He begged piteously for water, speaking in Russian, and using the most
familiar style of address. The men who rode on each side of him soon
thawed as he called them "his little fathers," and implored them to
give him a drink.
"Presently, at the first halt," they said.
And so he had to battle with his thirst while they still hurried on.
Suddenly the officer in command called a halt--they had now reached
the picket-house at Tractir Bridge--and rode out to the flank of the
party. He seemed perturbed, anxious in his mind, and raised his hand
to shroud his eyes as he peered eagerly across the plain.
"Here!" he shouted, rising in his stirrups and turning round. "Bring
up the prisoner."
McKay was led to his side.
"What is the meaning of that?" asked the officer haughtily, speaking
in French, as he pointed to a cloud of dust in the distant plain.
"How can I tell you?" replied McKay, shortly: but in his own mind he
was certain that this was the contemplated extension of the French and
Sardinian lines towards the Tchernaya. For a moment his heart beat
high with the hope that this movement might help him to escape.
"You know, you rogue! Tell me, or it will be the worse for you."
"I don't know," replied McKay stoutly; "and if I did I should not tell
you."
"Dirty spy! You would have sold us for a price, do the same now by the
others.
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