'I thought to have seen some of the sport,' muttered the horseman, who was a well-built soldier-like fellow, with a heavy moustache, and though clad in a coarse and warm tweed suit, wore a handsome Indian helmet secured by a gilt chain under his firm and resolute-looking chin; 'and now I have only arrived in time to be in at the death--the death of thousands, no doubt!' he added with a sigh; 'I wonder which way the day has gone, and who has won--Slav or Turk--not that it matters very much to me. A three-days' battle! Pray God that _he_ may have escaped in them!' In the moonlight he reached the entrance to the camp at Deligrad; but there, and over all the ground that lay between it and the two wayside hospitals above which the white flags with red crosses were always flying, there were crowds of wounded and dying men, whose moans, cries, and supplications loaded the air, and made the heart of the stranger sicken. At the entrance to the camp the word _Stoe!_ (halt!) was shouted in his ear, and he was stopped by the guard which was under arms, and allowing only ambulance waggons and men in uniform to pass--and the stranger had neither the parole nor counter-sign. 'Are you in the service of Prince Milano?' asked the officer commanding, in French. 'No.' 'You are a traveller, then?' 'Yes--monsieur--every man travels, nowadays,' replied the other, tossing away his cigar. He then inquired anxiously for the head-quarters or where-abouts of General Tchernaieff and his staff; but no one could say whether the gallant old Muscovite had, or had not yet left the heights of Djunis. 'Have you come from Belgrade?' asked the Servian officer, raising his voice, for the number and cries of the wounded were increasing every moment. 'Yes--monsieur--on the spur.' 'Then, perhaps you have despatches from the King.' 'What king?' 'The devil! here is a fellow who never heard of the King of Servia--Milano Obrenovitch!' 'A spy!' said several voices, in Servian and German. 'Spy, be hanged!' exclaimed the stranger. 'We have taken one already, and hanged he shall be on the morrow---the rascal Guebhard!' said the Servian captain, exultingly. 'I know nothing about all this--I have my passports, which show that I am an officer in her Britannic Majesty's service.' 'Bravo! can I serve you?' asked a wounded officer, who was limping past, supported by a soldier. 'Thank God, here is a fellow who speaks English!' exclaimed the stranger to Stanley, for the wounded man was the latter, come down from the heights with a ball in his leg. 'And you wish to see the general?' 'I wish rather to see one who is, or was, on his staff--Cecil Falconer, a brother officer of mine. Allow me to introduce myself--Captain Fotheringhame, of the 26th Foot!' For he it was--brave, honest, and friendly Leslie Fotheringhame, who had obtained leave, and come all the way to Servia in search of his absent comrade.