Part 9

"We have done with the cellar for the moment. It is no good meeting trouble half way. Cellar or no cellar, I should only be drawing his attention to her if I warned him. Men are blind till you open their eyes. And then they are mules."

Father Constantine knew her tone; it was final. So he took his leave, and ordered all the Jews in the village to keep their ears open for news of the American Relief man and report when he came to the neighborhood.

IX

It was early in December. For several days Ruvno had seen neither soldiers nor officers and received news of no kind. This had happened before. Szmul and other Jews in the village circulated the little gossip there was. After the Russians retook Kosczielna Szmul went back to his hovel, whence he had fled when the shells were whistling around, to find food and shelter for himself and his brood under Ian's roof. Then, being frightened to death, he was loud in expression of gratitude, vowing by all the vows Jews make, swearing by his progeny to the fifth and sixth generation that he would never forget how the Count had given hospitality to a poor Jewish factor. If you know much about Hebraic flowers of speech you can imagine what he said; if not, you miss nothing. Having settled himself in the village again, he picked up the gossip of both armies encamped in the neighborhood, for a Jew will get anywhere and talk to everybody, whether Teuton or Slav, man or maid. He knew that the Prussians were within a few versts of Ruvno before Ian or the Countess suspected they had crossed the river in one place, thereby cutting Ruvno off from the Russian lines and putting it at the mercy of the barbarians.

On this particular afternoon, after the _Ave Maria_, Father Constantine was locking up the chapel when Szmul hurried up. The priest knew he had tidings by the way he flapped his skinny arms. As usual he smelt horribly of herrings and garlic, and poked his dark thin face against the old man's.

"What is it?" asked Father Constantine, backing away.

"The Prussians," he answered, grinning from ear to ear, showing four yellow teeth which were all that the village barber had saved, for he suffered much from toothache.

"Coming here?"

"Yes--on this side of the river. They have crossed and fought their way through. Oh, such fine horses and such wonderful shining helmets! Each of their chargers cost a thousand roubles at least, some even..."

"Nonsense. The army pays----"

"The Russian army pays miserably," retorted Szmul with scorn. "The Kaiser's with their wonderful----"

"Hold your tongue! Now you think they are coming you pander to them and lick the dust off their boots," cried the priest, angry, not only because he knew that the Russian cavalry had then the best horses in the world, but because this news of the Prussians being over the river made him fear for the immediate future. Szmul giggled.

"Think! I _know_ they're coming. Listen!"

Father Constantine heard the tramp of horses and a squadron of cavalry swept round the bend in the avenue. They were Prussians right enough. Night was coming on apace, but the day had been fine and frosty; he could see the spikes of their helmets and the hard, red faces of the foremost men.

His heart sank; there were more than twenty of them. For weeks Ruvno had heard false alarms. Once they were so near that Ian could see their helmets through his field-glasses. But the Grand Duke beat them back every time and the household had grown to trust that tall, gray-haired Romanov to spare them a visit from their enemies.

"Who's the owner of this place?" shouted their young officer, pulling up in front of the priest. His face was arrogant and coarse, with choleric eyes.

"I don't know."

He turned to Szmul, who was sweeping the ground with his greasy fur cap, anxious to make a good impression.

"Jew! Find the owner and bring him here!"

"At once, _Herr General_! At once!" He ran off to the house as fast as his spindle legs would carry him. Whilst he was gone the subaltern hurled questions at the priest, in German. How big was Ruvno? How many inmates? Their sex? Ages? He was answered laconically and in Polish. Once or twice the Prussian looked ready to lay his whip about the bent shoulders, but refrained. Szmul was a long time gone. When he came back, he had invented a new title for the German cub.

"Excellency. The Count is in the palace. He begs your Excellency to do him the honor and step inside."

It took him a long time to say this for he was out of breath with haste and excitement. Afterwards, Father Constantine asked Ian what message he had sent; and it was: "If a _boche_ wants me he can come and find me." As you see, there was a difference; but Szmul did not stick at exaggerations when he wanted to please a powerful man.

