They had finished and were sitting out in the ruins of the rose garden when the firing suddenly began again and so violently that Ian insisted upon the women taking to the cellar. Then he ran to the sacristy, calling to Father Constantine to keep under the broad archway leading from the chapel. He heard an answering voice, no more. He wanted to see what was happening with the Germans, so ran to the hillock, which seemed safe so far. Indeed, all the firing was on the other side, towards the village.
This new attack made fearful havoc amongst the Prussians who had taken up their quarters beyond the church. They had been making merry over the beer when it began, and though not a shell dropped within five hundred yards of the house the human target was hit so well that even to Ian's civilian eyes it was clear that the Russians knew exactly where to aim. The earth didn't shake; it rocked; beasts and men were belched up in an eruption of earth and smoke, to come down again in pieces. Those who could got away and began running towards the house; but they must have left three-fourths of their force behind, literally blown to bits.
Von Senborn, who happened to be near the house when the attack began, was saved. But Ian could not help admiring the way the surviving officers rallied their handful of men and brought them up from the village. Even as they made for the cover of trenches in the garden the shells had them. Then, either because their ammunition had run out or else because their mysterious signaler could not work in the dusk--for night was falling--there was sudden calm. Ian sighed to think what destruction the Russians could work if only they had enough guns and gun-fodder. Oh, the pity of it.
When things had quieted down, von Senborn turned to his men.
"We are going to blow up that church tower," he said, wiping the sweat from his face.
A haggard subaltern explained that they had already searched every nook and corner of tower and church several times.
"We'll blow it up," he repeated. Then he turned to Ian, every muscle of his face drawn with nervous tension, his voice hoarse as a crow's.
"Hark ye, Count. If I find that signaler I'll hold you responsible."
"As for those two Cossacks," he retorted. The Prussian muttered something inaudible and turned on his heel.
Ian followed them down to the church. It stood a little aloof from the village, nearest the house, yet almost half-way between the two. It had not suffered from the day's bombardment any more than the house. The scene of horror where the Russian shells had done their work was beyond description. Though by now fairly hardened to the abominations of war, the things Ian saw and heard through the twilight of that summer evening made him very sick. The surviving Germans were too busy looking for the signaler to worry about the wounded who howled, groaned and shouted with pain. It was a pandemonium of anguish. One man, mutilated beyond all semblance of God's image, implored him to end his misery ... as Ian stood there hesitating a trooper shot him.