“I fell overboard, and I’ve been all night in the water:  that’s all.”

He did not choose as yet to make public his suspicions as to the real origin of his nearly fatal accident.

“I always said you had nine lives, Stanny, only don’t go using them up like this.  There’s not a tom-cat could stand it.”

“Were you out in the gale, uncle?”

“Ay; and weathered it.  At dawn, after the first puff, I knew we’d have a twister, so I got up steam and regularly worked against it.  Made a good offing that way, and when the storm abated came back here.  We were close in when we picked you up on a log.”

“It was a providential escape,” said Stanislas, thankfully.  “I thought it was all over with me.”

“We’ll set you up in no time, never fear.  But tell more about yourself.  Jove! you are a fine chap, Stanny.  Why, you’ll die a general yet, if the Russians ’ll let you off a little longer, and you’re not wanted for the House of Peers.”

“What do you mean, uncle?”

“Why, of course, you haven’t heard.  There’s trouble among your fine relations.  Lord Essendine has lost all his sons.”

“All?”

“Yes; all.  Hugo was killed, as you know; Anastasius died at Scutari; and Lord Lydstone, two days later, was found dead in the streets of Stamboul.”

“Dead?  How?  What did he die of, uncle?”

“A stab in the heart.  He was murdered.”

“And I—­”

He understood now the cause of the foul blow struck at him, and the base attempt to get him also out of the way.

“You are now next heir to the peerage, in spite of all they may say.  But you’ll find my lord civil enough soon.  He’ll be wanting you to go straight home.”

“And leave the army?  Not while there’s fighting to be done, Uncle Barto.  I may not be much good as I am, but I’ll do all I can, trust me.  I ought to be getting on shore and back to the front.”

“My doctor will have a word to say to that.  He won’t let you be moved till you’re well and strong.”

But on the second day McKay, thanks to kindly care and plenty of nourishment, was able to leave his cot, and on the third morning he was determined to return to his duty.

“I won’t baulk you, Stanny,” said his uncle; “good soldiers, like good sailors, never turn their backs on their work.  But mind, this ship is your home whenever and wherever you like to come on board; and if you want anything you have only to ask for it, d’ye hear?”

McKay promised readily to draw upon his uncle when needful, and then, his horse being still at Balaclava, he once more got into the saddle and rode up to camp.

The journey prepared him a little for what he found.  All the way from Balaclava his horse struggled knee-deep in mud:  a very quagmire of black, sticky slush.  Yet this was the great highway—­the only road between the base of supply and an army engaged eight miles distant in an arduous siege.  Along it the whole of the food, ammunition, and material had to be carried on pony-back, or in a few ponderous carts drawn by gaunt, over-worked teams, which too often left their wheels fast-caught in the mire.