“Game!” answered McNeil enthusiastically; “just you try me. I’ve had enough of Russian prisons for a lifetime, and I tell you I would rather die than go back.”
“Then we go forward,” said Phil shortly. “Keep close together and steer between the forts. If anyone challenges, leave me to answer.”
Climbing from the ditch, they set their faces for the British camp and crept forward cautiously till they recognised the Malakoff looming big and shadowy in front. Phil led the way and attempted to make out the position of the earthworks and trenches. “There—there they are, only a few yards in front of us!” he whispered eagerly. “Hush! down for your lives!”
A figure suddenly rose up in front of them and listened. Evidently the man was a sentry, and had heard something suspicious, for next moment he challenged loudly.
Long ere this Phil had learnt that polite words are not usually wasted on Russian privates, and he determined to take advantage of the fact.
“Idiot!” he answered roughly. “Cannot you see that I am your officer, and can I not give instructions to my lieutenant without your challenging?”
“My orders are to challenge everyone,” the sentry answered humbly. “Excellency, give the countersign and I shall know you better. Some dogs of prisoners have recently escaped, for I heard the bell, therefore I must be cautious.”
“My word, we’re done again!” groaned Phil. Then taking the bull by the horns, he advanced a pace and said roughly, “How can I remember the word every night after all these weeks? Wait, though—ah, was not the first letter ‘N’?”
“That is right, excellency; and our master the Czar’s name also commences with that letter,” the sentry replied encouragingly.
“Nicolas!” cried Phil boldly.