The Playground of Satan Part 30

"Oh, Father, they've arrested him ... and he knows nothing about it."

"About what?"

"These Cossacks. They were hiding in one of the lofts. They had matches. He says"--she indicated von Senborn--"they were going to burn the troopers as they slept."

"Found any more?" von Senborn asked some men who came up now.

"Not one."

The officer turned to Ian.

"You're to blame for this."

"I know nothing about it."

"Do you know what we do to people who hide the enemy?" von Senborn pursued. "We shoot them."

"He knows nothing about it," put in one of the Cossacks, and got a kick for his pains.

"Nothing," said Ian. Was this the last moment of his life? He spoke up; but his words were of no avail.

"Oh, please listen to me," cried Vanda, in agony. "He knows nothing about it. We have been harvesting since six in the morning ... away over there." She pointed towards the south. "Everybody says the Cossacks left at eleven."

"n.o.body knew of our hiding but our ataman," said another Cossack.

"Shoot us you can. But the Count is innocent."

They did not even trouble to kick this one, who protested and defended Ian in vain. Ian defended himself, too, but he felt all along how useless his words were. What was about to happen to him had happened thousands of times since last July. He remembered Zosia's sister in Kalisz. Father Constantine felt his poor old head swimming with the agony of the thought. Nothing more terrible than this could have occurred. He, too, saw that von Senborn had made up his mind.

"You were found near the Cossacks," the latter argued. "You're guilty."

Then he turned to Vanda: "Go into the house. Keep the Countess there and away from the windows. When I've shot him I'll tell her myself."

"I hid them! Shoot me!" cried Vanda, throwing herself at his feet "For the love of G.o.d, spare him. He went out at six. The Cossacks left at eleven. How could he know? Take me instead! He is wanted more than I!"

"Vanda! Vanda!" cried Ian, struggling to get away from those who held him. "Don't believe her!" he cried to von Senborn. "She's as innocent as I am. If you must shoot somebody, shoot me."

Von Senborn looked from one to the other; but his face did not soften.

"You're wasting time," he said to her. "Go into the house."

She went up to Ian. They gazed at each other, reading the secret each had guarded too long. Her eyes were full of love as well as misery; his face, under its sunburn, was white as hers.

"Can nothing be done?" she wailed.

"Go to Mother. Don't let her see."

As her eyes lingered on his face his heart ached; many bitter thoughts and feelings rose within his soul. He wrenched an arm from one of his captors.

"Leave me!" he ordered. "I'll not run away."

At a sign from their officer the two troopers loosened their hold and stepped back a couple of paces, leaving the cousins together. They said little; for at such moments human lips have not much to say. Hearts are too full of words; words too poor to be heart's mouthpiece. He knew now, when it was too late, that she loved him, that she had always loved him, that Joseph was but an incident, mostly of his making; that he loved her, that the happiest hours of their joint lives had been spent together in his old home, in his large, cool forests, by the frozen river, under the broad grayness of a northern sky; over the crisp snow and flower-decked meadows; on his sleek, fleet horses, in his swift-running sleighs, whose bells made jangled music in the frosted air; in every season of G.o.d's good year, in every phase of his pleasant, long-dead life, he and she had been all in all, she the key to his happiness, the gate to that earthly paradise which he had shunned till Joseph closed it to him. And he, in his blindness and procrastination, learnt about it too late.

"Oh--what we have lost!" he murmured, locking her in a long embrace.

"Ian--Ian--my darling!" she sobbed.

This was all; and in broken words, choked with sobs.

The faithful old priest gently separated them at last, for he saw von Senborn was going to do it. He took her to the long window which led into the Countess' favorite room. She was crying bitterly, but without sobs, forcing them down lest she make it yet harder for Ian.

They bandaged his eyes. He refused at first; but the sight of that landscape, familiar in its desolation, dear to him yet, was more than he could bear. Oh, to leave life thus, when others were dying like men!

And how dear was life, despite ruin and war and uncertainty! How many things he had meant to do; how much more happiness he might have had before this cataclysm fell upon them! Then thought turned to his mother.

"I must speak to my chaplain," he said in the firm voice of a man accustomed to obedience.

"You dare not murder him without shrift," he heard the priest say. He had left Vanda in the house and was returning hurriedly. A moment later his thin, shaking hand was on Ian's arm.

"Three minutes," said von Senborn's voice, impatient now. "Make the most of your time."

Hastily, the priest gave his quondam pupil what comfort he could. Then Ian whispered:

"Take the women away at once. You may yet reach Warsaw. Then with Mother to Rome. The Cardinal is all she'll have left but Vanda. Don't forget the jewels."

"Yes, yes. Courage, my boy. Don't worry for us."

"I have that, thank G.o.d. Good-bye, Father. Get away at once. All of you."

Von Senborn came up, saying:

"You must leave him now, Father."

Catching a shade of regret in his voice, Father Constantine pleaded for his dear patron's life, using all the eloquence and arguments he had.

Not unkindly, the Prussian pushed him aside.

"Can't you see you're making it harder for him?" he cried. Then he called up his men, who ranged in front of their victim. Father Constantine said prayers for the pa.s.sing of that beloved soul across the gulf that leads into eternity. Ian listened for his death-order, his back to the wall, determined to show these Prussians he could meet a dog's death like a man.

"Ready!" von Senborn's voice rang out.

"Oh, Mother!" shouted Ian. And this is not strange, because when life is going, a man's thoughts and heart turn to her who gave it him.

The men pointed their muskets. Von Senborn's mouth was open to give the word of command that was to send Ian to the unseen world when his name was called loudly, a few yards away.

"Von Senborn! Quick! Quick!"

With a gesture of annoyance he turned round. The men still pointed their arms; but they did not shoot. Ian, expecting that every leaden-footed second would bring the fatal word, whose nerves were strained almost beyond endurance, thanked G.o.d for Prussian discipline.

He heard footsteps, and hope arose in his heart. Perhaps the Russians were back again. Father Constantine, through his tears, saw another Prussian officer hurrying towards them.

"I've captured a _sotnia_ of Cossacks ... and a ton of copper," he cried, his voice full of life and triumph. Then he saw Ian.