"What's your country? What language do you talk?"
"English."
"Monstrous little of that, my boy. What's your native lingo, I mean? Greek, Turkish, Italian, Coptic—what?"
"Spanish," the boy confessed, in a low voice.
Hyde looked at him very intently for a few seconds; then, without further remark, walked out with his French friend.
But he did not do more than say good-bye outside the shanty; and, leaving his horse still hitched up near the door, he presently re-entered the canteen.
The place had emptied considerably, and he was able to take his seat again in a corner without attracting much attention. For half-an-half or more he watched this boy, who seemed to interest him so much.
"There's not a doubt of it. I must know what it means," and he beckoned the "imp" towards him.
"How did you get to the Crimea?" he asked, abruptly, speaking in excellent Spanish, when the lad, shyly and most reluctantly, came up to him. "What brings you here? I must and will know. It is very wrong. This is no place for you."
"I came to save him; he is in pressing danger," said the boy, whose large eyes were now filled with tears.