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!”