Kitabı oku: «The Thin Red Line; and Blue Blood», sayfa 13
CHAPTER XXII.
MR. HOBSON CALLS
The Arcadia went direct from Gibraltar to Southampton, where Mrs. Wilders left it and returned to London.
It was necessary for her to review her position and look things in the face. Her circumstances were undoubtedly straitened since her husband's death. She had her pension as the widow of a general officer—but this was a mere pittance at best—and the interest of the small private fortune settled, at the time of the marriage, on her and her children, should she have any. Her income from both these sources amounted to barely £300 a year—far too meagre an amount according to her present ideas, burdened as she was, moreover, with the care and education of a child.
But how was she to increase it? The reversion of the great Wilders estates still eluded her grasp; they might never come her way, whatever lengths she might go to secure them.
"Lord Essendine ought to do something for me," she told herself, as soon as she was settled in town. "It was not fair to keep the existence of this hateful young man secret; my boy suffers by it, poor little orphan! Surely I can make a good case of this to his lordship; and, after all, the child comes next."
She wrote accordingly to the family lawyers, Messrs. Burt and Benham, asking for an interview, and within a day or two saw the senior partner, Mr. Burt.
He was blandly sympathetic, but distant.
"Allow me to offer my deep condolence, madam; but as this is, I presume, a business visit, may I ask—"
"I am left in great distress. I wish to appeal to Lord Essendine."
"On what grounds?"
"My infant son is the next heir."
"Nay; surely you know—there is another before him?"
"Before my boy! Who? What can you mean? Impossible! I have never heard a syllable of this. I shall contest it."
It suited her to deny all knowledge, thinking it strengthened her position.
"That would be quite useless. The claims of the next heir are perfectly sound."
"It is sheer robbery! It is scandalous, outrageous! I will go and see Lord Essendine myself."
"Pardon me, madam; I fear that is out of the question. He is in Scotland, living in retirement. Lady Essendine's health has failed greatly under recent afflictions."
"He must and shall know how I am situated."
"You may trust me to tell him, madam, at once; and, although I have no right to pledge his lordship, I think I can safely say that he will meet you in a liberal spirit."
So it proved. Lord Essendine, after a short interval, wrote himself to Mrs. Wilders a civil, courtly letter, in which he promised her a handsome allowance, with a substantial sum in cash down to furnish a house and make herself a home.
Although still bitterly dissatisfied with her lot, she was now not only fortified against indigence, but could count on a life of comfort and ease. She established herself in a snug villa down Brompton way—a small house with a pretty garden, of the kind now fast disappearing from what was then a near suburb of the town. It was well mounted; she kept several servants, a neat brougham, and an excellent cook.
There she prepared to wait events, trusting that Russian bullet or Benito's Spanish knife might yet rid her of the one obstacle that still stood between her son and the inheritance of great wealth.
It was with a distinct annoyance, then, while leading this tranquil but luxurious life, that her man-servant brought in a card one afternoon, bearing the name of Hobson, and said, "The gentleman hopes you will be able to see him at once."
"How did you find me out?" she asked, angrily, when her visitor—the same Mr. Hobson we saw at Constantinople—was introduced.
"Ah! How do I find everything and everybody out? That's my affair—my business, I may say."
"And what do you want?" went on Mrs. Wilders, in the same key.
"First of all, to condole with you on the loss of so many near relatives. I missed you at Constantinople after Lord Lydstone's sad and dreadful death."
Mrs. Wilders shuddered in spite of herself.
"You suffer remorse?" he said, mockingly.
She made a gesture of protest.
"Sorrow, I should say. Yet you benefited greatly."
"On the contrary, not at all. Another life still intervenes."
"Another! and you knew nothing of it! Impossible!"
"It is too true. I am as far as ever from the accomplishment of my hopes."
"Who is this unknown interloper?"
"An English officer, at present serving in the Crimea. His name is McKay: Stanislas McKay."
"The name is familiar; the Christian name is suggestive. Do you know whether he is of Polish origin?"
"Yes, I have heard so. His father was once in the Russian army."
"It is the same, then. There can be no doubt of it. And you would like to see him out of the way? I might help you, perhaps."
"How? I have my own agents at work."
"He is in the Crimea, you say?"
"Yes, or will be within a few weeks."
"If we could inveigle him into the Russian lines he would be shot or hanged as a traitor. He is a Russian subject in arms against his Czar."
