His clothes
were torn, mud-encrusted, and bloodstained; his face was black and
grimy with gunpowder smoke.
But he had no thought of his looks as he sprang on to the white,
trimly-kept deck of the yacht.
Captain Trejago met him.
"Who are you?" asked the sailing-master, rather abruptly.
"I wish to see Mrs. Wilders," replied McKay, still more curtly.
"You had better wash your face first," said Captain Trejago, very
jealous of the proper respect due to Mrs. Wilders. "It is uncommonly
dirty."
"And so would yours be if you had been doing what I have."
"What might that be?"
"Fighting."
"Perhaps you are ready to begin again? If so, I'm your man. But you
will have to wait till we get on shore."
"Pshaw! don't be an idiot. We have been engaged with the Russians ever
since daybreak. But there, this is mere waste of breath. I tell you I
want to see Mrs. Wilders. I come from the general. I am his
aide-de-camp. Show the way, will you?"
"It may be as you say," muttered Trejago, not half satisfied. "But you
will have to wait till Mrs. Wilders says she will receive you."
"What's the matter? Who is this person?"
It was the voice of Mrs. Wilders, who now advanced from the stern of
the yacht, having seen but not overheard the latter part of the
altercation.
McKay stepped forward.
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