“Ah! but how shall we lay hands on her?  Who knows her?” asked Sir Richard.

“One of my officers—­Hyde.  We shall get her through him,” and Blythe repeated what the old quartermaster had said that morning.

“Yes, he evidently knows.  He would be the best man to pursue her—­to bring her to judgment for her villanies.  There is enough in these papers to convict her.  But he could hardly leave the Crimea just now.”

“He happens at this moment to be going down to Scutari, on sick leave:  he could easily go on.”

“Is he strong enough?”

“He is gaining strength daily; it is only a wounded arm.”

“That will be best.  I will arrange with Lord Raglan to give him leave, provided he will accept the mission.”

Without further delay Blythe went back to his camp and told Hyde all that had occurred.

“Go!  Of course I will go.  This very day, if the doctor will let me.  I will unmask her; I will spoil her game.  If I cannot save Stanislas, at least she shall not benefit by her crime.”

“You are sure you can find her?”

“Trust me!  People in her position are easily found.  The first Court Guide will give you her address.  She holds her head high, and must pay the penalty of greatness.”

The prospect of starting soon for England on such an errand seemed to restore Hyde to energy and strength.

“Not fit to travel!” he said to the doctor, who still expressed some doubts on that head.  “Why, I am fit for anything.”

“Nonsense, man!  You won’t be able to use your arm for weeks.”

“I shan’t want it.  My head’s sound and clear; that’s the chief thing.  The moment I get my leave and my orders, I’m off.”

They gave Hyde a passage home in the Himalaya, a man-of-war transport, and at that time one of the swiftest steamers afloat.  At the most, the journey would not occupy more than twelve days or a fortnight.  He might not be able or in time to do much for Stanislas in his present peril, but he at least hoped that retribution might follow fast on the betrayal of his friend.

CHAPTER VII.

INSIDE THE FORTRESS.

It is time to return to Stanislas McKay, whose life, forfeited under the ruthless laws of a semi-barbarous power, still hung by a thread.

He had been taken into Sebastopol by his escort at a rapid pace.  It was a ride of half-a-dozen miles, no more, and the greater part of it, when once they regained the Tchernaya, followed the low ground that margins both sides of the river.

McKay could see plainly the English cavalry vedettes in the plain; but, fast bound as he was, it was impossible for him to make any signal to his friends.  It was as well that he could not try, for he would certainly have paid the penalty with his life.

They watched him very closely, these wild, unkempt, half-savage horsemen; watched him as though he were a captive animal—­a beast of prey which might at any time break loose and rend them.