"Trust to Joe. Wait one little bit; you know plenty more."
Several days passed, however, without any fresh news. Then a new messenger came, another Tartar, a very old man with a flowing grey beard, wearing a long caftan like a dressing-gown to his heels, and an enormous sheepskin cap that came far down over his eyes, and almost hid his face. He seemed very decrepit, and was excessively stupid, probably from old age. He looked terribly frightened when brought to McKay's tent, stooping his shoulders and hanging his head in the cowering, deprecating attitude of one who expects, but would not dare to ward off, a blow.
He was tongue-tied, for he made no attempt to speak, but merely thrust forward one hand, making a deep obeisance with the other. There was a scrap of paper in the extended hand, which McKay took and opened curiously. A few lines in Italian were scrawled on it.
"The Russians are collecting large forces beyond the Tchernaya," ran the message. "Expect a new attack on that side."
"Who gave you this?" asked McKay, in Russian.
The old fellow bowed low, but made no answer.
He repeated the question in Italian and every other language of which he was master, but obtained no reply. The man remained stupidly, idiotically dumb, only grovelling lower and more abjectly each time.
"What an old jackass he is! I shall get nothing out of him, I'm afraid. But it won't do to despise the message, wherever it comes from. Take him outside," he said to his orderly, "while I go and see the general." "You have no idea where this news comes from?" was General Airey's first inquiry.
"The same source, I don't doubt; but of course I can't vouch for its accuracy."
"It might be very important," the general was musing. "I am not sure whether you know what we contemplate in these next few days?"