde's unfortunate affair with the sailor had ended in a broken rib

and a dislocated arm. He was taken back senseless to the camp of the

Royal Picts, and for some days required the closest care. It was

nearly a week before he so far recovered himself as to be able to give

any account of what had occurred, and longer before he remembered

accurately what was taking him to headquarters at the time of the

accident.

It flashed across him quite suddenly, and with something of a shock,

that while he lay there helpless his friend McKay was still in danger.

"When shall I be able to get about again?" he asked the doctor,

anxiously.

"You won't be fit for duty, if that's what you're driving at, for many

a long day to come."

"I can go about with my arm in a sling. I am beginning to feel

perfectly well otherwise."

"What's the good of a soldier with his arm in a sling? No: as soon as

you are fit to move I shall have you sent down to Scutari."

"But I don't want to go: I had much rather stay here with the old

corps."

He was thinking of the business he had still in hand.

"You will have to obey orders, anyhow, so make up your mind to go."

The regimental surgeon of the Royal Picts was a morose old Scotchman,

very obstinate and intolerant of opposition. What he said he stuck to,

and Hyde knew that he must prepare to leave the Crimea in a short

time, probably before he was strong enough to go in person to

headquarters and find out McKay.