It was
the picket-house, the headquarters of the troop of Cossacks, and a
number of them were lying and hanging about, their horses tethered
close by.
The officer pointed to a corner of the hut, and, giving peremptory
instructions to a couple of sentries to watch the prisoner, for whom
they would have to answer with their lives, he disappeared.
Greatly dejected and cast down at the failure of his enterprise, and
in acute physical pain from his recent ill-usage and the tightness of
his bonds, McKay passed the rest of the night very miserably.
Dawn came at length, but with it no relief. On the contrary, daylight
aggravated his sufferings. He could see now the cruel scowling visages
of his captors, and the indescribable filth and squalor of the den in
which he lay.
"Get up!" cried a voice; but McKay was too much dazed and distracted
by all he had endured to understand that the command was addressed to
him.
It was repeated more arrogantly, and accompanied by a brutal kick.
He rose slowly and reluctantly, and asked in a sullen voice--
"Where are you taking me?"
"Before his Excellency. Step out, or must we prick you along?"
A march of half-an-hour under a strong escort brought them to a large
camp. They passed through many lines of tents, and halted presently
before a smart marquee.
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