"... And church bells," put in Father Constantine.
"I wanted," said the youth earnestly, "God knows I wanted to leave Ruvno, where we have had so much kindness, as we found it. But the orders are explicit. We are not to leave any metal at all--which may serve the Prussians."
"It seems to me that between our friends and foes we shall have nothing left but the bare ground," she said.
But she protested no more. What was the good? She and the Father watched them pack up all the rest of the pots and pans in rueful silence. Before starting the young officer approached her again, his cap in hand, his long, shaggy locks all loose and dangling in his eyes.
"My Lady Countess," he said earnestly, "won't you please come with us? I have a spare horse or two and will see you don't put foot to soil till we reach Sohaczer. The Germans will not treat you well. We can pick up your son and the young ladies on our way."
"It seems to me that you have left nothing for the Germans to take," she remarked, but not angrily this time. There comes a point where civilians, in the war zone, cease to protest. It is not so much dumb despair, as a knowledge that their words are vain when the "military" come along. They are but spectators of their own ruin.
"Russia is wide," he said simply. "I am a wealthy Cossack at home. If you will come with us I'll see that you reach my farm in safety. My old mother will look after you, and you'll lack nothing, till the war is over."
This touched her. She answered warmly:
"Ah--that is good of you--but I cannot leave my land. Thank you all the same."
He waited a moment after this, saw she meant what she said, and pressed her no more, but wished them both good-bye and good luck, kissing her hand and saluting the priest.