"It would be difficult, I fear, to get him into Russian hands."
"Some stratagem might accomplish it. You have agents at work, you say, in the Crimea?"
"They can go there."
"Put me in communication with them, and leave it all to me."
"You will place me under another onerous obligation, Hippolyte."
"No, thanks. I am about to ask a favour in return. You can help me, I think."
"Yes? Command me."
"You have many acquaintances in London; your late husband's friends were military men. I want a little information at times."
Mrs. Wilders looked at him curiously.
"Why don't you call things by their right names? You would like to employ me as a spy—is that what you mean?"
"Well, if you like to put it so, yes. I suppose I can count upon you?"
"I am sorry not to be able to oblige you, but I am afraid I must say no."
"You are growing squeamish, Cyprienne, in your old age. To think of your having scruples!"
"I despise your sneers. It does not suit me to do what you wish, that's all; it would be unsafe."
"What have you to lose?"
"All this." She waved her hand round the prettily-furnished room. "Lord Essendine has been very kind to me, and if there were any suspicions—if any rumour got about that I was employed by or for you—he would certainly withdraw the income he gives me."
Mr. Hobson laughed quietly.
"You have given yourself away, as they say in America; you have put yourself in my hands, Cyprienne. I insist now upon your doing what I wish."
"You shall not browbeat me!" She rose from her seat, with indignation in her face. "Leave me, or I will call the servants."
"I shall go straight to Lord Essendine, then, and tell him all I know. How would you like that? How about your allowance, and the protection of that great family? Don't you know, foolish woman, that you are absolutely and completely in my power?"
Mrs. Wilders made no reply. Her face was a study; many emotions struggled for mastery—fear, sullen obstinacy, and impotent rage.
"Come, be more reasonable," went on Mr. Hobson, "Our partnership is of long standing; it cannot easily be dissolved; certainly not now. After all, what is it I ask you? A few questions put adroitly to the right person, an occasional visit to some official friend; to keep your eyes and ears open, and be always on the watch. Surely, there is no great trouble, no danger, in that?"
"If you will have it so, I suppose I must agree. But where and how am I to begin?"
"I leave it all to you, my dear madam; you are much more at home in this great town than I am. I can only indicate the lines on which you should proceed."
"How shall I communicate with you?"
"Only by word of mouth. When you have anything to say, write to me—there is my address"—he pointed to his card—"Duke Street, St. James's. Write just three lines, asking me to lunch, nothing more; I shall understand."
"And about this hated McKay?"
"Let me know when he returns to the Crimea. We shall be able to hit upon a plan then. But it will require some thought, and a reckless, unscrupulous tool."
"I know the very man. He is devoted to my interests, and a bitter enemy of McKay's."
"We shall succeed then, never fear," and with these words Mr. Hobson took his leave.
CHAPTER XXIII.
WAR TO THE KNIFE
Since we left him at Gibraltar McKay had led a busy life. The "Horse Purchase" was in full swing upon the north front, where, in a short space of time, many hundreds of animals were picketed ready for shipment to the East. Having set this part of his enterprise on foot, he had proceeded to the Spanish ports on the Eastern coast and repeated the process.
Alicante was the great centre of his operations on this side, and there, by means of dealers and contractors, he speedily collected a large supply of mules. They were kept in the bull-ring and the grounds adjoining, a little way out of the town. A number of native muleteers were engaged to look after them, and McKay succeeded in giving the whole body of men and mules some sort of military organisation.
They were a rough lot, these local muleteers, the scum and riff-raff of Valencia—black-muzzled, dark-skinned mongrels, half Moors, half Spaniards, lawless, turbulent, and quarrelsome.
Fights were frequent amongst them—sanguinary struggles, in which the murderous native knife played a prominent part, and both antagonists were often stabbed and slashed to death.
The local authorities looked askance at this gathering of rascaldom, and gave them a wide berth. But McKay went fearlessly amongst his reprobate followers, administering a rough-and-ready sort of discipline, and keeping them as far as possible within bounds.
It was his custom to pay a nightly visit to his charge. He went through the lines, saw that the night-patrols were on the alert, and the rest of the men quiet.
Repeatedly the overseers next him in authority cautioned him against venturing out of the town so late.
"There are evil people about," said his head man, a worthy "scorpion," whom he had brought with him from Gibraltar. "Your worship would do better to stay at home at night."
