“You have derived your information from the Vienna New Free Press, is it not so?”
“It may be, I do not know exactly. The new German Empire, in its fear of God and love of morality, acts very prudently in expelling these diabolical Jesuits.”
“But suppose these diabolical Jesuits come to Russia?”
“Oh! we are not afraid of them; we will send them to Siberia!”
“Here comes the Jesuit,” said Rasumowski, when he heard the clattering sound made by the guards’ sabres.
Deep silence reigned in the dining-room. All sat with their eyes intently fixed upon the door. In the hall were heard heavy, weary steps, as though an aged or sick man was moving forward with great difficulty. Then a hand appeared, grasping the side of the door, and finally the Jesuit father, a tall, thin man, very much bent, and leaning on a cane.
“Come in, quick!” cried out Rasumowski roughly.
F. Indura staggered into the room. The door was closed after him.
Those who were present gazed in silence at the suffering priest, who could hardly stand on his feet, and who leaned exhausted against the wall. Although still young, the incredible hardships that he had undergone of fatigue as well as of hunger and thirst seemed to have entirely destroyed the bodily strength of the Jesuit. His face was deathly pale, and the hand which held his wide-brimmed hat trembled from excessive weakness. His black habit was covered with dust, as if he had been driven like a prisoner on the highway. Upon his breast there hung an honorable sign of distinction, bestowed by the new German Empire—the iron cross. After having saluted those present, this victim of modern humanity and liberal justice silently awaited the command of the Russian governor.
“Your name is Indura, and you come from Kosow?” commenced the governor.