It was the telling of this story as she sat by the side of his couch, hand locked in hand, and he learnt by degrees the full measure of her self-sacrificing devotion, that did McKay so much good. It braced and strengthened him, giving him a new and stronger desire to live and enjoy the unspeakable blessing of this true woman's love.
They would have been altogether happy, these long days of convalescence, but for his enforced absence from his duties, and the distressing news that came from the front.
Lord Raglan had never recovered from the disappointment of the 18th of June. The failure of the attack, and the loss of many personal friends, preyed upon his spirits, and he suddenly became seriously ill. He never rallied, sank rapidly, and died in a couple of days, to the great grief of the whole army.
No one felt it more than McKay, to whom the sad news was broken by his old chief.
"It is very painful to think," said Sir Richard Airey, "that he passed away at the moment of failure; that he was not spared to see the fortress fall—for it must fall."
"Of course it must, sir," said McKay. "This last attack ought to have succeeded. The Russians were in sore straits."
"It was the French who spoiled everything by their premature advance. I knew we could do nothing until they had taken the Malakoff. That is the key of the position."
"You are right, sir. I myself heard Todleben say those very words."
"Did you? That is important intelligence. It must not be forgotten when the time comes to organise a fresh attack."
"I shall be well then, I hope, sir, and able to go in with the first column. I think I could show the way."