"Yes." He touched his Cossack's clothes. "I am on the other side." And it seemed to the priest that this impulsive and turbulent young man had put Poland's greatest sorrow into those few simple words--brother fighting against brother, flesh against flesh, not of free will, but because a wicked old cynic called Frederick and an ambitious German wanton who usurped the Russian throne divided Poland between them more than a century ago.
"On the other side," repeated Joseph bitterly. He, too, was suffering.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked, showing them a square of dirty white doth sewn on to the front of his tunic.
"No."
"The Prussian way of branding Polish conscripts. Easier to shoot us if we try to desert."
"Such is the way of Prussians," said Father Constantine. They stood there looking at one another as though they were three strangers at a loss for something to say. Father Constantine put the Sacred Vessels on the floor and waited. Joseph, he reflected, had all night in which to make his peace with God, Who understands these tribulations, and why they are laid upon us. As for himself, he felt very old and of small account by the side of these stalwart boys, each worth ten of a worn-out priest too infirm to fight, and fit only to watch the young and the stalwart die before their time. Joseph spoke first; his thoughts still ran upon Vanda.
"You'll be able to marry her now," he remarked hoarsely. "Make her happy."
"I'll do my best," said Roman.
At the time Father Constantine knew not what he meant, for years dull the mind as well as the eye. He looked so peaceful despite the overhanging sorrow, that he began to wonder if the boy thought the prize of winning Vanda was worth all this.
Joseph took up his sheet of paper and tried to dry the ink at the candle flame. The priest noticed there was a fresh wound on his wrist.