The Playground of Satan Part 29

"... And church bells," put in Father Constantine.

"I wanted," said the youth earnestly, "G.o.d knows I wanted to leave Ruvno, where we have had so much kindness, as we found it. But the orders are explicit. We are not to leave any metal at all--which may serve the Prussians."

"It seems to me that between our friends and foes we shall have nothing left but the bare ground," she said.

But she protested no more. What was the good? She and the Father watched them pack up all the rest of the pots and pans in rueful silence. Before starting the young officer approached her again, his cap in hand, his long, s.h.a.ggy locks all loose and dangling in his eyes.

"My Lady Countess," he said earnestly, "won't you please come with us?

I have a spare horse or two and will see you don't put foot to soil till we reach Sohaczer. The Germans will not treat you well. We can pick up your son and the young ladies on our way."

"It seems to me that you have left nothing for the Germans to take," she remarked, but not angrily this time. There comes a point where civilians, in the war zone, cease to protest. It is not so much dumb despair, as a knowledge that their words are vain when the "military"

come along. They are but spectators of their own ruin.

"Russia is wide," he said simply. "I am a wealthy Cossack at home. If you will come with us I'll see that you reach my farm in safety. My old mother will look after you, and you'll lack nothing, till the war is over."

This touched her. She answered warmly:

"Ah--that is good of you--but I cannot leave my land. Thank you all the same."

He waited a moment after this, saw she meant what she said, and pressed her no more, but wished them both good-bye and good luck, kissing her hand and saluting the priest.

"I am sorry you won't come," he said, mounting his horse. "The Germans won't be good to you."

And he left them reluctantly, followed by his men. The Countess laughed at the odd figures they cut, with her bells and saucepans tied to their saddles; but there were tears in her eyes all the same. When they were out of sight she and the Father returned to their work in the farmyard.

They were still there, two hours later, when Martin came running into the barn.

"My lady," he panted, more from emotion than fatigue; "the Prussian brutes are here. One of their officers, who gives his name as Graf von Senborn, wants to speak to my Lord the Count."

"The Count is in the fields. Tell this officer I will see him. Bring him here," said the Countess.

She had on a cotton ap.r.o.n and a kerchief such as peasant women wear.

She and the priest looked at one another with uneasiness; they had hoped against hope that the Prussians would keep off till their crops were in a safe place; they had hoped that the invaders would not care to put up at Ruvno, almost denuded of wine and as desolate as could be after nearly a year's war, comforting themselves with the thought that there were places, nearer Warsaw, likely to attract them better. The clank of spurs sounded on the stones; a moment later an officer, whose face was vaguely familiar to the priest, swaggered into the huge barn. Some girls were working at the far end, and stopped to look at him. He saluted and said:

"Where are the Cossacks?"

"They left an hour ago," said Father Constantine, racking his brains to remember where they had met before.

"Is that so?" he asked the Countess.

"Yes. They took the chapel bells and the copper things out of my kitchen. For the rest, you can search the place."

He eyed her with a certain interest. I suppose he had never seen a grand lady stacking before, except, perhaps, for the fun of it. And she was not very quick at the work, for even stacking is hard to learn when you are no longer young. He looked lean, hard, well-bred; a very different type from the man who so nearly carried off their stores last winter. He spoke French fluently, though with true German gutturalness.

The others went on with their work.

"That is hard work, _Madame_," he said after a bit.

"These are hard times, _Monsieur_," she returned gravely. "The war has left us little but our health and our determination to make the best of things."

"I always heard that Polish ladies have high courage," he went on, with a stiff Teutonic bow. "And now I see it for myself."

"Courage is one of the few things war does not destroy," put in the priest.

The Prussian gave him a glance, as if he were trying to think where they had met before. His face was a worry to the Father. Where, oh where had he seen the man?

"_Madame_," he resumed, when he had stared at Father Constantine a second time. "Allow me to put some of my men to this stacking. They are rough peasants and will get it done in no time."

She hesitated, then accepted his offer, which the priest was glad of.

She had been working hard since the early morning, and looked very tired. He called some troopers and set them to work with short, dry words of command, which they obeyed with alacrity. Then he went with the Countess and her chaplain into the house, asking all sorts of questions about it. Of course he had heard of Ruvno and its now ruined glories.

And when the Countess left them to rest, he questioned Father Constantine about the plate, jewels, and especially the emeralds. The priest answered him as best he could, and they gradually lapsed into silence. He sat in one of Ian's easy chairs smoking a cigar. Suddenly he got up and said:

"Take me to the Countess' wardrobe."

Father Constantine stared at him in amazement. Hitherto his manners had been such an improvement on those of preceding Prussians that he could scarce believe his ears.

"Do you hear? To her wardrobe," he repeated, with a shade of sternness.

"What for?"

He laughed.

"She has no need for old laces and sables, now she works on the farm,"

he answered.

"I shall do nothing of the sort," said Father Constantine angrily.

The Graf's face flushed; he broke into German.

"I'm master here. And I command you to take me up to the Countess'

wardrobe. You'll find, if you persist in your refusal, that my men can do other things besides stacking."

And now that he was in a rage and had fallen back to his native tongue, the priest recognized him. And his own wrath grew.

"So, Graf von Senborn," he cried, "you're a true follower of the Crown Prince, your master. He loots in Belgium; you in Poland. How many Polish children have you tormented since I met you at Zoppot?"

"Ah--you're the little priest who refused to salute His Imperial Highness," he retorted, forgetting furs and laces for the moment. "It's a pity I didn't chuck you into the Baltic, I should have saved myself the trouble of having your miserable body hanged up on a tree now."

He made towards the old man, who stood firm, because he did not care if he were hanged. But he did want to speak his mind first.

"I wish your evil-faced Crown Prince were here, too," he said, as fast as he could, lest the Prussian strike him down before he spoke his mind.

"I'll tell that son of the Anti-Christ what none of his sycophants dare speak of----"

"Some of your Polish plots again?"

"No plots, but the vengeance of the Almighty. h.e.l.l-fires await him and his friends for all the deviltries you----"

Strong hands were round the thin throat; Father Constantine felt his last moment had come. But there arose a great noise and shouting outside. Von Senborn threw down his victim, as you would cast off a cat whose claws have been cut, and rushed into the garden. He suspected treachery. Father Constantine picked himself up and followed. There were things he wanted to tell him yet, things which had lain heavy on his soul for many a long day.

He was in the garden, surrounded by bawling troopers, who were very excited. Four of them held two Cossacks. Two of them held Ian. Vanda was there, too; she rushed up to the priest; she was in tears.