The aide-de-camp galloped off on his errand, and finding a boat from the yacht waiting by the wharf in Balaclava harbour he put up his horse and went off to the Arcadia. She was still lying outside.
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."