the risk."

"An obstinate fellow, truly!" said the general, half to himself. "What
do you call yourself?"

Then followed a conversation very similar to that which had taken
place at Tchorgoun.

"I, too, knew your father," said the general, shaking his head. "It is
a bad case; I fear you must expect the worst."

"I shall meet it as a soldier should," replied McKay, stoutly. "But I
shall always protest, even with my dying breath, that I have been
foully and shamefully used. I appeal to you, a Russian officer of
high rank, of whose name I am ignorant--"

"My name is Todleben, of the Imperial Engineers."

McKay started, and, notwithstanding the imminent peril of his
position, looked with interest upon the man who was known, even in the
British lines, as the heart and soul of the defence.

"I appeal to you, sir," he pleaded, "as a general officer, a man of
high honour and known integrity, to protect me from outrage."

"I can do nothing," replied Todleben, gravely, shrugging his
shoulders. "The Prince himself will decide. Take him away. I cannot
waste time with him if he is not disposed to speak. Let him be kept a
close prisoner until the Prince is ready to see him."

The general then bent his head over his plans, and took no further
notice of McKay.

Our hero was again marched into the yard, made to remount, re-bound,
and led off towards the principal part of the town. They now skirted
the ridge of the Karabel suburb, and began to descend. Half way down
they came upon a series of excavations in the side of the hill. These
were old caves that had been enlarged and strengthened with timbers
and earth. Each had its own doorway, a massive piece of palisading.
They were used as barracks, casemated, and practically safe during the
siege. Into one of these McKay was taken; it was empty; the men who
occupied it were on duty just then at the Creek Battery below. In one
corner lay a heap of straw and old blankets, filthy, and infested with
the liveliest vermin.

One of the escort pointed to this uninviting bed, and told the
prisoner he might rest himself there. McKay, weary and disconsolate,
gladly threw himself upon this loathsome couch. They might shoot him
next morning, but for the time at least he could forget all his cares
in sleep.

CHAPTER VIII.

FROM THE DEAD.

We have seen how the news of Stanislas McKay's capture by the Russians
was communicated to his uncle, Mr. Faulks.

Next day the brief teleg