The Cossack officer in charge entered it, and presently returned with
the order--
"March him in!"
McKay found himself in the presence of a broadly-built, middle-aged
man, in the long grey great-coat worn by all ranks of the Russian
army, from highest to lowest, and the flat, circular-topped cap
carried also by all. There was nothing to indicate the rank of this
personage but a small silver ornament on each shoulder-strap, and
another in the centre of the cap. At a button-hole on his breast,
however, was a small parti-coloured rosette, the simple record of
orders and insignia too precious to carry in the field.
There was unbounded arrogance and contempt in his voice and manner as
he addressed the prisoner, who might have been the vilest of created
things.
"So"--he spoke in French, like most well-educated Russians of that
day, to show their aristocratic superiority--"you have dared, wretch,
to thrust yourself into the bear's mouth! You shall be hanged in
half-an-hour."
"I claim to be treated as a prisoner of war," said McKay, boldly.
"You! impudent rogue! A low camp-follower! A sneaking, skulking
spy--taken in the very act! You!"
"I am a British officer!" went on McKay, stoutly. He was not to be
browbeaten or abashed.
"Where is your uniform?"
"Here!" replied McKay, throwing open the _greggo_, which he still
wore, and showing the red waistcoat beneath, and the black breeches
with their broad red stripe.
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