"I claim to be treated as a prisoner of war," said McKay, boldly.
"You! impudent rogue! A low camp-follower! A sneaking, skulking spy—taken in the very act! You!"
"I am a British officer!" went on McKay, stoutly. He was not to be browbeaten or abashed.
"Where is your uniform?"
"Here!" replied McKay, throwing open the greggo, which he still wore, and showing the red waistcoat beneath, and the black breeches with their broad red stripe.
"You said he was a civilian in Tartar disguise," said the general,—for such was the officer's rank,—turning to one of his staff and seeming rather staggered at McKay's announcement. He spoke in Russian.
"Take care, Excellency; the prisoner speaks Russian."
"Is that so?" said the general to McKay. "An unusual accomplishment that, in English officers, I expect."
"Yes, I am acquainted with Russian," said McKay. Why should he deny it? They had heard him use that language at the time of his capture.
"How and when did you learn it?"