The spy, whatever his nationality, and however questionable his antecedents, was right in the intelligence he had communicated.  A large Russian force was even then on the march from Tchorgorum, pointing straight for the Balaclava plain.  The enemy had regained heart; emboldened by the constant influx of reinforcements, and the inactivity of the allies, he had grown audacious, and was ready to try a vigorous offensive.  A blow well aimed at our communications and delivered with intention might drive us back on our ships, perhaps into the sea.

McKay had passed the night at Balaclava.  The transport with the knapsacks was not yet in port, and he was loth to return to camp empty-handed.  But next morning, soon after daylight, news came back to the little seaside town that another battle was imminent, on the plains outside.

The handful of Royal Picts were promptly mustered by their young commander, and marched in the direction of the firing, which was already heard, hot and heavy, towards the east.

As they left Balaclava, they encountered a crowd of Turkish soldiers in full flight, making madly for the haven, and shouting, “Ship! ship!” as they ran.  McKay, gathering from this stampede that already some serious conflict had begun, hurried forward to where he found a line of red-coats drawn up behind a narrow ridge which barred the approaches to Balaclava.

This was the famous 93rd, in its now historic formation—­another “Thin Red Line,” which received undaunted, and only two deep, the onslaught of the Russian horse.

The regiment was under the personal control of its brigadier, stout old Sir Colin, who, with his staff, stood a little withdrawn, but closely observing all that passed.  He recognised McKay, and called out abruptly—­

“Halloa! where have you dropped from?”

“I heard the firing, sir, met the Turks retreating, and brought up my party to reinforce and act as might be ordered.”

“It was well done, man.  But, enough; get yourselves up into line there on the left, and take the word from the colonel of the 93rd.”

“We have our work cut out for us, sir,” said one of his staff to Sir Colin.

“We have, but we’ll do it.  This gorge must be held to the death.  You understand that, Colonel Ainslie—­to the death?”

“You can trust us, Sir Colin.”

“I think so; but I’ll say just one word to the men,” and, while the enemy’s cavalry were still some distance off, the general rode slowly down the line, speaking his last solemn injunction—­

“Remember, men, there is no retreat from here.  You must die where you stand.”

One and the same answer rose readily to every lip—­

“Ay! ay!  Sir Colin; we’ll do that!” shouted the gallant Scots.[1]

[Footnote 1:  Historical. cf. Kinglake’s “Crimea,” v. 80.]

Their veteran leader’s head was clear; his temper cool and self-possessed.  He held these brave hearts in hand like the rider of a high-couraged horse, and knew well when to restrain, when to let go.