Again our hero was urged forward, and this time with all speed. The guide ran, followed by McKay, for a couple of hundred yards, then halted suddenly. What next? He had thrown himself on the ground, and seemed closely examining it; in this attitude he crept forward cautiously.
The movement was presently explained. A slight splash told of water encountered. He had been in search of the river, and had found it. This was the Tchernaya—a slow sluggish stream, hidden amidst long marshy grass, and everywhere fordable, as McKay had heard, at this season of the year.
The guide now stood up and pointed to the river, motioning McKay to enter it and cross.
Our hero stepped in boldly, and in all good faith, expecting his guide to follow. But he was half-way towards the other bank, and still the old man had made no move.
Why this hesitation?
McKay beckoned to him to come on. The guide advanced a step or two, then halted irresolute.
McKay grew impatient, and repeated his motion more peremptorily. The guide advanced another step and again halted. He seemed to suffer from an invincible dislike to cold water.
"Is he a cur or a traitor?" McKay asked himself, and drew his revolver to quicken the old man's movements, whichever he was.
The sight of the weapon seemed to throw the guide into a paroxysm of fear. He fell flat on the ground, and obstinately refused to move.
All this time McKay was in the river, up to his knees, a position not particularly comfortable. Besides, valuable time was being wasted—the night was not too long for what he had to do. Hastily regaining the bank, he rejoined the guide where he lay, and kicked him till he stood erect.