The Playground of Satan Part 20

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 pa.s.s. 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 pa.s.sage, 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 pa.s.sages with smaller ones. Many of these pa.s.sages, 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 pa.s.sage. 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 sh.e.l.ls. 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.