A march of half-an-hour under a strong escort brought them to a large
camp. They passed through many lines of tents, and halted presently
before a smart marquee.

The Cossack officer in charge entered it, and presently returned with
the order--

"March him in!"

McKay found himself in the presence of a broadly-built, middle-aged
man, in the long grey great-coat worn by all ranks of the Russian
army, from highest to lowest, and the flat, circular-topped cap
carried also by all. There was nothing to indicate the rank of this
personage but a small silver ornament on each shoulder-strap, and
another in the centre of the cap. At a button-hole on his breast,
however, was a small parti-coloured rosette, the simple record of
orders and insignia too precious to carry in the field.

There was unbounded arrogance and contempt in his voice and manner as
he addressed the prisoner, who might have been the vilest of created
things.

"So"--he spoke in French, like most well-educated Russians of that
day, to show their aristocratic superiority--"you have dared, wretch,
to thrust yourself into the bear's mouth! You shall be hanged in
half-an-hour."

"I claim to be treated as a prisoner of war," said McKay, boldly.

"You! impudent rogue! A low camp-follower! A sneaking, skulking
spy--taken in the very act! You!"

"I am a British officer!" went on McKay, stoutly. He was not to be
browbeaten or abashed.

"Where is your uniform?"

"Here!" replied McKay, throwing open the _greggo_, which he still
wore, and showing the red waistcoat beneath, and the black breeches
with their broad red stripe.

"You said he was a civilian in Tartar disguise," said the
general,--for such was the officer's rank,--turning to one of his
staff and seeming rather staggered at McKay's announcement. He spoke
in Russian.

"Take care, Excellency; the prisoner speaks Russian."

"Is that so?" said the general to McKay. "An unusual accomplishment
that, in English officers, I expect."

"Yes, I am acquainted with Russian," said McKay. Why should he deny
it? They had heard him use that language at the time of his capture.

"How and when did you learn it?"

"I do not choose to say. What can that matter?"

Again the staff-officer interposed and whispered something in the
general's ear.

"Of course; I had forgotten." Then, turning to McKay, he went on:
"What is your name?"

"McKay."

"Your Christian names in full?"

"Stanislas Anastasius Wilders