dare to lift my eyes to her even if I wished, which is certainly not the case."
Mariquita was beginning to relent. Her big eyes filled with tear, and she said in a broken voice, as though this quarrel with her lover had pained her greatly—
"Oh, oily-tongued! if only I could believe you!"
"Why, of course it's true. Surely you would not let that villain Benito make mischief between us? But, there; time is too precious to waste in silly squabbles. I can't stay long; I can't tell when I shall come again."
"Is your love beginning to cool, Stanislas? If so, we had better part before—"
"Listen, dearest," interrupted McKay; "I have good news for you," and he told her of his unexpected promotion, and of the excellent prospects it held forth.
"I am nearly certain to win a commission before very long. Now that we are going to the war—"
"The war!" Mariquita's face turned ghastly white; she put her hand upon her heart, and was on the point of falling to the ground when McKay vaulted lightly over the fence and saved her by putting his arm round her waist.
"Idiot that I was to blurt it out like that, after thinking all the week how best to break the news! Mariquita! Mariquita! speak to me, I implore you!"
But the poor child was too much overcome to reply, and he led her, dazed and half-fainting, to a little seat near the house, where, with soft caresses and endearing words, he sought to restore her to herself.
"The war!" she said, at length. "It has come, then, the terrible news that I have so dreaded. We are to part, and I shall never, never see you again."
"What nonsense, Mariquita! Be brave! Remember you are to be a soldier's wife. Be brave, I say."
"They will kill you! Oh! if they only dared, I would be revenged!"
"Bravo, my pet! that is the proper spirit. You would fight the Russians, wouldn't you?"
"I would do anything, Stanislas, to help you, to shield you from harm. Why can't I go with you? Who knows! I might save you. I, a weak, helpless girl, would be strong if you were in danger. I am ready, Stanislas, to sacrifice my life for yours."
Greatly touched by the deep devotion displayed by these sweet words, McKay bent his head and kissed her on the lips.
But at this moment the tender scene was abruptly ended by the shrill, strident tones of La Zandunga's voice.
"So I have caught you, shameless girl, philandering again with this rascally red-coat. May he die in a dog-kennel! Here, in my very house! But, I promise you, it is for the last time. Hola! Benito! Pedro! help!" and, screaming wildly, the old crone tore Mariquita from McKay's side and dragged her into the house.
The young sergeant, eager to protect his love from ill-usage, would have followed, but he was confronted by Benito, who now stood in the doorway, black and menacing, with a great two-edged Albacete knife in his hand.
"Stand back, miscreant, hated Englishman, or I will stab you to the heart."
Nothing daunted by the threat, McKay advanced boldly on Benito; with one hand he caught his would-be assailant by the throat; with the other the wrist that was lifted to strike. A few seconds more, and Benito had measured his length on the ground, while his murderous weapon had passed into the possession of McKay.
Having thus disposed of one opponent, McKay met a second, in the person of Tio Pedro, who, slower in his movements, had also come out in answer to his wife's appeal.
"Who are you that dares to intrude here?" asked Pedro, roughly. "I will complain to the town major, and have you punished for this."
"Look to yourself, rather!" replied McKay, hotly. "I stand too high to fear your threats. But you, thief and smuggler, I will bring the police upon you and your accomplice, who has just tried to murder me with his knife."
Tio Pedro turned ghastly pale at the sergeant-major's words. He had evidently no wish for a domiciliary visit, and would have been glad to be well rid of McKay.
"Let him be! Let him be!" he said, attempting to pacify Benito, who, smarting from his recent overthrow, seemed ready to renew the struggle. "Let him be! It is all a mistake. The gentleman has explained his business here, and nothing more need be said."
"Nothing more!" hissed Benito, between his teeth. "Not when he has insulted me—struck me! Nothing more! We shall have to settle accounts together, he and I. Look to yourself Señor Englishman. There is no bond that does not some day run out; no debt that is never paid."
McKay disdained to notice these threats, and, after waiting a little longer in the hope of again seeing Mariquita, he left the house.
It was his misfortune, however, not to get speech with her again before his departure. The few short days intervening before embarkation were full of anxiety for him, and incessant, almost wearisome, activity. He had made himself one moment of leisure, and visited Bombardier Lane, but without result. Mariquita was invisible, and McKay was compelled to abandon all hope of bidding his dear one good-bye.
But he was not denied one last look at the girl of his heart. As the regiment, headed by all the bands of the garrison, marched gaily down to the New Mole, where the transport-ship awaited it, an excited throng of spectators lined the way. Colonel Blythe headed his regiment, of course, and close behind him, according to regulation, marched the young sergeant-major, in brave apparel, holding his head high, proudly conscious of his honourable position. The colonel and the sergeant-major were the first men down the New Mole stairs; and as they passed McKay heard his name uttered with a half-scream.
He looked round hastily, and there saw Mariquita, with white, scared face and streaming eyes.
What could he do? It was his duty to march on unconscious, insensible to emotion. But this was more than mortal man could do. He paused, lingering irresolutely, when the colonel noticed his agitation, and quickly guessed the exact state of the case.
"'The girl I left behind me,' eh, sergeant-major? Well, fall out for a minute or two, if you like"—and, with this kindly and considerate permission, McKay took Mariquita aside to make his last adieux.
"Adios! vida mia" [good-bye, my life], he was saying, when the poor girl almost fainted in his arms.
He looked round, greatly perplexed, and happily his eye fell upon Sergeant Hyde.
"Here, Hyde," he said, "take charge of this dear girl."
"What! sergeant-major, have you been caught in the toils of one of these bright-eyed damsels? It is well we have got the route. They are dangerous cattle, these women; and, if you let them, will hang like a mill-stone round a soldier's neck."
"Pshaw! man, don't moralise. This girl is my heart's choice. Please Heaven I may return to console her for present sorrow. But I can't wait. Help me: I can trust you. See Mariquita safely back to her home, and then join us on board."
"I shall be taken up as a deserter."
"Nonsense! I will see to that with the adjutant. We do not sail for two hours at least; you will have plenty of time."
Sergeant Hyde, although unwillingly, accepted the trust, and thus met Mariquita for the first time.
CHAPTER X.
A GENERAL ACTION
A long low line of coast trending along north and south as far as the eye could reach; nearest at hand a strip of beach, smooth shingle cast up by the surf of westerly gales; next, a swelling upland, dotted with grazing cattle, snug homesteads, and stacks of hay and corn; beyond, a range of low hills, steep-faced and reddish-hued.
The Crimea! The land of promise; the great goal to which the thoughts of every man in two vast hosts had been turned for many months past. On the furze-clad common of Chobham camp, on the long voyage out, at Gallipoli, while eating out their hearts at irritating inaction; on the sweltering, malarious Bulgarian plains, fever-stricken and cholera-cursed; at Varna, waiting impatiently, almost hopelessly, for orders to sail, twenty thousand British soldiers of all ranks had longed to look upon this Crimean shore. It was here, so ran the common rumour, that the chief power of the mighty Czar was concentrated;