“And the lad, sir?” asked an assistant.

“To be sure; I had forgotten.  Well, boy, you have behaved uncommonly well.  What shall we do for you?”

“Nothing,” she faltered out, “only save him—­save Mr. McKay.”

“Mr. McKay!  Do you know him?  What—­when—?” asked Major Shervinton, greatly surprised at the agonised accents in which Mariquita spoke, yet more, seeing that her eyes were filled with tears.  “Who are you?  Where do you come from?” he went on, examining the little creature attentively.

He noticed now for the first time the delicate skin, the clear-cut, regular features, the lustrous, eyes; he remarked the fragile form, the shy, shrinking manner of the lad, who stood diffidently, deprecatingly, before him, and he said to himself, “What an exceedingly handsome boy!  Boy!” he repeated, and now suddenly a doubt crossed his mind as to the proper sex of the young person who evinced such a tender interest in Stanislas McKay.

“Some secret romance, probably,” he went on, smiling at the thought, but quickly changing his mood as he remembered how tragic its end was likely to be.

“I will do all I can to save him, rest assured,” he went on aloud, “and if we recover him from the clutches of the enemy he shall certainly know how much he owes to you.”

The vivid blush that overspread her cheeks at these words betrayed her completely.

“But, my poor child,” went on the provost-marshal, in a kindly, sympathetic voice, “what are we to do with you?  It was madness, surely, for you to venture here.  Have you any friends?  Let me see you safe back to them.  Where do you live?”

Mariquita in a low voice explained that she was employed at Mother Charcoal’s.

“Does she know about you?”

“Yes,” acknowledged Mariquita, in a still lower, almost inaudible voice.

“She is a good old soul, and may be trusted to take care of you.  Still, her canteen is no place for such as you.  You shall stay with her, but only till we can send you on to one of the troopships with female nurses on board.”

Having thus decided, Shervinton himself escorted Mariquita to Mother Charcoal’s, and then rode on to headquarters.

He arrived there half-an-hour after Colonel Blythe, and the news he brought threw fresh light upon the disappearance of poor McKay.

“There is a woman at the bottom of it, of course,” said Sir Richard Airey.  “These papers prove it,” putting his finger upon the bundle Shervinton had seized at the Maltese baker’s.

“Two women, unless I’m much mistaken,” replied the provost-marshal, and he went on to tell of Mariquita’s devotion.

“Devotion, indeed,” said the general, “but to no purpose, I fear.  We have little hope of saving McKay.  Lord Raglan is in despair.  Prince Gortschakoff refuses distinctly to surrender the poor fellow, or spare his life.”

“One woman’s devotion outmatched by another’s reckless greed.  But, should McKay be sacrificed, she—­his murderess—­must not escape,” said Blythe, hotly.