Part 29 (2/2)

”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.

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