"But, my dear child, think of the risks," said her hostess, by no means unwilling, but anxious to give her a fair chance of escaping from such a dangerous place.

Here Father Constantine chimed in. His bird-like eyes saw a great deal and he shuddered at the thought of Ian's marrying a heretic. He had often wondered of late when those two brothers of hers were coming to take her away. And here was a good opportunity to get rid of her at once.

"You cannot stay here, Mademoiselle." He spoke French, not trusting his halting English in so important a matter. "The Germans will be exceedingly cruel to the English. I know how they hate you. I have been in Germany many times, for my rheumatism. If they find you here in Ruvno they will be capable of doing unspeakable things to you and bad things to us, for having you here." He turned to the Countess, nursing his bundle of sausages, a shriveled, eager figure in his linen dust-cloak and his air of the family confidant and confessor. "Madame, think of the responsibility. Imagine your terrible remorse if anything happened to Mademoiselle."

"The same things might just as well happen to me if I left this minute,"

protested Minnie, determined to fight for her cause. "The steamer might be captured by the Germans, England might be invaded. Of course, I hope it won't, but my brothers say the government have never bothered to prepare for this. I may not even be able to reach home. Father Constantine could not get to his cure at that place with the unp.r.o.nounceable name. And it's lots nearer than England."

"That's true," agreed the Countess, who knew all about her chaplain's dread of heretics. Besides, she was loth to lose Minnie. Apart from her affection for the girl and her reluctance to send her off on a long journey, dark with unknown perils, she thought of Ian. Supposing they were burned out of house and home, as seemed more than likely, it would be a comfort to her to know that he could settle in England with Minnie to look after him till, one vague day, the Germans were beaten. She told herself that she would never survive the ruin of her home. It was almost as great a part of her existence as Ian himself. No: she did not want to part with Minnie; Minnie would look after him when she was no more. She smiled across at Father Constantine.

"You see," she said, "we can always send her away when danger is really near. In the meantime, let us wait till the trains are running again."

Here Ian intervened. He had been questioning the Jew about Kalisz, without getting any clear statements from his poor, muddled brain.

"We can't let Minnie run such risks. It's bad enough for us Poles, who live in a country which is always a charnel house when war comes. But why should she get mixed up in it?"

Minnie's heart sank. He was so very matter of fact. But she would not give in.

"Why? For lots of reasons. I'd be all alone if I did reach home. You know the boys will be fighting."

"England hasn't declared war yet," said Father Constantine, handing his sausages over to Zosia. He had just remembered they were in his lap.

"She may remain neutral."

"She won't!" cried Minnie hotly. "If that were possible I'd change my nationality!"

Father Constantine made a hopeless little gesture and let Zosia help him off with his execrable dust-cloak, watching the Countess furtively the while. He felt very much ashamed of having neglected to remove it in the hall. It was not only a breach of good manners, but a sign of his extreme agitation.

"Take it away at once!" he whispered to poor Zosia. She went off with it and the sausages, to weep on the ample bosom of old Barysia, Ian's long-since-pensioned nurse.

Thinking she had settled the priest, Minnie turned to her host.

"If you go away to fight with the Russians I mean to look after the Countess--and don't imagine I'm going to leave Poland and my Polish friends just because you're all in trouble!"

This touched them all, even the priest. The Countess was won over before, but Ian still meant to get her away that evening. Vanda would stop with his mother. The only feeling he had for Minnie just then was fear her brothers would blame him for keeping her.

The matter was partially settled by a couple of young Russians, whom a servant announced as waiting for Ian in the library. He hurried out to see them and did not return for some time. The others eagerly asked his news.

"It's true about Kalisz," he said. "But the Russians are sending troops up there as fast as they can. Incidentally, they are requisitioning all the cars and most of my horses."

"Cars! Then no Warsaw for me to-night," said Minnie.

Ian gave her an odd look. She rather annoyed him that morning, he knew not why.

"No," he retorted. "And you don't seem to wonder how I'm going to get in the crops if all my men are called to the colors and my cattle are taken off."

"Oh, I didn't think of that," she said, repentant.

"Well, I must get back. Mother, we'll have to have these two young Russians to lunch. They're not very presentable ... but it's war-time."

He hurried put, leaving Minnie in contrition. She had ruffled him when she wanted to please him above all things. Father Constantine could not believe his ears. Social intercourse between Russians and Poles was exceedingly restricted. A few tufthunters and the descendants of those men who had winked at Russia's share in Poland's three part.i.tions kept up a certain amount of relationship with the Russian Government; went to the official receptions given by the Governor General of Warsaw, who was also Commander of the troops stationed in Poland. Whilst in office he was lodged at the Royal Palace in Warsaw, once the winter home of Poland's kings. But these were the very few, as few were the members of old Polish families who had charges at the Imperial Court of Russia.

