The Thin Red Line; and Blue Blood Part 43

"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 a.s.sistance 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 gla.s.ses 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 a.s.sistant of the provost-marshal, some of the new Land Transport Corps, and one or two Sardinians, in their picturesque green tunics and c.o.c.ked hats with great plumes of black feathers.