"My cellar holds wine," put in the Countess. "Judging from your behavior, you have found it without our help."
She devoured him with her scornful, angry eyes, and he had the grace to look a little confused. He saluted and lowered his tone.
"I give you three minutes"--he looked at his watch--"to come down and show me where to find your supplies. If you refuse, I'll not leave one stone upon another in your cellar, but destroy it as soon as my men have removed the stores and wine. You'll be without food, for, if you persist in your obstinate refusal, I will not leave you a week's rations; and you will no longer have a refuge in case of bombardment. You will have no choice then but to leave this place."
"Never!" This from the Countess.
"As you please. We will begin the three minutes."
There was silence. He eyed his watch, the Countess looked straight before her; Ian's face was like granite, the priest's eye on the clock in the corner. He almost wished Ian would come to terms with the looter, because perhaps then they would leave enough till Ian could buy more. Then he remembered they were probably cut off from Warsaw, and therefore from grain, and changed his mind.
"Time is up." He looked at Ian.
"I repeat," he said very distinctly, though the sweat stood on his upper lip, "I repeat, once and for all, that I have no stores in my cellars."
"Then you choose to have your cellars destroyed?" growled his tormentor.
"You will find nothing but wine. If the loan of my cellar-book can shorten your visit..."