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when thousands press on in rear?

Lancey sprang over the dead and was met by the points of half a dozen bayonets,—the foremost man being his deliverer with the black beard.

Grounding his rifle with a crash, and holding up his left hand, he shouted—“A friend!”

At the same moment he was thrown down and leaped over by the soldiers behind, who were stabbed by the Turks and fell on him. But Lancey staggered again to his feet, and using his superior strength to push aside and crush through those in front, he gained an empty passage before the others did, and rushed along towards a door at the end of it.

Opening the door and entering he was arrested by the sight of a beautiful Turkish girl, who stood gazing at him in horror. Before he had time to speak or act, a door at the other end of the room opened, and the Turk with the black beard entered sword in hand. The girl rushed into his arms, with a cry of joy. But this was changed into alarm as the Turk flung her off and ran at Lancey.

There was no time for explanation. The Russians were already heard coming along the passage by which he had reached the apartment. Lancey felt intuitively that a brave man would not stab him in the back. Instead of defending himself he dropped his rifle, turned, and hastily shut and bolted the door, then, turning towards the Turk, held aloft his unarmed hands. The Turk was quick to understand. He nodded, and assisted his ally to barricade the door with furniture, so that no one could force a passage for a considerable time. Then they ran to the other door, which had not yet been menaced. They were almost too late, for shouts and tramping feet were heard approaching.

Lancey caught up his rifle, stepped out of the room, shut the door, and, locking it on the Turk and his daughter, commenced to pace calmly up and down in front of it like a sentinel. Another moment and the Russians rushed up, but halted and looked surprised on beholding a sentinel there, who did not even condescend to stop in his slow measured march, or to bring his arms to the charge to stop them.

One of them advanced to the door, but Lancey grasped his waist with one hand, gently, almost remonstratively, and shook his head. As the man persisted, Lancey gave him a throw which was peculiarly Cornish in its character—he slewed his hip round under the Russian’s groin and hurled him back heels over head amongst his comrades, after which feat he resumed the sedate march of a sentinel.

By this time he had been recognised as the man who had routed a whole Turkish company, and was greeted with a laugh and a loud cheer, as the men turned away and ran to effect some other work of destruction.

“Now, my fine fellow,” said Lancey, opening the door and entering. “You’ll ’ave to defend yourself, for I’m neither a friend o’ the Turk nor the Rooshian. They’re fools, if not worse, both of ’em, in my opinion; but one good turn desarves another, so now you an’ I are quits. Adoo!”

Hurrying out of the house, Lancey picked up a Russian cap and greatcoat as he ran, and put them on, having a vague perception that they might help to prevent his being made prisoner.

He was right. At all events, in the confusion of the moment, he passed through the village, and escaped unnoticed into a neighbouring thicket, whence he succeeded in retiring altogether beyond the range of the assailed position.

Chapter Seventeen. In which some Desperate Enterprises are Undertaken.

At this time the Russians had taken up a strong position in the Balkan mountain range, and entrenched themselves within a short distance of the enemy.

After a night and a day of aimless wandering, Jacob Lancey found himself at last in a rocky defile between the hostile lines. How he got there he could not tell, but there he was, in a position of imminent danger, with the sentinels of the belligerent armies on either side of him.

Evening was setting in when he made this discovery, and recoiled, happily without having been seen, into a narrow rocky place where the fast-failing light had already deepened into gloom. A cold white fog was slowly creeping up from the valleys and covering the hill-sides.

It is in such places and circumstances that men conceive and execute designs, which, according to their nature, are deeds of recklessness or of heroism. Two such ventures were afoot that night.

In the Russian camp preparations were being made for a night attack on a village in possession of the Turks, and out of which, with a view to future movements, it was deemed necessary to drive them. In this village there dwelt a youth, an intimate friend of Dobri Petroff. The two had played with each other in childhood, had roamed about the country together in boyhood, and, when they reached man’s estate, had become faster friends than ever, being bound by the ties of intellectual as well as physical sympathy. When this friend, Petko Borronow, left Yenilik at the death of his mother, it was to take charge of the little farm in the Balkan mountains,—the desolate home where his sister Giuana, an invalid, and a beautiful girl, was now left in solitude.

In his capacity of scout, Petroff was always in the neighbourhood of headquarters, and was frequently summoned to the tent of the general commanding, to be interrogated. Thus he chanced to overhear occasional remarks and hints which, when pieced together by his intelligent mind, showed him pretty clearly what was pending.

