Ian said nothing. The others, too, listened in silence. There was something attractive about his frank speech and simple outlook of life. But Ian had always noticed that about the Russians. The Poles, with their old civilization, had become as complex as the French.
"I am sorry those rascals have burned you down," he resumed. "The castle was a fine thing. I often saw it from the distance. But I should have liked most of all to see the horses you bred...."
Ian and he talked horses then, and got a little in front of the others, till a muffled cry from the back recalled them. Father Constantine was on the ground.
"He fell," said Vanda. "I am afraid he has fainted."
"No, I haven't," he retorted with a shadow of his old spirit. "I'll be--well--in a moment."
The Countess was for giving him brandy, but Ostap intervened.
"Soak some into this," and he tore off a piece of his rye loaf, which they gave him. It finished their stock of brandy, but revived the priest, who was on his feet in another moment.
"I can walk now," he said bravely.
"No. I'm going to carry you," said Ian. Father Constantine made a step forward, then fainted in earnest.
"Let me look," said Vanda. "I believe his wound has opened."