“What is to be done with him now?” asked the general.

“We must get him on board ship—­to-night, if possible; but how?”

“We will carry him every inch of the way,” said one of the bandsmen of the Royal Picts.  Young Wilders was idolised by the men.

“It is three miles to the sea-shore:  a long journey.”

“They can march in two reliefs, four carrying, four resting,” said McKay.

“You must be very careful,” said the surgeon.

“Never fear!  We will carry him as easy as a baby in its cot,” replied one of the soldiers.

“Yes, yes! you can trust us,” added McKay.

“Are you going with them?” asked the general.

“I should like to do so, sir.”

“And of course I shall go too,” added Captain Wilders; and the procession, thus formed, wended its way to the shore.

It was midnight before McKay and the stretcher-party were relieved of their precious charge, and when they had seen the wounded officer embarked in one of the ship’s boats, accompanied by his brother, they laid down where they were to rest and await the daylight.

Soon after dawn they were again on the move making once more for the heights above the river, where they had left their regiment.  Once more, too, they traversed the battle-field, with its ghastly sights and distressing sounds.  It was still covered with the bodies of the dead and dying, their numbers greatly increased, for many of the wounded had succumbed to the tortures of the night.  The figures of ministering comrades still moved to and fro, and men of all ranks were busily engaged in the good work.

There were others whose action was more open to question—­camp-followers and sutlers, dropped from no one knew where, who lurked in secret hiding-places, and issued forth, when the coast seemed clear, to follow their loathsome trade of robbing the dead.

McKay’s little party, as they trudged along, suddenly put up one of these evil birds of prey almost at their feet.  The man rose and ran for his life, pursued by the maledictions of the Royal Picts.

“Stop him!  Stop him!” they cried, and the fugitive was met and turned at every point.  But he doubled like a hare, and had nearly made his escape when he fell almost into the arms of Sergeant Hyde.

“Stick to him!” cried McKay.  “We will hand him over to the provost-marshal, who will give him a short shrift.”

A fierce struggle ensued between the fugitive and his captor, the result of which seemed uncertain; but the former suddenly broke loose, and again took to his heels.  He made towards the French lines, and disappeared amongst the clefts of the steep rocks.

When McKay joined Hyde, he said to him, rather angrily—­

“Why did you let the fellow go?”

“I did my best, but he was like an eel.  I had far rather have kept him.  I have wanted the scoundrel these dozen years.”