CHAPTER VII.
INSIDE THE FORTRESS.
It is time to return to Stanislas McKay, whose life, forfeited under the ruthless laws of a semi-barbarous power, still hung by a thread.
He had been taken into Sebastopol by his escort at a rapid pace. It was a ride of half-a-dozen miles, no more, and the greater part of it, when once they regained the Tchernaya, followed the low ground that margins both sides of the river.
McKay could see plainly the English cavalry vedettes in the plain; but, fast bound as he was, it was impossible for him to make any signal to his friends. It was as well that he could not try, for he would certainly have paid the penalty with his life.
They watched him very closely, these wild, unkempt, half-savage horsemen; watched him as though he were a captive animal—a beast of prey which might at any time break loose and rend them.
But the rough uncivilised Cossacks of the Don were not bad fellows after all.
Although they at first looked askance at him when he spoke to them, these simple boors were presently won over by the distress and sufferings of their prisoner.