The vast majority of Poles, rich and poor, aristocratic and humble, lived their lives apart from the Russian Bureaucrats in their midst, who fattened on the country, reaping a harvest in peculation, drawing extra pay whilst there, on the lying legend that they carried their lives in their hands and slept with revolvers under their pillows for fear Polish insurgents should murder them in the night. They knew perfectly well that the Poles had long since ceased to dream of independence won by rebellion; that they had learned the lessons of eighteen sixty-three and four. But they made alarming reports to St. Petersburg to enhance the value of their own services. The Poles knew that, at least for the time being, their one way of resisting Russification was to develop the agricultural and commercial resources of their country as much as possible, despite their conqueror's efforts; to preserve their native customs in spite of persecution; to teach their native language despite restriction and to cling to their national faith despite persecution from the Holy Synod and the indifference of Rome, who looked with dread upon Russia and dared not protest. But since the Russians in their midst were there to suppress all signs of their national life, the Poles shunned intercourse with them as much as possible; those who did not were marked men. Ruvno had never shown the least inclination to mix with Russians. Both Ian and his father before him declined a charge at the Imperial Court; it was an unwritten law in the family, as in so many others, that whilst the men had to learn a little Russian in order to transact necessary business, the women must not know a word. This rule has done more to preserve the Polish language in humble homes and in great than anything else.

So you can understand Father Constantine's surprise when he heard Ian say that two Muscovites, as they are generally called in Poland, were to sit at his patron's table. n.o.body had fought harder, in his modest way, against the Russification of his country than the old priest. He was apt to see but Russian faults, just as the Russians had eyes only for Polish shortcomings. Had such a thing happened a week ago he would have expressed his displeasure at the sudden crumbling up of Ruvno traditions and excused himself from the meal. But he thought things over for a minute and remarked to the silent room:

"Well, the Russians are fighting on the right side _this_ time."

In his tone and the gesture of his thin hands were much eloquence, and a hint that he had wiped his account against Russia off the slate; that the sufferings of Siberian exile were to rankle no more. From that day forth they never heard him say a hard word against Russians, never caught him speaking of them as Muscovites, a term of hatred and contempt, but as Russians, children of the big land of Rus, fighting in a big struggle for the good cause of humanity.

The Countess said nothing for a moment. She had always avoided Russians, knew nothing of their language, treated those whom evil chance threw in her way with dignified civility, which was meant to make them feel that they were barbarians and she of an old civilization. But she was ready to call Russia an acquaintance, a possible friend in the near future, if they only kept their word to fight the Prussians who were killing defenseless women and children in Kalisz and Belgium. Ian had described the two visitors as "not very presentable." She knew what he meant. She had seen dozens of Russian officers who were not presentable, in the streets of Warsaw and Plock; at the races, at restaurants, in trains. They were noisy and none too clean; they spoke nothing but Russian and probably put their knives in their mouths. They would smell of pitch. She never quite understood why Russians of this type smelt of pitch, but the fact remained. Ian said it was something to do with the tanning of their shoe-leather. Perhaps it was. Anyway, it was not quite the kind of smell she cared to have at her table or in her sitting-room. And yes, they would expect some of the strong, raw vodka which peasants drink. However, she had always been ready to take a sporting chance on the sudden events of life, and said cheerfully:

"I expect we shall have more of them before the war is over. So the sooner you and I pick up a few Russian words, Vanda, the better for us."

Vanda did not answer. She was thinking of Joseph, who had gone to fight with the race that had violated Belgium and slaughtered the children of Kalisz.

Minnie only nodded. Her thoughts were for Ian. She felt she had said too much that morning and was regretting it.

IV

No need to dwell upon Ian's efforts to enlist as a volunteer in the Tsar's army. Thousands and thousands of loyal Britons were being snubbed by their own government in the same way just then. Briton's rulers had even less excuse for their behavior than Russia, who at least had a large standing army to draw upon.

Russia needed no men, he was told. Perhaps, after many years, she would call on men over thirty to help her. But then, the war would be over in a few months. After being refused by the officer in charge of the military depot at Kutno, he went to Warsaw, hoping to find Roman, who knew a few Russians and might help him. But he learned at the Hotel Europe that the impetuous young man had left for St. Petersburg several days ago and omitted to say when he was coming back. Ian soon found out that his only chance of fighting would be with the Cossacks, to whom they were sending volunteers for the cavalry. To those whom he begged for admission he pointed out that he could ride straight and shoot straight, was sound as a nut and willing to do anything. One grizzled old Cossack colonel, reared on mare's milk, bred in the saddle, with not a spare ounce of flesh on his bones, gave his ample figure a keen and contemptuous glance.

"To the devil with riding gentlemen squires!" were his words, spoken in that strange Russian of the Don; but his tone said: "To the devil with all Poles!" He repeated his glance and asked:

"Can you ride without your saddle now?"

"I can."

"And without your bridle?"

"Yes."

The gruff warrior sought his eyes, which firmly met the gaze and with hostility, too; none have hated one another more bitterly for centuries than Pole and Cossack.

"And spring on the mare's back when she's galloping?"

"I've not done that lately," admitted the squire.

"H'm. I thought not from your belly. You can shoot, you say. Bears, perhaps?"

"Bears, yes. And quail on the wing. And wild fowl at dawn. And men, too, when they insult me," retorted Ian, his temper fast slipping out of control.

The Cossack grinned. This sort of talk he liked. He had wondered whether the Pole would give as good as he got. His manner thawed slightly, as he said: