"On your knees, dog! Say your prayers. I will shoot you first,
whatever happens to me."
"You are too late!" cried Benito, wrenching himself from his grasp,
and whistling shrilly as he ran away.
McKay fired three shots at him in succession, one of which must have
told, for the scoundrel gave a great yell of pain.
The next instant McKay was surrounded by a mob of Cossacks and quickly
made prisoner.
They had evidently been waiting for him, and the whole enterprise was
a piece of premeditated treachery, as boldly executed as it had been
craftily planned.
McKay's captors having searched his pockets with the nimbleness of
London thieves, and deprived him of money, watch, and all his
possessions, proceeded to handle him very roughly. He had fought and
struggled desperately, but was easily overpowered. They were twenty to
one, and their wild blood was aroused by his resistance. He was
beaten, badly mauled, and thrown to the ground, where a number of them
held him hand and foot, whilst others produced ropes to bind him fast.
The brutal indignities to which he was subjected made McKay wild with
rage. He addressed them in their own language, protesting vainly
against such shameful ill-usage.
"Hounds! Miscreants! Sons of burnt mothers! Do you dare to treat an
English officer thus? Take me before your superior.
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