The voices grew
plainer and plainer, then gradually faded away.
"Cossack!" repeated the guide, and McKay gathered that these were a
couple of Cossack sentries, from whose clutches he had narrowly
escaped.
Again our hero was urged forward, and this time with all speed. The
guide ran, followed by McKay, for a couple of hundred yards, then
halted suddenly. What next? He had thrown himself on the ground, and
seemed closely examining it; in this attitude he crept forward
cautiously.
The movement was presently explained. A slight splash told of water
encountered. He had been in search of the river, and had found it.
This was the Tchernaya--a slow sluggish stream, hidden amidst long
marshy grass, and everywhere fordable, as McKay had heard, at this
season of the year.
The guide now stood up and pointed to the river, motioning McKay to
enter it and cross.
Our hero stepped in boldly, and in all good faith, expecting his guide
to follow. But he was half-way towards the other bank, and still the
old man had made no move.
Why this hesitation?
McKay beckoned to him to come on. The guide advanced a step or two,
then halted irresolute.
McKay grew impatient, and repeated his motion more peremptorily. The
guide advanced another step and again halted. He seemed to suffer from
an invincible dislike to cold water.
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