McKay was halted at the door or aperture, across which hung a common
yellow rug. The officers passed in, and their voices, with others,
were heard in animated discussion, which lasted some minutes; then the
one called Stoschberg came out and fetched McKay.
He found himself in an underground apartment plainly but comfortably
furnished. In the centre, under a hanging lamp, was a large table
covered with maps and plans, and at the table sat a tall, handsome
man, still in the prime of life. He was dressed in the usual long
plain great-coat of coarse drab cloth, but he had shoulder-straps of
broad gold lace, and his flat muffin cap lying in front of him was
similarly ornamented. This personage, an officer of rank evidently,
looked up sharply, and addressed McKay in French.
"What is the meaning of this movement in the Tchernaya?" he asked.
"You understand French of course? People of your trade speak all
tongues."
"I speak French," replied McKay, "but English is my native tongue. I
am a British officer--"
"I have told you of his pretensions, Excellency," interposed the
Cossack officer.
"Yes, yes! this is mere waste of time. What is the meaning of this
movement in the Tchernaya, I repeat? Tell me, and I may save your
life."
"You have no right to ask me that question, and I decline to answer
it, whatever the risk.
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