"What for?"
He laughed.
"She has no need for old laces and sables, now she works on the farm," he answered.
"I shall do nothing of the sort," said Father Constantine angrily.
The Graf's face flushed; he broke into German.
"I'm master here. And I command you to take me up to the Countess' wardrobe. You'll find, if you persist in your refusal, that my men can do other things besides stacking."
And now that he was in a rage and had fallen back to his native tongue, the priest recognized him. And his own wrath grew.
"So, Graf von Senborn," he cried, "you're a true follower of the Crown Prince, your master. He loots in Belgium; you in Poland. How many Polish children have you tormented since I met you at Zoppot?"
"Ah--you're the little priest who refused to salute His Imperial Highness," he retorted, forgetting furs and laces for the moment. "It's a pity I didn't chuck you into the Baltic, I should have saved myself the trouble of having your miserable body hanged up on a tree now."
He made towards the old man, who stood firm, because he did not care if he were hanged. But he did want to speak his mind first.