"
McKay was greatly gratified at this encouragement, and eager to be
still more useful. He visited the Maltese baker again, and urged him
to continue supplying him with news.
"Trust to Joe. Wait one little bit; you know plenty more."
Several days passed, however, without any fresh news. Then a new
messenger came, another Tartar, a very old man with a flowing grey
beard, wearing a long caftan like a dressing-gown to his heels, and an
enormous sheepskin cap that came far down over his eyes, and almost
hid his face. He seemed very decrepit, and was excessively stupid,
probably from old age. He looked terribly frightened when brought to
McKay's tent, stooping his shoulders and hanging his head in the
cowering, deprecating attitude of one who expects, but would not dare
to ward off, a blow.
He was tongue-tied, for he made no attempt to speak, but merely thrust
forward one hand, making a deep obeisance with the other. There was a
scrap of paper in the extended hand, which McKay took and opened
curiously. A few lines in Italian were scrawled on it.
"The Russians are collecting large forces beyond the Tchernaya," ran
the message. "Expect a new attack on that side."
"Who gave you this?" asked McKay, in Russian.
The old fellow bowed low, but made no answer.
He repeated the question in Italian and every other language of which
he was master, but obtained no reply.
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