In the same way the English had attacked the ambuscades—­what we call the Quarries—­and between night and dawn the Russians had made four separate attempts to recover what had been lost at the first onslaught.

“And now it is over?”

“No one can say.  We have suffered fearfully; we are almost broken down.  If the enemy presses we shall have to give up the town.”

“Pray God they may come on!” cried McKay, counting the moments till relief came.

But bitter disappointment was again his portion.  The day grew on, and, instead of renewed firing, perfect quiet supervened.  There was a truce, he was told, on both sides, to bury the dead.

Now followed several dreary days, when hope had sunk again to its lowest ebb, and all his worst apprehensions revived.  It was like a living death; he was a close prisoner, and never a word reached him that any of his friends were concerning themselves with his miserable fate.

Again there came a glimpse of hope.  Surely there was good cause:  in the renewal of the bombardment, which, after an interval of a few days, revived with yet fiercer intention and unwavering persistence.

Surely this meant another—­possibly the final—­and supreme attack?

The firing continued without intermission for four days.  It was increased and intensified by an attack of the allied fleet upon the seaward batteries.  This new bombardment made itself evident from the direction of the sounds, and the merciless execution of the fiery rockets that fell raging into the town.

At length, in the dead of night, McKay was aroused from fitful sleep by the beating of drums and trumpets sounding the assembly.

It was a general alarm.  Troops were heard hurrying to their stations from all directions, and in the midst of it all was heard—­for a moment there had been a lull in the cannonade—­a sharp, long-sustained sound of musketry fire.

Evidently an attack, but on what points it was made, and how it fared, McKay at first could have no idea.  But, as he listened anxiously to the sounds of conflict, it was clear that the tide of battle was raging nearer to him now than on any previous occasion.

He waited anxiously, his heart beating faster and faster, as each minute the firing grew nearer and nearer.  He was in ignorance of the exact nature of the attack until, as on the last occasion, the Russian soldiers came back by twos and threes and re-entered the casemate.

“What is going on in the front?” McKay asked.

“The enemy are advancing up the ravine.  We have been driven out of the cemetery, and I doubt whether we shall hold our ground.”

“They are coming on in thousands!” cried a new arrival.  “This place is not safe.  Let us fall back to the Karabel barrack.”

“You had better come too,” said one soldier thoughtfully to McKay, as he gathered up the long skirts of his grey great-coat to allow of more expeditious retreat.