“I do not know.”

“You must know.  You are on the headquarter-staff of the British army.”

“Who told you so?  You have always denied my claim to be treated as an English officer.”

“Because you are a traitor to your own country.  But it is as I say.  We know as a fact that you belong to Lord Raglan’s staff; how we know it you need not ask.”

The fact was, of course, made patent by the English commander-in-chief, in his repeated attempts to secure McKay’s release and exchange.  But the prisoner had been told nothing of these efforts, or of the peremptory refusal that had met Lord Raglan’s demands.

“I told you it would be no use,” interrupted a third.  “He is as obstinate as a mule.”

“Stay! what is that?” cried Todleben, suddenly.  “Over there, in the direction of the Green Mamelon.”

Three rockets were seen to shoot up into the evening sky.

“It is some signal,” said another.  “Yes; heavy columns are beginning to climb the slopes away there to our left.”

“And the British troops are collecting in front of the Quarries.”

At this moment the besiegers’ fire, which had slackened perceptibly, was re-opened with redoubled strength.

“Let everyone return to his station without delay,” said Todleben, briefly.  “A serious crisis is at hand.  The attack points to the Malakoff, which, as you all know, is the key of our position.”

“Hush!” said one of the other generals, pointing to McKay.

“What matter?” replied Todleben.  “He can hardly hope to pass on the intelligence.”

But the words were not lost upon our hero, although he had but little time then to consider their deep meaning.

“What shall we do with the prisoner?” asked his escort.

“Take him back to his place of confinement.”

McKay’s heart was lighter that evening than it had been at any time since his capture.  He remembered now that this was the 7th of June, the day settled for the night attack upon the Mamelon and Quarries, and he hoped that if these succeeded, as they must, they would probably be followed by a further assault upon the principal inner defences of the town.

He spent the evening and the greater part of the night in the deepest agitation, hoping hourly, momentarily, for deliverance.

None came, no news even; but that the struggle was being fought out strenuously he knew from the absence of the men that occupied his casemate, all of whom were doubtless engaged.  But towards daylight one or two dropped in who had been wounded and forced to retire from the batteries.  From them he learnt something of what had occurred.

The French had stormed the works on the left of the Russian front, and had carried them once, twice, three times.  The Russians had returned again and again to recover their lost redoubts, but had been obliged to surrender them in the end.