The Playground of Satan Part 18

"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-gla.s.ses. 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 coa.r.s.e, 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 s.e.x? 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 t.i.tle 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 a.s.sessed 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 pa.s.sage, connecting it with the back of the house in such a way that people could go in and out without pa.s.sing 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 pa.s.sion; but he controlled himself. His outward calm maddened the subaltern, who danced in his rage. Indeed, if not for the circ.u.mstances 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?"