“French, Spanish, and a little Turkish.”

“By Jove! you ought to be on the staff; they want such men as you.  Can you sit on a horse?”

“I have ridden bare-backed many a dozen miles across the moors at home.”

“Faith!  I will take you myself.  I want an extra aide-de-camp, and my cousin shall have the preference.  I will send to Colonel Blythe at once; be ready to join me.  But how about your kit?  You will want horses, uniform, and—­Forgive me, my young cousin:  but how are you off for cash?  You must let me be your banker.”

McKay shook his head, gratefully.

“Thank you, sir; but I have been supplied from home.  One of my uncles—­my mother’s half-brother—­is well-to-do, and he sent me a remittance on hearing of my promotion.”

“Well, well, as you please; but mind you come to me if you want anything.  I shall expect you to take up your duties to-morrow.”  They were interrupted by all the bugles in the brigade sounding the assembly.  “What is it?  The alarm?”

“I can hear file-firing, sir, from the front.”

“An attack, evidently.  Hurry back to your camp; the regiment will be turned out by the time you get there!”

As McKay left the general’s tent he met Captain Powys.

“The outposts have been driven in on Shell Hill and the enemy is advancing in force,” said the aide-decamp.  “We shall have another battle, I expect.  It is our turn to-day.”

This was Colonel Fedeoroff’s forlorn hope against our extreme right:  the sequel to Balaclava, the prelude of Inkerman—­a sharp fight while it lasted, but promptly repulsed by our men.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE GOLDEN HORN.

Since the English and French armies had established themselves in the Crimea and the magnitude of their undertaking grew more and more apparent, they had found their true base of operations at Constantinople.  Here were collected vast masses of supplies and stores, waiting to be forwarded to the front; here the reinforcements—­horse, foot, and guns—­paused ere they joined their respective armies; here hospitals, extensive, but still ill-organised and incomplete, received the sick and wounded sent back from the Crimea; here also lingered, crowding the tortuous streets of Mussulman Stamboul and filling to overflowing the French-like suburb of Pera, a strange medley of people, a motley crew of various faiths and many nationalities, polyglot in tongue and curiously different in attire, drawn together by such various motives as duty, mere curiosity, self-interest, and greed.  Jews, infidels, and Turks were met at every corner:  the first engaged in every occupation that could help them to make money, from touting at the bazaars to undertaking large contracts and selling bottled beer; the second, representatives going or coming from the forces now devoted to upholding the Crescent; the third, mostly apathetic, self-indulgent,