"What have I to fear?" replied McKay, stoutly. "I have my revolver; I can take care of myself."
They evidently did not think so, for it became the rule for a couple of them to escort him back to town without his knowledge.
They followed at a little distance behind him, carrying lanterns, and keeping him always in sight.
One night McKay discovered their kind intentions, and civilly, but firmly, put an end to the practice.
Next night he was attacked on his way back to the hotel. A man rushed out on him from a dark corner, and made a blow at his breast with a knife. It missed him, although his coat was cut through.
A short encounter followed. McKay was stronger than his assailant, whom he speedily disarmed; but he was not so active. The fellow managed to slip through his fingers and run; all that McKay could do was to send three shots after him, fired quickly from his revolver, and without good aim.
"Scoundrel! he has got clear away," said McKay, as he put up his weapon. "Who was it, I wonder? Not one of my own men; and yet I seemed to know him. If I did not think he was still at Gibraltar, I should say it was that miscreant Benito. I shall have to get him hanged, or he will do for me one of these days."
The pistol-shots attracted no particular attention in this deserted, dead-alive Spanish town, and McKay got back to his hotel without challenge or inquiry.
A day or two later, as the organisation of his mule-train was now complete, and transports were already arriving to embark their four-footed freight, he returned to Gibraltar, meaning to go on to the Crimea without delay.
Of course he went to Bombardier Lane, where he was received by the old people like a favourite son.
Mariquita, blushing and diffident, was scarcely able to realise that her Stanislas was now at liberty to make love to her, openly and without question.
The time, however, for their tender intercourse was all too short. McKay expected hourly the steamer that was to take him eastward, and his heart ached at the prospect of parting. As for Mariquita, she had alternated between blithe joyousness and plaintive, despairing sorrow.
"I shall never see you again, Stanislas," she went on repeating, when the last mood was on her.
"Nonsense! I have come out harmless so far; I shall do so to the end. The Russians can't hurt me."
"But you have other enemies, dearest—pitiless, vindictive, and implacable."
"Whom do you mean? Benito?"
"You know without my telling you. He has shown his enmity, then? How? Oh, Stanislas! be on your guard against that black-hearted man."
Should he tell her of his suspicions that it was Benito who had attacked him at Alicante? No; it would only aggravate her fears. But he tried, nevertheless, to verify these suspicions without letting Mariquita know the secret.
"Is Benito at Gibraltar?" he asked, quietly,
"We have not seen him for weeks. Since—since—you know, my life!—since you came to our house he has kept away. But I heard my uncle say that he had left the Rock to buy mules. He was going, I believe, to Alicante. Did you see him there?"
"I saw many ruffians of his stamp, but I did not distinguish our friend."
"You must never let him come near you, Stanislas. Remember what I say. He is treacherous, truculent—a very fiend."
"If he comes across my path I will put my heel upon him like a toad. But let us talk of something more pleasant—of you—of our future life. Shall you like to live in England, and never see the sun?"
"You will be my sun, Stanislas."
"Then you will have to learn English."
"It will be easy enough if you teach me."
"Some day you will be a great lady—one of the greatest in London, perhaps. You'll have a grand house, carriages, magnificent dresses, diamonds—"
"I only want you," she said, as she nestled closer to his side.
It was sad that stern duty should put an end to these pretty love passages, but the moment of separation arrived inexorably, and, after a sad, passionate leave-taking, McKay tore himself away.
Mariquita for days was inconsolable. She brooded constantly in a corner, weeping silent tears, utterly absorbed in her grief. They considerately left her alone. Since she had become the affianced wife of a man of McKay's rank and position, both the termagant aunt and cross-grained uncle had treated her with unbounded respect. They would not allow her to be vexed or worried by any one, least of all by Benito, who, as soon as the English officer was out of the way, again began to haunt the house.
It was about her that they were having high words a day or two after McKay's departure.
Mariquita overheard them.
"You shall not see her, I tell you!" said La Zandunga, with shrill determination. "The sweet child is sad and sick at heart."
"She has broken mine, as you have your word to me. I shall never be happy more."
He spoke as though he was in great distress, and his grief, if false, was certainly well feigned.
"Bah!" said old Pedro. "No man ever died of unrequited love. There are as good fish in the sea."
"I wanted this one," said Benito, in deep dejection. "No matter; I am going away. There is a fine chance yonder, and I may perhaps forget her."
"Where, then?" asked the old woman.