The Prussian grumbled something about wasting time and all Poles being servants created to wait upon Teuton pleasure. But he gave a curt order to his troopers and made for the house, Szmul running by his stirrup. Judging by the way he cringed, Father Constantine sadly assessed the Prussian force around Ruvno at thirty thousand men.

The old man followed them, not that he could help Ian, but because he had a fond notion that when his dear ones were in danger they would suffer less if he kept near them. He tried to check this idea, but in vain.

Arrived at the large entry, the subaltern dismounted, clanked into the hall and looked round with the air of expecting to see Ruvno's master. But there was only Martin, the faithful butler who had nursed Ian on his knee. He led the way to his master's office. Half way there, he noticed Szmul.

"You're not wanted," he said.

"I--your old friend----"

The Teuton understood Polish right enough, for he wheeled round with:

"This man comes with me."

Szmul giggled in triumph, and Father Constantine grew suspicious. These two had met before.

They trooped into the office which stood at the end of a passage, connecting it with the back of the house in such a way that people could go in and out without passing the hall or the living-rooms. Never in his life had Szmul entered from the large hall; but his elation was not due to that. Four troopers escorted their officer and mounted guard behind him, stiff and pompous as at a review.

Ian stood in the middle of the room, a large place, lined with shelves and cupboards where accounts and reports were kept. He looked very like his mother, the priest thought, well bred, dignified, king of himself. The four troopers clinked their heels and went through the contortions common to saluting Prussians; even the surly subaltern put hand to helmet. Szmul hugged the shadow of the door. Father Constantine went beside his old pupil, that fond notion of his uppermost.

Ian returned the visitor's greeting with a bow; then he saw Szmul. "I'll send for you if I want you," he said in the dry tones he used when giving orders.

"That Jew is with me," blurted the Prussian.

Ian's gray eyes met his with such cool determination that the other shifted uneasily.

"He is my servant." This in frozen tones; then, to Szmul: "You heard me?"

Szmul looked appealingly at the officer, won no support by word or glance and slunk out. Ian's gaze returned to the Prussian.

"Your business?"

"You have food supplies stored here." This angrily, in accusation.

"I have. To feed my household and the starving peasants."

"I hear you have enough to gorge them till the end of the war. Is that so?"

"I don't know how long the war will last."

The Prussian, angry before, became infuriated at this. He stamped his foot and bellowed as if he were drilling recruits.

"You're bandying words, _Herr Graf_," he shouted. "I know you're concealing supplies. I'll have them of you, _mein Gott_, I will!"

"Your authority?"

Ian's eyes were ablaze with suppressed passion; but he controlled himself. His outward calm maddened the subaltern, who danced in his rage. Indeed, if not for the circumstances behind his visit, he would have been quite funny.

"Authority!" he bawled. "I _am_ Authority. I am the representative of victorious Prussia! My word is law in this house! Surrender your supplies or I'll burn it down!"

Ian went over to the safe, unlocked it with the key which hung by a leather strap he kept in his pocket, and swung back the heavy door.

The subaltern whipped out his revolver, strode after him and peered in. The safe was almost empty except for keys.

"Your plate?" he asked, putting his revolver close to Ian's head. And anxious though he was, Father Constantine could not help thinking the man must be a fool to imagine the safe big enough to hold Ruvno plate.

"In Warsaw." Ian lied; it was in Moscow. But Father Constantine would gladly have absolved him from murder, were his victim this subaltern.

"Whereabouts in Warsaw?"

"The Commercial Bank."

The looter turned to one of his men:

"Make a note of that," he commanded. The man obeyed, producing paper and pencil from a pocket.

"Where are your family jewels?" proceeded the subaltern.

"At the Commercial Bank." Their eyes met again. Ian's mirrored a soul too proud to lie. And yet they say that eyes cannot hide the truth.

"What are they worth?"

