ed 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 mai