"In the Crimea. I start to-morrow."
"Go, in Heaven's keeping," said Tio Pedro.
"And never let us see you again," added La Zandunga, whose sentiments towards Benito had undergone an entire change in the last few months.
"May I not see her to say good-bye?"
"No, you would only agitate her."
"Do not be so cruel. I implore you to let me speak to her."
"Be off!" said the old woman, angrily. "You are importunate and ill-bred."
"I will not go; I will see her first."
"Put him out, Pedro; by force, if he will not go quietly."
Tio Pedro rose rather reluctantly and advanced towards Benito.
"Hands off!" cried the young man, savagely striking at Pedro.
"What! You dare!" said the other furiously. "I am not too old to deal with such a stripling. Begone, I say, quicker than that!" and Tio Pedro pushed Benito towards the door.
There was a struggle, but it was of short duration. Within a few seconds Benito was ejected into the street.
By-and-by, when the coast was clear, and Mariquita felt safe from the intrusion of the man she loathed, she came out into the shop.
By this time the place was quiet. Tio Pedro had gone off to a neighbouring wine-shop to exaggerate his recent prowess, and La Zandunga sat alone behind the counter.
"Where is Benito? Has he gone?" asked Mariquita, nervously.
"Yes. Did he frighten my sweet bird?" said her aunt, soothing her. "He is an indecent, ill-mannered rogue, and we shall be well rid of him."
"Well rid of him? He really leaves us, then? For the Crimea?"
"You have guessed it. Yes. He thinks there is a chance of finding fortune there."
Was that his only reason? Mariquita put her hand upon her heart, which had almost ceased beating. She was sick with apprehension. Did not Benito's departure forebode evil for her lover?
Just then her eye fell upon a piece of crumpled paper lying on the floor—part of a letter, it seemed. Almost mechanically—with no special intention at least—she stooped to pick it up.
"What have you got there?" asked her aunt.
"A letter."
"It must be Benito's; he probably dropped it in the scuffle. Do you know that he dared to raise his hand against my worthy husband?"
"If it is Benito's I have no desire to touch it," said Mariquita, disdainfully.
"Throw it into the yard, then," said her aunt.
Mariquita accordingly went to the back door and out into the garden, round which she walked listlessly, once or twice, forgetting what she held in her hand.
Then she looked at it in an aimless, absent way, and began to read some of the words.
The letter was in Spanish, written in a female hand. It said—
"Wait till he goes back to the Crimea, then follow him instantly. On arrival at Balaclava go at once to the Maltese baker whose shop is at the head of the bay near Kadikoi; he will give you employment. This will explain and cover your presence in the camp. You will visit all parts of it, selling bread. You must hang about the English headquarters; he is most often there; and remember that he is the sole object of your errand. You must know at all times where he is and what he is doing.
"Further instructions will reach you through the baker in the Crimea. Obey them to the letter, and you will receive a double reward. Money to any amount shall be yours, and you will have had your revenge upon the man who has robbed you of your love."
After reading this carefully there was no doubt in Mariquita's mind that Benito's mission was directed against McKay. Her first thought was the urgency of the danger that threatened her lover; the second, an eager desire to put him on his guard. But how was she to do this? By letter? There was no time. By a trusty messenger? But whom could she send? There was no one from whom she could seek advice or assistance save the old people; and in her heart, notwithstanding their present extreme civility, she mistrusted both.
She was sorely puzzled what to do, but yet resolved to save her lover somehow, even at the risk of her own life.
CHAPTER XXIV.
AT MOTHER CHARCOAL'S
With the return of spring brighter days dawned for the British troops in the East. The worst troubles were ended; supplies of all kinds were now flowing in in great profusion; the means of transport to the front were enormously increased and improved, not only by the opportune arrival of great drafts of baggage-animals, through the exertions of men like McKay, but by the construction of a railway for goods traffic.
The chief difficulty, however, still remained unsolved: the siege still slowly dragged itself along. Sebastopol refused to fall, and, with its gallant garrison under the indomitable Todleben, still obstinately kept the Allies at bay.
The besiegers' lines were, however, slowly but surely tightening round the place. Many miles of trenches were now open and innumerable batteries had been built and armed. The struggle daily became closer and more strenuously maintained. The opposing forces—besiegers and besieged—were in constant collision. Sharpshooters interchanged shots all day long, and guns answered guns. The Russians made frequent sorties by night; and every day there were hand-to-hand conflicts for the possession of rifle-pits and the more advanced posts.