Ian did not answer and murder shone from the Prussian's evil face. The old priest's heart stood still. What, oh, what could he do to help? The sergeant scribbled hard, finished, licked his pencil and awaited further orders. The subaltern put his revolver a shade nearer Ian's head. Father Constantine knew he was playing to put the looters off the scent. For if he lost the jewels there would be nothing left to live upon. Ian thought of the moonlight labor on the Plock road, of Szmul's prying eyes, and feared greatly.

"What are they worth?" repeated the Prussian.

"I don't know. They have not been valued for fifty years."

"But those emeralds ... you must know what they are worth."

"They are priceless," said Father Constantine.

The man turned to him.

"Hold your tongue," he said rudely. "You weren't so ready to talk outside." Then to Ian:

"Give me the banker's receipt for the jewels and plate."

"My lawyers have them."

"Who are they? But no matter..." He laughed roughly. "Next week we shall be in Warsaw, and if I find you've been lying, you'll be shot." He withdrew his revolver. Ian gave a slight breath of relief. "Now for the food," said the Teuton.

Ian took a bunch of keys from the safe, locked it and rang the bell. Martin appeared, white as a sheet. He had heard what was going on.

"Take this officer to the store-room; open the cupboards," said his master.

"You must come," put in the looter. Ian gave him a cold look.

"My servant will show you where to find the things."

The Prussians stalked out and Martin with them. Szmul was still in the passage.

Ian did not speak till the sound of their footsteps died away. Then he made sure there were no eaves-droppers, and shut the door, his soul filled with rage, worry and mortification. For a few minutes he gave way and called the looters by names it did the old priest good to hear, for the soutane put a limit on his own language.

"If not for the women I'd have strangled him at the safe," Ian cried. "But the day may come when I'll have to shoot them, to save them from dishonor."

"Mother of God!" Father Constantine gasped. "Are they going to make Poland another Belgium?"

The thought of what his Countess and the other women in the house would have to suffer filled him with horror. To shoot her! He could not bear it. Ian tried to comfort him.

"Cheer up, Father. It hasn't come to that yet." Then angry again: "That swine Szmul has betrayed us."

"What are you going to say about the cellars?"

"Swear I've nothing more. We've no list."

"But they'll tear down the walls?"

"It'll take time. Oh, if only I could get in touch with some Russians! We should have these devils entrapped."

"There must be thousands of Germans about. Szmul knows it, or he would not have risked telling about the emeralds and stores," said the priest.

"I'll punish him when this is over," cried Ian. "After I've sheltered him, too."

Here the Countess came in. She had heard all.

"Give them everything, rather than they should shoot you," she pleaded.

"They won't shoot me, Mother, not till they've tried the Commercial Bank. Where is Minnie?"

"Up in the secret room."

"Thank God!" He looked relieved. "And now, you go there, too."

Martin came in. He was shaking with rage and fear.

"That Jewish pig has betrayed us," he cried. "They're in the cellar now."

They looked at each other in consternation. Martin turned to his mistress.

"My Lady Countess, it will be well for you to go upstairs ... they are very coarse."

"Yes, Mother, I insist."

"But perhaps I can do something----"

The question was settled by the subaltern, who stalked into the room, followed by two of his henchmen. He was afraid to go about alone. He had already found some of Ian's wine, his face was flushed, and both troopers smelt of it. He did not even salute the Countess, who glared at him in silent rage.

"Nobody to leave this room!" he bellowed. Then to Ian: "Where are your supplies?"

"It appears you have them," was the cool answer. "I hear you have already emptied my stores."

"But the cellar, dolt!" roared the Prussian. "The Jew says you have bricked up corn and potatoes to feed an army."

"My cellar holds wine," put in the Countess. "Judging from your behavior, you have found it without our help."

She devoured him with her scornful, angry eyes, and he had the grace to look a little confused. He saluted and lowered his tone.

"I give you three minutes"--he looked at his watch--"to come down and show me where to find your supplies. If you refuse, I'll not leave one stone upon another in your cellar, but destroy it as soon as my men have removed the stores and wine. You'll be without food, for, if you persist in your obstinate refusal, I will not leave you a week's rations; and you will no longer have a refuge in case of bombardment. You will have no choice then but to leave this place."

