Produced by Catherine B. Krusberg






THE POBRATIM

A SLAV NOVEL

BY

PROF. P. JONES

LONDON

H. S. NICHOLS

3 SOHO SQUARE and 62A PICCADILLY W

MDCCCXCV

[_All Rights Reserved._]



_Printed and Published by_

H. S. NICHOLS

AT 3, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W



TO

HIS HIGHNESS

PRINCE NICHOLAS OF MONTENEGRO

THIS BOOK IS HUMBLY DEDICATED.

                     P. JONES

TRIESTE,
17_th June_, 1895.



CONTENTS

ST. JOHN'S EVE

THE BOND OF FRIENDSHIP

CHRISTMAS EVE

NEW YEAR'S DAY

DUCK SHOOTING AT NONA

THE BULLIN-MOST

SEXAGESIMA

MURDER

THE HAYDUK

PRINCE MATHIAS

MANSLAUGHTER

MARGARET OF LOPUD

STARIGRAD

THE "KARVARINA"

A COWARD'S VENGEANCE

THE VAMPIRE

THE FACE IN THE MIRROR

THE CONVENT OF ST. GEORGE

THE "KARVA TAJSTVO"

"SPERA IN DIO"

FLIGHT

THE "GIUSTIZIA DI DIO"

THE WEDDING




POBRATIM




CHAPTER I

ST. JOHN'S EVE


There was quite a bustle at Budua, because Janko Markovic and Milos
Bellacic had just come back from Cattaro that very morning, and--what
was really surprising--they were both getting shaved.

Now, it has always been a most uncommon occurrence amongst us for a
man to get shaved on a Friday.

Mind, I do not mean to say that I consider this operation as being in
any way unlucky if performed on that day. We, of course, cut our hair
during the new moon; but there is no special time for shaving.
Cutting one's nails on a Saturday brings on illnesses, as we all
know; and I, without being superstitious, can name you lots of people
who fell ill simply out of disregard to the wisdom of their elders.
Nay, I myself once suffered a dreadful toothache for having
thoughtlessly pared my nails on the last Saturday of the year.

Shaving on Saturday, however, cannot be considered as harmful
either to the body or to the soul. Still, as we all go to the
barber's once a week, on Sunday morning, it has hitherto been
regarded as part of our dominical duties.

There was, therefore, some particular reason that made these
prominent citizens shave on a Friday; could the reason be another
change in the Government?

Quite a little crowd had gathered, by ones and by twos, round the
hairdresser's shop; some were standing, others sitting, some smoking,
others eating dried melon seeds--all were gravely looking at the
barber, who was holding Bellacic by the tip of his nose and was
scraping his cheek with a razor which kept making a sharp, stridulous
noise as it cut down the crisp, wiry stubble hair of almost a week's
growth. Then the shaver left the nose, for, as a tuft of hair in a
hollow spot under the cheek-bone was renitent to the steel blade, he
poked his thumb in his customer's mouth, swelled out the sunken spot
and cleaned it beautifully. He was a real artist, who took a pride in
doing his work neatly. He then wiped the ends on his finger, cast the
soap to the ground with a jerk and a snap, then he rubbed his hand on
the head of an urchin standing by.

The barber, who was as inquisitive and as loquacious as all the
Figaros of larger towns, had tried craftily and with many an ambage
to get at the information we were all so anxious to know; but
nothing seemed to induce our clients to speak.

"I suppose," said he, with a pleasant smile, "I'll soon have new
customers to shave?"

"Yes? Who?" quoth Markovic.

"Why, your sons, Uros and Milenko."

"No, not yet; they'll not be back before some months."

All conjectures and guesses, all suppositions and surmises were at
last at an end. The barber, although he had been a long time about
it, had finished shaving Bellacic; Markovic was now sitting down with
the towel tied round his neck.

"This afternoon we start for Cettinje," said Bellacic, wiping himself.

An "Ah!" of satisfaction and expectation was followed by a moment
of breathless silence. The barber stopped soaping his client's face
and turned to look at Bellacic.

"On a diplomatic mission, of course?" he asked, in a hollow whisper.

"On a diplomatic mission."

"To the Vladika, eh?"

Everyone looked significantly at his neighbor, some twisted their
long moustaches, others instinctively lifted their hands to the hafts
of their knives. They all seemed to say: "It is what we have been
suspecting from the very beginning. Montenegro will take back Cattaro
and Budua." Thereupon every face brightened.

