Part 5 (1/2)

The priest held up his hands in mock horror. He was small and rather shrunken. His nose was hooked and his scant hair white. He had seen a good deal of trouble in his day; was in Siberia for five years in his youth for defending his church against a sotnia of Cossacks in 1864, and owed his misshapen ears to frostbite which he got on the terrible journey, made on foot in those days. But these things were a memory, and life was peaceful enough now.

”No, my child,” he said. ”Think of the packages. By the way, where's the _baba_? Zosia! where did you put the _baba_?”

”It's under the seat,” said the Countess from the steps. ”I saw her put it there. You'd better let Ianek go with you. He'll enjoy it.”

”No, no, Countess. Thank you all the same. He'd crush the bread or sit on the b.u.t.ter when we begin to b.u.mp about on the bad part of the road.

I'll get on by myself. The old horse isn't done yet. Not by a long way. G.o.d bless you all. Farewell!”

Making the sign of the cross, he wrapped the yellow dust-cloak round him. Ian gave the word to start and off he went.

The three women strolled over to the chestnuts, glad of the shade that warm morning, and Ian went to where men were busy laying out his new paddock. He gave some directions there, had gone over the stables and was waiting for his horse to be saddled for a visit to some wheat fields, reported damaged by a shower of early-morning hail, when the familiar hoot of his motor made him look up in surprise. He had given the driver orders to wait for the papers from Warsaw, and knew he could not have done it in so short a time. But surprise grew when, as the car drew nearer, he saw Father Constantine's dust-cloak. He waved to them to drive to the stables instead of round by the avenue and the house.

”What has happened?” he asked as they pulled up. ”You can't have lost the train. It's not due for an hour yet.”

”There is no train,” announced the priest. ”The Muscovites are mobilizing troops. We're cut off from everywhere. I might have saved myself the trouble of packing.”

”But there's worse than that, my lord Count,” put in Bartek, the young chauffeur, who had been born on the land and had served first as stove-tender, then as gun-cleaner before being trained as a mechanic.

”The tales they're telling at the station made my hair stand on end.”

”What tales?” asked Ian.

”Jewish lies,” snapped the priest.

Ian turned to the driver, who said:

”The Prussians have crossed the frontier and are in Kalisz.”

”Don't you believe it, Ian,” put in Father Constantine. ”The Jews will say anything to scare honest Christians.”

”And please, my lord Count,” pursued Bartek the driver, ”they are murdering men and women and children there. First they took a lot of money, gold, too, from the town, as a bribe to let the people alone.

Then when they'd got the money they went up on that hill that stands over the town. And when the people thought they were safe on account of the gold they had given to the Prussian Colonel, that very officer came down into the town again, shut the people in their houses and shot at them through the windows, like rats in a trap.”

”The Prussians so near us?” murmured Ian, looking from one to the other.

”It's incredible. What are the Russians doing? There were several regiments in Kalisz.”

”They retired before the Prussians came,” answered Bartek, who had kept his ears open at the station.

”Incredible!” echoed the priest. ”It's impossible. They wouldn't dare to do it.”

The boy produced a crumpled newspaper from one of his pockets and handed it to Ian.

”The ticket man gave it to me,” he explained. ”One of the recruits brought it in a train from Warsaw. He says it tells what the Prussians are doing in some foreign part, I forget what it's called, but it's smaller than our country, and they've ravished the maids and murdered the children and done such things that haven't been done in Poland since the Turks were here. And they say they'll do the same thing to us if they get any further.”

”You never told me you'd a paper,” cried the priest. ”What does it say, Ianek.”

And Ian read the first story of Belgium's martyrdom.

”It's some trick to sell the paper,” was Father Constantine's remark, when he had done.

”I hope so.” Ian glanced at the head of the paper. It was the _Kurjer Warszawski_, which would hardly have printed such news without reason.

He reread the account, to himself this time, whilst the old priest sat back in the car and piously called upon G.o.d to know if it were true.