Part 30 (1/2)

”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.