"Never!" This from the Countess.

"As you please. We will begin the three minutes."

There was silence. He eyed his watch, the Countess looked straight before her; Ian's face was like granite, the priest's eye on the clock in the corner. He almost wished Ian would come to terms with the looter, because perhaps then they would leave enough till Ian could buy more. Then he remembered they were probably cut off from Warsaw, and therefore from grain, and changed his mind.

"Time is up." He looked at Ian.

"I repeat," he said very distinctly, though the sweat stood on his upper lip, "I repeat, once and for all, that I have no stores in my cellars."

"Then you choose to have your cellars destroyed?" growled his tormentor.

"You will find nothing but wine. If the loan of my cellar-book can shorten your visit..."

The Prussian swung out of the room without waiting for more. Ian rushed to the door, shut it, hurriedly took two acetylene carriage lamps from a cupboard and demanded matches.

Knowing what he used those lamps for, Father Constantine tried to dissuade him from signaling to the Russians, for, should the Prussians catch him, his life would not be worth a handful of corn, and there were surely more foes than friends abroad that night. But he only gave a short laugh. He did not believe there were many Prussians about or they would not have sent a subaltern to seize emeralds. Such a prize as Szmul must have promised would have attracted a field-marshal at least. This, he thought, was a chance visit. Any way, better to die of a bullet than see his people die of starvation.

"If there were guns to arm a dozen men from the village, I could entrap them and hold them down in the cellar," he explained, preparing the lamps. "I thought it out when he gave me his precious three minutes. I could never manage. It's ten minutes to the village, ten to muster them, ten to bring them back. I've only six sporting rifles. They are thirty strong."

"But the tower is down," objected the priest

"There's the village church. Mother, do you go and tell Martin to follow me. Father Constantine, get me a sheepskin."

He was off in a trice. The priest told his mother it was a wild-goose chase.

"But six armed men against thirty, and only Ian a good shot," she objected. "They would be butchered. After all, they may not find the stores. I hope they will all get drunk first."

They tried to get into the cellar, to see how things went. Two Prussians guarded the head of the stairs, two stood lower down, and two at the bottom of the first flight. Ian was right. It would be madness to send six men with sporting rifles against those hardened warriors. They would not let the Countess pass. She took whispered counsel with her chaplain in the kitchen, where some frightened maids were huddled together.

"Try the other way," he suggested. "I don't suppose they know about it."

They made for the library. It was deserted. Szmul had forgotten to tell them of its small door, leading to a passage, at the bottom of which steps led down to the cellars. For generations this entrance was unused, being narrow, steep and dark as the grave. But during their sojourn underground it served as a private access for the family, whilst the refugees and household used the larger staircase.

There were two main cellars, connected by a labyrinth of narrow, vaulted passages with smaller ones. Many of these passages, however, were blind alleys, terminating in stout brick walls. Some were solid and five feet thick; others hollow, with a good brick crust on either side. In these recesses, old Hungarian wine was bricked up till some great family event justified its being drunk. In the recesses which were empty at the beginning of the war, Ian bricked up his food, taking out the wine from others and storing it in the large cellars.

Once at the bottom of the narrow steps the two had but a few yards to the part Father Constantine had fitted up as an underground chapel. To screen it off he had put a curtain across the narrow passage. The wall of a recess still supported the little altar. They hid behind the curtain. They could hear voices.

"They are in the big cellar," whispered the Countess.

"Now Jew, where is this grain? Be quick." It was the subaltern's voice.

"Oh, Excellency," began Szmul, and his voice was of honey. The Prussian cut him short.

"No nonsense--speak out."

"I was down here one day, when they all thought I had gone out for air, and I heard the Count talking to the silly old priest who----"

"Go _on_!"

"And they were in the chapel, which they have fitted up because they stood in deadly fear of the Prussian shells. And they wondered between themselves if it would not be better to break into the cellar stores in the lower part on account of the damp and use that store as rations for the peasants in the other village, not the village belonging to the Count but the peasants' village, for there are----"

There was a thud, as of hard matter against soft, and then a shrill Hebrew squeal.