It was a dreary, disappointing season. This siege seemed interminable. No one saw the end of it. All alike—from generals to common men—were despondent and dispirited with the weariness of hope long deferred.
Why did we not attack the place? This was the burden of every song. The attack—always imminent, always postponed—was the one topic of conversation wherever soldiers met and talked together.
It was debated and discussed seriously, and from every point of view, in the council-chamber, where Lord Raglan met his colleagues and the great officers of the staff. It was the gossip round the camp-fire, where men beguiled the weary hours of trench-duty. It was tossed from mouth to mouth by thoughtless subalterns as they galloped on their Tartar ponies for a day's outing to Kamiesch, when released from sterner toil.
The attack! To-morrow—next day—some day—never! So it went on, with a wearisome, monotonous sameness that was perfectly exasperating.
"I give you Good-day, my friend. Well, you see the summer is now close at hand, and still we are on the wrong side of the wall."
The speaker was M. Anatole Belhomme, Hyde's French friend. They had met outside a drinking-booth in the hut-town of Kadikoi. Hyde was riding a pony; the other was on foot.
"Ah! my gallant Gaul, is it you?" replied Hyde. "Let's go in and jingle glasses together, hey?"
"A little tear of cognac would not be amiss," replied the Frenchman, whose excessive fondness for the fermented liquor of his country was the chief cause of his finding himself a sergeant in the Voltigeurs instead of chief cook to a Parisian restaurant or an English duke.
Hyde hitched up his pony at the door, and they entered the booth, seating themselves at one of the tables, if the two inverted wine-boxes used for the purpose deserved the name. There were other soldiers about, mostly British: a couple of sergeants of the Guards, an assistant of the provost-marshal, some of the new Land Transport Corps, and one or two Sardinians, in their picturesque green tunics and cocked hats with great plumes of black feathers.
The demand for drink was incessant and kept the attendants busy. There were only two of them: the proprietress, a dark-skinned lady, familiarly termed Mother Charcoal, and a mite of a boy whom the English customers called the "imp" and the French polisson (rogue).
Mother Charcoal was a stout but comely negress, hailing originally from Jamaica, who had come to Constantinople as stewardess in one of the transport-ships. Being of an enterprising nature, she had hastened to the seat of war and sunk all her ready-money in opening a canteen. She was soon very popular with the allied troops of every nationality and did a roaring trade.
"Some brandy—your best, my black Venus!" shouted Hyde.
"Who you call names? Me no Venus."
"Well, Mrs. Charcoal, then; that name suits your colour."
"What colour? You call me coloured? I no common nigger, let me tell you, sah; I a Georgetown lady. Me wash for officers' wives and give dignity-balls in my own home. Black Venus! Charcoal! You call me my right name. Sophimisby Cleopatra Plantagenet Sprotts: that my right name."
"Well, Mrs. S.C.P.S., I can't get my tongue round them all; fetch the brandy or send it. We will talk about your pedigree and Christian names some other time."
This chaffing colloquy had raised a general laugh and put Hyde on good terms with the company.
"What news from the front, sergeant?" asked one of the Land Transport Corps, a new comer.
"Nothing much on our side, except that they say there will be a new bombardment in a few days. But the French, were pretty busy last night, to judge from the firing."
"What was it?"
"Perhaps our friend here can tell you" and he turned to Anatole, asking the question in French.
"A glorious affair, truly!" replied the Frenchman, delighted to have an opportunity of launching out.
"I was there—I, who speak to you."
"Tell us about it," said Hyde; "I will interpret it to these gentlemen."
"The Russians, you must understand, have been forming ambuscades in front of our bastion Du Mât, which have given us infinite trouble. Last night we attacked them in three columns, 10,000 strong, and drove them out."
"Well done!"
"It was splendidly done!" went on Anatole, bombastically. "Three times the enemy tried to retake their ambuscades; three times we beat them back at the point of the bayonet, so!"
And the excitable Frenchman jumped from his seat and went through the pantomime of charging with the bayonet.
"You lost many men?"
"Thousands. What matter? we have many more to come. The Imperial Guard has landed, and the reserve, are at Constantinople."
"Yes, and there are the 'Sardines,'" said another pointing to the new uniform.
"Plenty of new arrivals. M. Soyer, the great cook, landed yesterday."
"What on earth brings him?"
