The officer turned to Ian.
"You're to blame for this."
"I know nothing about it."
"Do you know what we do to people who hide the enemy?" von Senborn pursued. "We shoot them."
"He knows nothing about it," put in one of the Cossacks, and got a kick for his pains.
"Nothing," said Ian. Was this the last moment of his life? He spoke up; but his words were of no avail.
"Oh, please listen to me," cried Vanda, in agony. "He knows nothing about it. We have been harvesting since six in the morning ... away over there." She pointed towards the south. "Everybody says the Cossacks left at eleven."
"Nobody knew of our hiding but our ataman," said another Cossack. "Shoot us you can. But the Count is innocent."
They did not even trouble to kick this one, who protested and defended Ian in vain. Ian defended himself, too, but he felt all along how useless his words were. What was about to happen to him had happened thousands of times since last July. He remembered Zosia's sister in Kalisz. Father Constantine felt his poor old head swimming with the agony of the thought. Nothing more terrible than this could have occurred. He, too, saw that von Senborn had made up his mind.
"You were found near the Cossacks," the latter argued. "You're guilty." Then he turned to Vanda: "Go into the house. Keep the Countess there and away from the windows. When I've shot him I'll tell her myself."