“All right,” said McKay, “I will follow.”

And taking advantage of the confusion, during which the sentries on the casemate had withdrawn, he left his prison-chamber and got out into the main road.

The fusilade was now close at hand; bullets whistled continually around and pinged with a dull thud as they flattened against the rocky ground.

The assailants were making good progress.  McKay, as he crouched below a wall on the side of the road, could hear the glad shouts of his comrades as, with short determined rushes, they charged forward from point to point.

His situation was one of imminent peril truly, for he was between two fires.  But what did he care?  Only a few minutes more, if he could but lie close, and he would be once more surrounded by his own men.

While he waited the dawn broke, and he could watch for himself the progress the assailants made.  They were now climbing along the slopes of the ravine on both sides of the harbour, occupying house after house, and maintaining a hot fire on the retreating foe.  It was exciting, maddening; in his eagerness McKay was tempted to emerge from his shelter and wave encouragement to his comrades.

Unhappily for him, the gesture was misunderstood.  The crack of half-a-dozen rifles responded promptly, and a couple of them took fatal effect.  Poor Stanislas fell, badly wounded, with one bullet in his arm and another in his leg.

CHAPTER XI.

AMONG FRIENDS AGAIN.

McKay lay where he fell, and it was perhaps well for him that he was prostrate.  The attacking parties soon desisted from firing, and charged forward at racing-pace, driving all who stood before them at the point of the bayonet.  They swept over and past McKay, trampling him under foot in their hot haste to demolish the foe.

But the wave of the advance left McKay behind it, and well within the shelter of his own people.

Although badly wounded, he was not disabled, and he took advantage of the first pause in the fight to appeal for help to some men of the 38th who occupied the wall behind which he fell.

“You speak English gallows well for a Rooskie,” said one of the men, brusquely, but not without sympathy.  “What do you want?  Water?  Are you badly hit?”

“A bullet in my leg and a flesh-wound in my arm.”

“Hold hard!  Sawbones will be up soon.  Meanwhile, let’s try and staunch the blood.  We’ll tear up your shirt for a bandage.”

And with rough but real kindness he tore open McKay’s old greggo so as to get at his underlinen.  This action betrayed the red cloth waistcoat he still wore.

“Why, that’s an English staff waistcoat.  Quick!  How did you come by it, you murdering rogue?”

“I am a staff officer.”

“You!  What do you call yourself?”

“Mr. McKay, of the Royal Picts:  deputy-assistant-quartermaster-general at headquarters.”