"He is going to teach the troops to make omelettes and biscuit-soup."
"We were ahead of him in that, I think," said Hyde, winking at Anatole.
"He is with Miss Nightingale, you know, who has come out as head nurse."
"Heaven bless her!"
"Well, for all the new arrivals, we don't get on very fast with the siege."
"Why don't they go into the place, without all this shilly-shallying?" cried an impetuous Briton. "We'd take the place—we, the rank and file—if the generals only would let us do the work alone."
"They are a poor lot, the generals, I say."
"Halt, there! not a word against Lord Raglan," cried Hyde.
"He is so slow."
"Yes, but he is uncommon sure. Have you ever seen him in action? I have. He knows how to command: so quiet and self-possessed. Such a different man from the French generals, who always shout and swear and make such a confounded row. What do you think of your generals, Anatole?"
"Canrobert is an imbecile; he never knows his own mind."
"Well, we shan't be troubled with him much longer," said a fresh arrival. "Canrobert has just resigned the chief command."
"Impossible!" said Anatole, when the news was interpreted to him.
"It is perfectly true, I assure you," replied the last speaker. "I have just come from the English headquarters, and saw the new French commander-in-chief there. Palliser, I think they call him."
"Pélissier," said the French sergeant, correcting him. "That is good news. A rare old dog of war that. We shan't wait long to attack if he has the ordering."
"They say the Russian generals have changed lately. Gortschakoff has succeeded Mentschikoff."
"Confound those koffs! They are worse than a cold in the head."
"And just as difficult to get rid of. I'd like to wring their necks, and every Russian's at Sebastopol."
"Mentschikoff could not have been a bad fellow, anyway."
"How do you know that?"
"Why, one of our officers who was taken prisoner at Inkerman has just come back to camp. I heard him say that while he was in Sebastopol he got a letter from his young woman at home. She said she hoped he would take Mentschikoff prisoner, and send her home a button off his coat."
"Well?"
"The letter was read by the Russian authorities before they gave it him, and some one told the general what the English girl had said."
"He got mad, I suppose?"
"Not at all. He sent on the letter to its destination, with a note of his own, presenting his compliments, and regrets that he could not allow himself to be taken prisoner, but saying that he had much pleasure in inclosing the button, for transmission to England."
"A regular old brick, and no mistake! We'll drink his health."
It was drunk with full honours, after which Hyde, finding the party inclined to be rather too noisy, got up to go.
"Here!" he cried out, "some of you. What have I got to pay? Hurry up, my dusky duchess; I want to be off. Come, don't keep me waiting all day," and he struck the table impatiently with his riding-whip.
Mother Charcoal's assistant, "the imp," ran up.
"How much?"
"One dollar: four shilling," said the lad, in broken English.
"There's your money!" cried Hyde, throwing it down, "and a 'bob' for yourself. Stop!" he added. "Who and what are you? I have seen you before."
The lad, a mere boy, frail-looking and slightly built, but with a handsome, rather effeminate-looking face, tried to slink away.
"What's your name?" went on Hyde.
"Pongo," replied the boy.
"That's no real name. Smacks of the West Coast of Africa. Who gave it you?"
"Mother Charcoal."
"What's your country? What language do you talk?"
"English."
"Monstrous little of that, my boy. What's your native lingo, I mean? Greek, Turkish, Italian, Coptic—what?"
"Spanish," the boy confessed, in a low voice.
Hyde looked at him very intently for a few seconds; then, without further remark, walked out with his French friend.
But he did not do more than say good-bye outside the shanty; and, leaving his horse still hitched up near the door, he presently re-entered the canteen.
The place had emptied considerably, and he was able to take his seat again in a corner without attracting much attention. For half-an-half or more he watched this boy, who seemed to interest him so much.
"There's not a doubt of it. I must know what it means," and he beckoned the "imp" towards him.
"How did you get to the Crimea?" he asked, abruptly, speaking in excellent Spanish, when the lad, shyly and most reluctantly, came up to him. "What brings you here? I must and will know. It is very wrong. This is no place for you."
"I came to save him; he is in pressing danger," said the boy, whose large eyes were now filled with tears.
"Does he know you are in the Crimea?"
"I have been unable to find him. I lost all my money; it was stolen from me directly I landed, and, if I had not found this place with the black woman, I should have starved."
"Poor child! Alone and unprotected in this terrible place. It was sheer madness your coming."
