“That is why I am here—and that is why I am going back, my friend,” said the Pole.
He was a stout man, nearing forty, with dark eyes and a straggly red moustache and beard already grizzled. His grey suit was stained with wear; on his jacket a spike of thread showing where a button was missing. He wore an old black felt hat stuck far back on his head, revealing signs of baldness above an intellectual forehead.
Triona laughed. “Was there ever a Pole who was not a conspirator?”
“Say rather, was there ever a Pole who did not love his country more than his life?”
“Yes. I must say, you Poles are patriotic,” said Triona.
Boronowski’s dark eyes flashed, and seizing his companion’s arm, he hurried him along the encumbered pavement.
“Why do you Englishmen who have lately died and bled in millions for your country, always have a little laugh, a little sneer, at patriotism? To listen to you, one would think you cared nothing for your country’s welfare.”
“We’ve been so sure of it, you see.”
“But we Poles have not. For two centuries we have not had a country. For two centuries we have dreamed of it, and now we have got it at last, and our blood sings in our veins, and we have no other interest on earth. And just as we are beginning to realize the wonder of it, we find ourselves enmeshed in German intrigue, with our promised way to the sea blocked, with the Powers saying: ‘No Ukraine, no Galicia,’ and with the Russian Red Army attacking us. Ah, no. We are not so assured of our country’s welfare that we can afford to depreciate patriotism.”
“What are you doing here in England?” asked Triona.