The Playground of Satan Part 9

"Well, there's nothing new there. Be quick and tell your news if you have any, for we're off to the house."

"Out there, by the fish-pond, they've caught a spy," he said importantly. "He refuses to say who he is. He was caught cutting wires, and burning the toes of Jewish children."

"He may have been cutting wires but he wasn't burning Jewish children's toes," said Father Constantine sternly. "The Prussians have sins enough on their heads without you inventing more. You know as well as I do that there are no children, Jew or Catholic, within two versts of those fish-ponds."

"But," he protested, "they have caught a spy, and if he wasn't roasting the toes of Jewish children it's only because he hadn't the chance. I saw him being taken into the big house, and they say His Excellency General Rennenkampf is going to shoot him with his own hands to-morrow morning. He'd be shot now, only they hope to find out more about the enemy if they keep him a bit."

"Rennenkampf won't shoot him, but I hope to," said Roman as they pa.s.sed on.

He and the priest parted outside the gates, one to vespers, the other to seek the Countess and Ian. Father Constantine excused himself from the Countess' table that evening; he preferred to eat in his room when Great Russians were in the house. Besides, he had much to do and knew the General liked to sit over his meals. On his way to the Countess'

boudoir, which was used as an office in connection with the little hospital, he met Roman again.

"That Jew was right, Father," he threw over his shoulder. "The spy is here, and my men are to have the shooting of him to-morrow at daybreak."

Father Constantine had a busy hour with Ian's agent, a surgeon and some refugees who came in from a village ten versts off. All these people now walked in and out of the Countess' boudoir, once a sacred spot, as if it were a mill. He and the agent had disposed of the last fugitive and he was going up to the wards when a Russian corporal blundered in.

"What do you want in here?" he asked sharply. It annoyed him to see these louts use his patroness' room as a pa.s.sage.

He said something in Russian; Father Constantine had made a point, all his life, not to speak that language, but he understood that an officer upstairs had asked for a priest.

"Tell him I'll see him to-morrow."

The man saluted, grinned and said:

"He will be dead to-morrow."

Then the priest remembered the spy they had caught: it was he. The wards would have to wait. He sent a message up to Vanda and told the soldier to take him to the condemned man.

They made their way through the broad pa.s.sages and landings which were blocked with wounded waiting for treatment, and up a winding stair which led to the turret. It was silent as the tomb till they disturbed an owl and some rats, and almost as dark. Father Constantine had not been up there since Ian was a boy and kept pets which could not stop outside in the winter. He remembered one winter when Roman and Joseph kept a young dog fox up there in the hopes of taming it. But it was never even friendly and when the first signs of spring came through the c.h.i.n.ks of its prison, it gnawed the staple from its chain and made off into the fields. He felt glad that this Prussian prisoner would not get away so easily.

Two sentries stood at the top. They unlocked the door at a sign from the corporal and let him into the turret chamber.

It was small and dirty. A straw mattress lay upon the unswept floor; and some broken food. An old packing-case served as table. A candle, thrust into the neck of an empty champagne bottle, gave a feeble light and aft air of sordid debauchery, out of keeping with the place and circ.u.mstances. The prisoner sat on one end of the packing-case, his back to the door. He was writing the last letter of his life, and so intent that he took no notice of their entrance.

The priest dismissed his guide with a nod. He saluted, went out, and shut the door noisily after him: and still the man did not turn round.

This was all very well, but Father Constantine was wanted below, in the wards, where others were under sentence of death, though not at the hands of Rennenkampf.

"You asked for a priest," he began in his mother tongue, though he knew German, too.

The prisoner rose and faced him. As the old man looked upon him his heart stood still in fear and his knees shook.

"Mother of G.o.d! Joseph Skarbek!" he gasped.

And he must die as a spy!

And his own brother was to shoot him!

These thoughts rushed across his brain. They stood looking at each other, both speechless. Joseph Skarbek, whom he had taught and scolded and loved with Ian and Roman, who was to marry Vanda, had come to Ruvno, not to claim his bride, but to spy. When he found tongue it was for reproach.

"How dare you come here like this?" he cried angrily, because great fear always made him furious, and he was aghast at the tragedy which had thus fallen upon his dear ones. His next thought was that none of them, neither Roman, the Countess, Ian nor Vanda must know this hideous secret, up in the turret chamber. He must find Rennenkampf, tell him the tale, plead with him that this prisoner be shot, if die he must, by another man's orders, and not Roman's. There was no time to be lost.

"Wait," he said. "I'll be back soon."

Joseph grasped his arm as he made for the door, and he saw how haggard his face was and how wild his eyes. Calm, self-contained Joseph had vanished; he was the incarnation of tragedy.

"For the love of G.o.d don't tell them," he muttered huskily.

"I'm not mad."

"Then where are you going?"

"To the chapel--for the Sacred Vessels."

He hastily prayed G.o.d to forgive him for using His Vessels to hide the truth; but could not tell the boy the real reason for his sudden departure. Outside, he had to explain to the sentries, who said they supposed it would be all right, only he must bring a permit if he wanted to go into the room again.

It took him some time to find an officer, who said that Rennenkampf had left Ruvno half an hour ago.

"But somebody must be in charge," he said, for the place swarmed with troops.

"I am," he snapped. He was a hard-faced, battered-looking man, hated the Poles and believed every Catholic priest a Jesuit, bent on his neighbor's destruction for the benefit of his Order. Father Constantine stated his case, after he had promised to respect the confidence. He yawned through most of the story; but when he heard that Roman Skarbek had been ordered to shoot his own brother, his narrow eyes flashed with rage.

"A Pole has no business to fight against us!" he cried.

"Colonel, there are several million Poles in Germany and Austria not through any fault of..."

He stamped his feet.

"Don't argue, priest! I won't have it. This Polish Count could have blown his brains out when they told him to fight us--and spy on us.

I'll make an example of him. Eh, G.o.d, I will!"

"You gave me your word of honor to respect my secret," said the other, looking into the depths of his narrow eyes till he had to drop them. He thought for a moment.

"True," he growled. "I did give you my honorable word. But I will not cancel General Rennenkampf's order. This young volunteer will take his men out to shoot his traitor brother. It will be a lesson to him, and to all Poles."

And all eloquence was without avail, though Father Constantine pleaded earnestly with him. But war had turned this already hard man into adamant.

"No and no, and yet once more no!" he said with a calm that was worse than his rage. He even grumbled at a request for a pa.s.s to show the two guards; but gave it at last.

As the priest left he met the Countess and she kept him some time. Then he had to go to the chapel. As he felt his way up the turret stairs, determined to stop with Joseph till the end, he heard steps behind.

Somebody was coming up with an electric torch; he waited, rather than bruise his shins in the dark.

"Who's there?" His heart sank; it was Roman's voice.

"Go back!" he ordered. "I forbid you to come up here."

But he came up, put his arm around the old man and helped him up the stairs. "I know all," he said.

"All about what?"--this hoping against hope that Roman meant something else.