It was natural to surmise such a thing in those times, inasmuch as in
the course of a few years we had been shifting from hand to hand. The
French had taken us from the Venetians; then we became Russians; the
English drove the Cossacks away, and gave us over to the Austrians,
our present masters.

"Of course, nobody goes to Cettinje without doing homage to the
Vladika. Still, our mission is not to the Prince."

We all looked at Bellacic and at Markovic in blank astonishment.

"You might as well tell them," said one of the friends to the other.
"Besides, it is a thing that all the town will know in a few days."

"Well," quoth Markovic, "our mission is not a political one. We are
deputed by Radonic----"

"By Radonic?" interrupted the shaver. "But he is not in Budua."

"No, he is at Perasto with his ship. We saw him at Cattaro."

"Well?"

"And he is going to get married."

"Married?"

"But he is too old," said a youth, without thinking.

"We have only the age we look," retorted an elderly man, snappishly.

"Well, but Radonic looks old," answered the young man.

"But to whom is he going to be married?"

"To Milena."

"What! Milena Zwillievic?"

"Exactly; to the prettiest girl of Montenegro!"

Many a young face fell, more than one brow grew cloudy, and a bright
eye got dim.

"It is an impossible marriage," said someone.

"A rich husband, a horned bull," quoth another.

"But he is much older than she is."

"We marry our sons when we like, and our daughters when we can,"
added Figaro, sententiously.

"Still, how could Zwillievic consent to take for his son-in-law a
man as old as himself?"

"A hero of the _Kolo_."

"And yet Zwillievic is a man with a gold head, a wise man."

"Yes, but he has also gold hands," replied Markovic.

"He did not follow the proverb--" added Bellacic, "'Consult your
purse, then buy.' His passion for arms ruined him; debts must be
paid."

"We were once on board the same ship with Radonic," said one of the
friends; "so he asked me to be the _Stari-Svat_."

"And I," added the other, "as Zwillievic is a kinsman of mine, I
must be _voivoda_."

"Ah, poor Milena! the year will be a black one to her."

"After all, she'll henceforth be able to sit in flour."

"And we all have our Black Fridays."

By this time Markovic had been shaved, the two friends wended their
way homewards, and the crowd dispersed.

"And now," you evidently ask, "who is this Milos Bellacic and his
friend, Janko Markovic?"

Two well-to-do citizens of Budua, the last of all Austrian towns, two
_gospodje_, but, unlike most of the Buduans and the other Dalmatians,
they were real Iugo-Slavs, Illyrians of the great Serbian stock.

As children they had clung to one another on account of the
friendship that existed between their fathers; as they grew older
this feeling, of almost kinship, was strengthened by the many trials
they had to undergo in common, for Fate seemed to have spun their
lives out of the selfsame yarn. At fourteen they had left home, on a
schooner bound for distant coasts; later, they got shipwrecked, and
swam--or rather they were washed--ashore, clinging to the same plank.
Thus they suffered cold, hunger, "the whips and scorns of time"
together.

From America, where they had been cast by the waves, they worked their
way to Trieste, hoping from thence to return to their native place,
ever dear to their hearts. This ill wind, so fatal, not only to the
ship, but to the remainder of the crew, proved to be the young men's
fortune. Trieste was, at the time, in the very beginning of its
mushroom growth, before that host of adventurers had flocked thither
from every part of the world with the hopes of making money.

It is not to be wondered that, after the hard life these young men
had undergone, they understood the full strength of the Italian
proverb--"Praise the sea, but keep to the shore." Sober and
hard-working as they were, they made up their minds to try and
acquire by trade what they could hardly get by a rough seafaring
life--their daily bread and a little money for their old age.

Strongly built, they started life as porters. Like beasts of burden,
they were harnessed to a cart the whole of the long summer days, or
else they helped to unload the ships that came in port.

Having managed to scrape a little money together, they began to trade
on their own account. They imported from Dalmatia, wine, sardines,
carobs, and _castradina_, or smoked mutton; they exported cotton
goods. They got to be shareholders, and then owners, of a bark, a
_trabacolo_. The times were good; there was, as yet, little or no
competition; therefore money begot money, and, though they could
neither read nor write, still they soon found themselves the owners
of a sum of money which--to them--was unlimited wealth. Had they
remained in Trieste, they might have got to be millionaires, but
they loved their birthplace even more than they did riches.