He sat by the camp-fire that night, buried in meditation, with a series of troubled wrinkles on a brow that was usually open and unclouded. Many a time did he light his pipe and forget to smoke it, and relight it, and again let it die out, until his comrades were impressed by his absence of mind. Well did the scout know by that time the certain fate of a village which was to be fought for by contending armies. To warn his friend Borronow in time to remove his sister from the doomed village became to the scout a duty which must be performed at all hazards, but how to do this without deserting his post, and appearing to go over to the enemy, was the difficulty.

“Something troubles you,” said his young friend André Vanovitch, who had for some time sat smoking quietly at his side, gazing into the fire, and thinking, no doubt, of the girl with the auburn hair, far away in the land of the Muscove.

“Yes, I’m troubled about friends,” was the scout’s laconic answer.

“Oh! they’re all right, you may be sure, now that our fellows have crossed the Danube in such force,” said André, supposing that the other referred to his family.

“Perhaps!” returned Petroff, and relapsed into silence.

Suddenly it occurred to him that he had overheard some expression among the officers around the General of a desire to know more particularly about the disposition of the Turkish force, and the suggestion that a spy should be sent out. His brow cleared at once; with almost a triumphant look on his countenance, he turned sharply to André, and seized his arm.

“Well, Dobri,” said the latter, with a smile and look of surprise, “I have had perfect faith in the strength of your grip without requiring positive proof.”

“Listen,” said the scout earnestly. “I have a job to do, and a risk to run.”

“That is obvious to every one in the division,” returned André, with a touch of the smile still curling his young moustache.

“Ay, but I mean a private job, and a great risk—the risk of being shot as a traitor or a spy, and I want you, André, to clear my character with the Russians if it fares ill with me.”

Petroff’s unwonted energy of action and earnestness of look and tone produced their effect on the young dragoon. He listened intently while his friend told him of his intended plan.

“But why go into the enemy’s lines without permission?” objected André. “Why risk being thought a deserter when you have only to go and ask leave? It seems to me they would be only too glad to accept your services as a spy.”

“I’m not certain that they would accept them,” replied the scout, with a return of the perplexed look; “and if they chanced to refuse leave, my case would be hopeless, because I could not and would not dare to act in opposition to positive orders; whereas, if I go off without leave, I shall only be blamed for undertaking a foolish or reckless act; that is, if I return in safety. If I don’t return at all, it won’t matter what is said or done, but I should count on you, André, explaining that I did not desert.”

“But,” returned André, “if you merely go to warn and save your friends, I think the General won’t think much of your spying.”

“You do me injustice, lad,” said Petroff quietly. “I shall enter the enemy’s lines as a real spy. I will visit every point of his position, ascertain the number of his troops, count his guns, and bring in such information as will make the General wink, I hope, at my having acted without orders. It would please me better to go with permission, but I cannot allow the lives of my friends to hang upon the chance humour of a Russian general. You must remember, André, that I am not a Russian soldier, and may therefore take upon me to exercise a little more personal liberty than you can. Why, you know,” continued the scout, with a touch of humour in his glance, as he rose and made some preliminary preparations, “I might refuse to lead you Russians, or might lead you to your destruction.”

“You would be shot if you did,” returned the dragoon quietly.

“And what if I am willing to be shot in a good cause? I should be no greater hero than every man in your armies. But now, André, one more shake of your hand. We may never meet again, and I won’t part without saying I’ve taken a fancy to you.”

“God knows I can truly say the same to you,” cried André, leaping up with enthusiasm, and seizing the scout’s hand with a grasp as powerful as his own.

“And don’t be angry,” added Petroff, in a gentle tone, as he tightened his belt, “if I again urge you to keep the locket always in remembrance. You’re not likely ever to forget the auburn hair, but you may, lad, you may, for there is no perfection in this world, and soldiering is a dangerous life.”

André smiled half-contemptuously. He felt that the advice was needless. Petroff also smiled kindly, for he knew that it might be needful.

Neither of these men was very deeply impressed with the fact that keeping before the mental eye the Maker of the “auburn hair,” and of all other blessed human influences, was a better and safer refuge. But what matter? Does not our Creator in all His dealings make use of means? Does He not lead us step by step from a lower to a higher level? There are no ready-made human angels in this life, male or female, with full-grown wings to bear them over the troubles of earth to a state of sudden sanctification. We are in a rebel world, and, when lifted from the pit by a Saviour’s hand, the steps by which the Spirit of God leads us upwards are numerous as well as varied, including sometimes—I write without irreverence—such footholds as “auburn hair.”

Disguised as a Bulgarian rustic, Dobri Petroff left the Russian camp, passed the outposts, and, under cover of the fog, gained the neutral ground between the two armies.

Of course the sentries on both sides were numerous as well as vigilant—especially so on such a

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