"Go on!" roared the subaltern. "If you waste time I'll have you flogged."

"It's near the second big cellar," he said promptly. "I heard that."

The Countess clutched her chaplain's arm. "They'll find it," she whispered. "Oh, that traitor. And to think we put up with him and his dirty family."

"Show the way."

It did not take them long to find out which of the two blind alleys off the big cellar was hollow. The listeners heard the officer order his men to begin. Ian's bricklayers were good workmen, though, and gave them plenty to do. The subaltern swore at the thickness of the wall. At last they gave a whoop of delight.

"Potatoes," cried a voice in German. "Trust them to know a good potato when they see it.

"Take them all out, every sack. Let the Polish swine starve. I'll make that lying Count smart for this."

"Will you?" said the Countess, and so loud that the priest feared they would hear her.

There was much running to and fro as they took up their booty.

"Oh, for ten armed men," whispered the Countess. "I'd teach them to loot us."

Father Constantine begged her to keep quiet, but she went on muttering against them. After some minutes a soldier's voice reported all the potatoes upstairs, on a cart. They had taken one of Ian's.

"And the wine?"

"Three dozen bottles." Father Constantine squirmed to think of that good wine going down German throats.

"Get up the rest," ordered the subaltern. "And send me that Jew."

Szmul had been wall-tapping on his own account. He appeared breathless.

"Oh, Excellency ... there is a hollow wall just over there. And it's wider than the others."

"Lead the way." Their steps died in the distance.

"Did you hear what he said about Ian?" she asked.

"Yes. I'll run over and warn him not to come till they go."

"We have plenty of time," she said bitterly. "They have a dozen places yet. Oh, if I were a man!"

"What would you do?"

"I'd shoot him," and her voice was deadly calm.

Suddenly they heard picks behind the little altar, and sprang up in consternation. Szmul had found Ian's largest grain store.

"Let us go," she said. There was something in her voice the priest had never heard before.

They returned to the library. She shut and locked the door and without another word went to Ian's bedroom. Father Constantine followed, afraid of the look on her face. She took her boy's revolver from a table by the bed.

"What are you going to do?"

She looked him full in the face, white to the lips but her eyes blazing with the passion of protecting motherhood.

"Shoot him--before he gets Ian."

"But you're mad," cried the priest, vainly trying to wrest the weapon from her. "The troopers will avenge themselves on you and on Miss."

But she was in no mood to listen. She made sure the revolver was loaded and went to the door. Her chaplain managed to reach it first.

"You'll shoot me before you leave this room," he cried.

They stood glaring at one another and saying many bitter things--they who had been friends for half a century. Then they felt ashamed and were silent, though each was bent on victory. This lull in the quarrel was broken by the sound of horses' hoofs upon the frozen ground.

"They're off," she cried, and running to the window had opened and cleared it before the priest could get there. And in peace time she walked with a stick!

He followed her as best he could, but alas! when he reached the ground she had disappeared. The place was deserted, the night dark. He ran hither and thither looking for her, his one thought to snatch away the revolver. He remembered all the terrible things they had done to women in France and Belgium for less than killing a Prussian officer. And she was a good shot. He had seen her hit the bull'seye over and over again, in the little shooting-range behind the shrubbery.

A shot rang through the air--it came from the kitchen side. He was too late! He could no longer save her from herself! Ah, they were already on her, for he could hear hoarse German oaths and a woman's screams. Yes, that was her voice. Oh, my God, that he should come to this! They were torturing her, subjecting her to unspeakable martyrdom, wreaking vengeance for the death of their chief.

In the kitchen entry he stumbled over a Prussian helmet. Its owner lay near by, on his face ... he hurried on...

The huge room resounded with the clash of steel, women's screams, men's oaths. There was a struggling mass of humanity in the gloom. Ian, his face bleeding, was fighting for his life with a trooper. Father Constantine butted at them, to catch the German in his big paunch. But something sharp and cold hit his head and he knew no more.