Once again in Budua, they added a good many acres of vineyards and of
olive-trees to their paternal farms, and, from that time, they lived
there in all the contentment this world can afford. They married,
but, strange to say, they were not blessed with many children; each
of them had only one son. Janko's son was, after his friend, named
Milenko; the other infant was christened Uros.

These two children are the _pobratim_ of our story.

"But what is the meaning of this strange word?" you ask.

Have but a little patience, and it will be explained to you in due
time.

Uros and Milenko had inherited with their blood that friendship
which had bound their fathers and forefathers before them. As
children, they belonged to either mother, and they often slept
together in the same trough-like cradle scooped out of the trunk
of a tree; they ate out of the same _zdila_--the huge wooden
porringer which served the family as table dish and plates; they
drank out of the same _bukara_, or wooden bottle, for, being rich
and having vineyards of their own, wine was never wanting at their
meals.

At fourteen they, like their fathers, went off to sea, for lads must
know something of the world. Happily, however, they both came back to
Budua after a cruise of some months. Though they met with many
squalls, still they never came to any grief.

As a rule they staid away cruising about the Adriatic and the Levant
from November to the month of August; but when the harvest-time drew
nigh, they returned home, where hands were wanted to reap and garner
such fruits as the rich soil had yielded. After the vintage was over
and the olives gathered, the earth was left bare; then they set off
with the swallows, though not always for warmer climes. It was the
time when sudden gales blow fiercely, when the crested waves begin to
roll and the sea is most stormy.

A few months after that memorable Friday upon which Bellacic and
Markovic had got shaved, exciting thereby everybody's astonishment,
they themselves were surprised to see their sons return unexpectedly.
The fact was that, upon reaching Cattaro, the ship on which they had
embarked was sold and all the crew were paid off. As they did not
think it worth their while to look for another ship, they seized this
opportunity to go and spend the 24th of May at home, for St. John's
is "the maddest, merriest day of all the glad New Year." Moreover,
they were lucky, for the year before had been a plentiful one, whilst
the new crops promised, even now, to make the _pojata_ groan under
their weight; for whilst an empty and a scanty larder can afford but
a sorry welcome, a hospitable man becomes even lavish when his casks
are full of wine, his bins are heaped with corn, his jars overflow
with oil; when, added to this, there is a prospect of more.

Uros and Milenko had but just arrived home when a little boy--the
youngest son of a wealthy neighbour, whose name's day was on the
morrow--appeared on the threshold of their door, and, taking off his
little cap demurely, said, in a solemn voice:

"Yours is the house of God. My father greets you, and asks you to
come and drink a glass of wine with him. We'll chat to while away the
evening hours, and we'll not withhold from you the good things St.
John, our patron saint, has sent us."

Having recited his invitation, the little herald bowed and went off
to bear his message elsewhere.

The family, who knew that this invitation was forthcoming, set off at
once for their friend's house. Upon reaching the gate of their host's
garden, all the men fired off their pistols as a sign of joy, amongst
the shouts of "_Zivio_"; then, upon entering, they went up to the
_Starescina_, the master of the house, and wished him, in God's name,
many happy returns of the day.

A goodly crowd of people had now gathered together, all bent upon
merry-making, and a fine evening they had of it; though, according to
the old men, this was but moping compared to the festivities they had
been used to in their youth. Then, hosts and guests being jolly
together, they quite forgot that time had wings, and eight days would
sometimes pass before anybody thought of leave-taking.

On that mystic evening almost all the amusements had an allegorical or
weird character. In every game there was an attempt at divination.
Thus the first one that was played consisted in throwing a garland
amidst the branches of a tree. If it remained caught at the first
throw, the owner was to get married during the year; if not, the
number of times the wreath was tossed upwards corresponded with as
many years of patient waiting. It was considered a bad omen if the
garland came to pieces.

When Uros threw his chaplet of flowers up it came at once down again,
bringing an old wreath that the wind and the winter storms had
respected.

"Why," said the _Starescina_, turning to Milena, who had come to
witness the game, "surely it is your husband's wreath!"

"Yes, I remember," added Markovic; "last year Radonic was with us,
and his garland remained in the tree the first time he flung it up."

"Oh, Uros, fie! you'll bring Radonic ill-luck yet."

Uros turned round, and his eyes met those of Milena for the first
time. Both blushed. There were a few moments of awkward silence, and
then the young man, touching his cap, said:

"I am sorry, _gospa_, but, of course, I did not do it on purpose."

