e McKay was in the river, up to his knees, a position not
particularly comfortable. Besides, valuable time was being wasted--the
night was not too long for what he had to do. Hastily regaining the
bank, he rejoined the guide where he lay, and kicked him till he stood
erect.

"You old scoundrel!" cried McKay, putting his revolver to his head.
"Come on! do you understand? Come on, or you are a dead man!"

The gesture was threatening, not that McKay had any thought of firing.
He knew a pistol-shot would raise a general alarm. Still the old man,
although trembling in every limb, would not move.

"Come on!" repeated McKay, and with the idea of dragging him forward
he seized him fiercely by the beard.

To his intense surprise, it came off in his hand.

"Cursed Englishman!" cried a voice with which he was perfectly
familiar, and in Spanish. "You are at my mercy now. You dare not fire;
your life is forfeited. The enemy is all around you. I have betrayed
you into their hands."

"Benito! Can it be possible?" But McKay did not suffer his
astonishment to interfere with his just revenge.

"On your knees, dog! Say your prayers. I will shoot you first,
whatever happens to me."

"You are too late!" cried Benito, wrenching himself from his grasp,
and whistling shrilly as he ran away.

McKay fired three shots at him in succession, one of which must have
told, for the scoundrel gave a great yell of pain.

The next instant McKay was surrounded by a mob of Cossacks and quickly
made prisoner.

They had evidently been waiting for him, and the whole enterprise was
a piece of premeditated treachery, as boldly executed as it had been
craftily planned.

McKay's captors having searched his pockets with the nimbleness of
London thieves, and deprived him of money, watch, and all his
possessions, proceeded to handle him very roughly. He had fought and
struggled desperately, but was easily overpowered. They were twenty to
one, and their wild blood was aroused by his resistance. He was
beaten, badly mauled, and thrown to the ground, where a number of them
held him hand and foot, whilst others produced ropes to bind him fast.
The brutal indignities to which he was subjected made McKay wild with
rage. He addressed them in their own language, protesting vainly
against such shameful ill-usage.

"Hounds! Miscreants! Sons of burnt mothers! Do you dare to treat an
English officer thus? Take me before your superior. Is there no one
here in au