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.