"No, surely not, and, besides, it had to come down sooner or later."

He tossed his wreath up again, but whether he felt nervous because he
had been laughed at, or because the beautiful eyes of the young
Montenegrine woman paralysed his arm, he felt himself so clumsy and
awkward that he tossed up his garland several times, but he only
succeeded to batter it as it came down again.

"Just let me try once," said Milenko to his friend, as he cast his
wreath up in the branches of the tree, where it nestled.

Uros made another attempt; down came his garland, bringing his
friend's together with it, amid the general laughter.

"Uros is like the dog in the manger," said one of the bystanders; "he
will not marry, nor does he wish other people to do so."

"Bad luck and a bad omen!" whispered an old crony to Milenko. "Beware
of your friend; nor, if I were Radonic, should I trust my pretty wife
with him. Bad luck and a bad omen!"

After garland throwing, huge bonfires were kindled, and the
surrounding mountains gleamed with many lights. It was, indeed, a
fine sight to see the high, heaven-kissing flames reflected by the
dark waters of the blue Adriatic.

But of all the bonfires in the neighbourhood, the _Starescina_'s was
the biggest, for he was one of the richest men of the town. It was
thus no easy matter to jump scathless over it. Still, young and old
did manage to do so, either when the flames--chasing one another
--leapt up to the sky, or else when the fire began to burn low. The
stillness of the night was interrupted by prolonged shouts of
"_Zivio!_" repeated again and again by the echoes of the neighbouring
mountains; but amidst the shouting of "Long life!" you could hear the
hooting of some owl scared by this unusual glimmering light, and
every now and then the shrill cry of some witch or some other ghostly
wanderer of the night, and the suppressed groaning and gnashing of
teeth of evil spirits, disappointed to think that so many sturdy lads
and winsome lassies should escape their clutches for a whole year;
for they have no power against all those who jump over these hallowed
bonfires on the eve of the mystic saint's day.

"There, did you hear?" said one of the young girls, shuddering.
Thereupon we all crossed ourselves devoutly.

"It is better not to think of them, they cannot come near us," said
the _Starescina_.

"It is not long ago that we saw three witches burnt at Zavojane. When
was it, Bellacic?"

"It was in 1823, in the month of August, on the 3rd, if I remember
rightly."

"Oh! then they were real witches?"

"Of course."

"Were they very ugly? Had they beards?"

"Oh, no! they were very much like all the other elderly women of the
place."

"And what had they done?"

"No end of mischief. One of them had eaten a child alive. Another had
taken a young man's heart out of his body whilst he was asleep. He, on
awaking--not knowing what had happened to him--felt a great void in
his chest."

"Poor fellow!" said Milena, compassionately, whilst her glances fell
on Uros, and he actually felt like the young man who had lost his
heart.

"But what was she going to do with it?"

"Why, roast and eat it."

"A friar who had witnessed the whole thing, but who had been deprived
of all power of rendering assistance, accused her of witchcraft, and
she was made to give back the heart before she had had time to devour it."

"How wonderful!"

"The third had rendered all the balls of the guns aimless, and all
weapons blunt and useless. But these are only some of the many evils
they had done."

"And you saw them burnt?"

"Yes, in the presence of the Catholic parish priest, two friars and
all the local authorities."

The bonfires were now over, and nothing but the glowing embers
remained. All then went in the house to partake of the many good
things that St. John, or his namesake, had prepared for them.

There was for supper: first, whole lambs, roasted on the spit, then
fish, _castradina_, and many other dishes, all more or less stuffed
with garlic--a condiment which never fails anywhere. It is said that
the gods, having been asked if this bulb was to rank amongst eatables,
decreed that no dish should ever remain without it; and the Slavs
have faithfully followed out their decree.

When all had eaten till they were crop full, and had drunk their
fill, they all raught after their meat as seemly as Madame Eglentine;
then, loosening their belts, they remained seated on their stools, or
squatted on the ground, chatting, punning, telling anecdotes, or
listening to the grave discourses of the old men about St. John.

"Fancy," said a deacon of a neighbouring church, "when we have fasted
for a day or two, we think we have done much. St. John, instead,
fasted for forty days and forty nights, without even taking a sip of
water."

"But why did he fast so long?"

