“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.