McKay’s appearance was not exactly presentable.  He had been turned out at daybreak with the rest of the division at the first alarm, and had had no time to attend to his toilette, such as it was in these rough campaigning days.  Since then he had been in his saddle for several hours and constantly in the heat and turmoil of the fight.  His clothes were torn, mud-encrusted, and bloodstained; his face was black and grimy with gunpowder smoke.

But he had no thought of his looks as he sprang on to the white, trimly-kept deck of the yacht.

Captain Trejago met him.

“Who are you?” asked the sailing-master, rather abruptly.

“I wish to see Mrs. Wilders,” replied McKay, still more curtly.

“You had better wash your face first,” said Captain Trejago, very jealous of the proper respect due to Mrs. Wilders.  “It is uncommonly dirty.”

“And so would yours be if you had been doing what I have.”

“What might that be?”

“Fighting.”

“Perhaps you are ready to begin again?  If so, I’m your man.  But you will have to wait till we get on shore.”

“Pshaw! don’t be an idiot.  We have been engaged with the Russians ever since daybreak.  But there, this is mere waste of breath.  I tell you I want to see Mrs. Wilders.  I come from the general.  I am his aide-de-camp.  Show the way, will you?”

“It may be as you say,” muttered Trejago, not half satisfied.  “But you will have to wait till Mrs. Wilders says she will receive you.”

“What’s the matter?  Who is this person?”

It was the voice of Mrs. Wilders, who now advanced from the stern of the yacht, having seen but not overheard the latter part of the altercation.

McKay stepped forward.

“I have brought you a message from the general.”

“Why did he not come himself?”

“It was quite impossible.”

“I particularly begged him to come.  Who, pray, are you?  Stay!” she went on, “I ought to know your face.  We have met before:  at Gibraltar, was it not?”

“Yes, at Gibraltar.  I was the general’s orderly sergeant.”

“And do you still hold the same distinguished position?”

“No, Mrs. Wilders,” said McKay, simply; “I am now a commissioned officer, and have the honour to be the general’s aide-de-camp.”

“Rapid promotion that:  I hope you deserved it.  May I ask your name?”

“McKay—­Stanislas McKay.”

Could it be possible?  The very man she was in search of the first to speak to her on arrival here at Balaclava!  Surely there must be some mistake!  Mastering her emotion at the suddenness of this news, she said—­

“You will forgive my curiosity, but have you any other Christian names?”

“My name in full is Stanislas Anastasius Wilders McKay.”

“That answer is my best excuse for asking you the question.  You are, then, our cousin?”