Two sentries stood at the top. They unlocked the door at a sign from the corporal and let him into the turret chamber.
It was small and dirty. A straw mattress lay upon the unswept floor; and some broken food. An old packing-case served as table. A candle, thrust into the neck of an empty champagne bottle, gave a feeble light and aft air of sordid debauchery, out of keeping with the place and circumstances. The prisoner sat on one end of the packing-case, his back to the door. He was writing the last letter of his life, and so intent that he took no notice of their entrance.
The priest dismissed his guide with a nod. He saluted, went out, and shut the door noisily after him: and still the man did not turn round. This was all very well, but Father Constantine was wanted below, in the wards, where others were under sentence of death, though not at the hands of Rennenkampf.
"You asked for a priest," he began in his mother tongue, though he knew German, too.
The prisoner rose and faced him. As the old man looked upon him his heart stood still in fear and his knees shook.
"Mother of God! Joseph Skarbek!" he gasped.
And he must die as a spy!
And his own brother was to shoot him!
These thoughts rushed across his brain. They stood looking at each other, both speechless. Joseph Skarbek, whom he had taught and scolded and loved with Ian and Roman, who was to marry Vanda, had come to Ruvno, not to claim his bride, but to spy. When he found tongue it was for reproach.
"How dare you come here like this?" he cried angrily, because great fear always made him furious, and he was aghast at the tragedy which had thus fallen upon his dear ones. His next thought was that none of them, neither Roman, the Countess, Ian nor Vanda must know this hideous secret, up in the turret chamber. He must find Rennenkampf, tell him the tale, plead with him that this prisoner be shot, if die he must, by another man's orders, and not Roman's. There was no time to be lost.