It was a splendid summer's evening, perfectly still and peaceful, with
no sounds abroad but the ceaseless chirp of innumerable grasshoppers,
and the faint hum of buzzing insects ever on the wing. Only at
intervals were strange sounds wafted on the breeze, and told their own
story; the distant blare of trumpets, and the occasional "thud" of
heavy cannon, gun answering gun between besiegers and besieged. As
they fared along, McKay once or twice inquired, more by gesture than
by voice, how far they had to go.
Each time the guide replied by a single word--"Cossack"--spoken almost
in a whisper, and following by his placing finger on lip.
Half-a-mile further, the guide motioned to McKay to dismount and leave
his horse, repeating the caution "Cossack!" in the same low tone of
voice.
McKay, who had now put on the _greggo_ and sheepskin cap, did as he
was asked, and the two crept forward together, having left the horse
tethered to a bush, the guide explaining by signs that they would
presently come back to it.
A little farther and he placed his hand upon McKay's arms, with a
motion to halt.
"H--sh!" said the old man, using a sound which has the same meaning in
all tongues, and held up a finger.
McKay listened attentively, and heard voices approaching them.
Instinctively he drew his revolver and waited events.
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