“The nobles have come to great grief in Poland—that is all,” replied Martin, with a short laugh.
“And it is so sad,” said Netty, with a shake of the head; “but I am sure it will all come right some day. Do you think so? I am sure you are interested in Poland—you and your sister and your father.”
“We are supposed to be,” admitted Martin. “But no one cares for Poland now, I am afraid. The rest of the world has other things to think of, and, in England and America, Poland is forgotten now—and her history, which is the saddest history of any nation in the world.”
“But I am sure you are wrong there,” said Netty, earnestly. “I know a great number of people who are sorry for the Poles and interested in them.”
“Are you?” asked Martin, looking down at her.
“Yes,” she replied, with downcast eyes. “Come,” she said, after a pause, with a sort of effort, “we must not stand in front of this shop any longer.”
“Especially,” he said, with a laugh, as he followed her, “as it is a Russian shop. Wherever you see tea and articles of religion mixed up in a window, that is a Russian shop, and if you sympathize with Poland you will not go into it. There are, on the other hand, plenty of shops in Warsaw where they will not serve Russians. It is to those shops that you must go.”
Netty looked at him doubtfully.
“I am quite serious,” he said. “We must fight with what weapons we have.”
“Yes,” she answered, indicating the shops, “these people, but not you. You are a prince, and they cannot touch you. They would not dare to take anything from you.”