"Because he had committed a great sin; and on account of this sin he
always walked with his head bent down. When the people said to him,
'John, why do you not lift up your head?' he always replied demurely,
'Because I am not worthy to lift up my eyes heavenwards; and I shall
only do so when an infant, that cannot yet speak, will bid me do it.'
Now, it happened that one day John met a young woman carrying a
little child, and when the infant saw John, he said: 'John, lift up
thine eyes heavenward; my Father has forgiven thee.' The saint, in
great joy, knowing that the babe was Jesus Christ, went at once home;
and with a red-hot iron he burnt the initials of the Saviour on his
side, so that he might never forget his name."

"And now let's have a story," said the host.

As Milos Bellacic was noted for his skill in relating a good story, he
was asked by everybody to tell them one of his very best tales.

Being a man who had travelled, he knew how to treat women with more
deference than the remainder of the Buduans. So turning towards his
host's wife:

"Which will you have?" said he.

"Any one you like."

"'Hussein and Ayesha'?"

"No," said some. "Yes," added the others, without waiting for the
lady of the house to have her choice.

"Then 'The Death of Fair Jurecevic's Lovers'?"

"No, that was an old story."

"Perhaps, 'The Loves of Adelin the Turk and Mary the Christian'?"

"They all knew it."

"Or, 'Marko Kraglievic and the Vila'?"

"No, leave Marko to the _guzlari_."

"Well, then, it must be 'The Story of Jella and the Macic.'"

"Oh!" said the _gospodina_, "I once heard it in my childhood, and now
I only remember its name. Still, I have always had a longing to hear
it again; therefore, do tell it."

Milos Bellacic swallowed another glass of _slivovitz_, leaving,
however, a few drops at the bottom of his glass, which he spilt on
the floor as a compliment to the _Starescina_, showing thereby that
in his house there was not only enough and to spare, but even to be
wasted. He then took a long pull at the amber mouthpiece of his long
Marasca cherry pipe, let the smoke rise quietly and curl about his
nose, and, after clearing his throat, began as follows:


THE STORY OF JELLA AND THE MACIC.

Once upon a time there lived in a village of Crivoscie an old man
and his wife; they had one fair daughter and no more. This girl was
beyond all doubt the prettiest maiden of the place. She was as
beautiful as the rising sun, or the new moon, or as a _Vila_; so
nothing more need be said about her good looks. All the young men of
the village and of the neighbouring country were madly in love with
her, though she never gave them the slightest encouragement.

Being now of a marriageable age, she was, of course, asked to every
festivity. Still, being very demure, she would not go anywhere, as
neither her father nor her mother, who were a sullen couple of
stingy, covetous old fogeys, would accompany her.

At last her parents, fearing lest she might remain an old maid, and
be a thorn rather than a comfort to them, insisted upon her being a
little more sociable, and go out of an evening like the other girls.
"Moreover, if some rich young man comes courting you, be civil to
him," said the mother. "For there are still fools who will marry a
girl for her pretty face," quoth the father. It was, therefore,
decided that the very next time some neighbours gathered together to
make merry, Jella should take part in the festivity. "For how was she
ever to find the husband of her choice if she always remained shut up
at home?" said the mother.

Soon afterwards, a feast in honour of some saint or other happened to
be given at the house of one of their wealthy neighbours, so Jella
decked herself out in her finest dress and went. She was really
beautiful that evening, for she wore a gown of white wool, all
embroidered in front with a wreath of gay flowers, then an over-dress
of the same material, the sleeves of which were likewise richly
stitched in silks of many colours. Her belt was of some costly
Byzantine stuff, all purfled with gold threads. On her head she wore
a red cap, the headgear of the young Crivosciane.

As she entered the room, all the young men flocked around her to
invite her to dance the _Kolo_ with them, and to whisper all kinds of
pretty things to her. But she, blushing, refused them all, declaring
that she would not dance, elbowed her way to a corner of the room,
where she sat down quite alone. All the young men soon came buzzing
around her, like moths round a candle, each one hoping to be
fortunate enough to become her partner. Anyhow, when the music struck
up, and the _Kolo_ began, their toes were now itching, and one by one
they slunk away, and she, to her great joy, and the still greater
joy of the other girls, was left quite by herself.

While she was looking at the evolutions of the _Kolo_, she saw a
young stranger enter the room. Although he wore the dress of the
Kotor, he evidently was from some distant part of the country. His
clothes--made out of the finest stuffs, richly braided and
embroidered in gold--were trimmed with filigree buttons and bugles.
The _pas_, or sash, he wore round his waist was of crimson silk,
woven with gold threads; the wide morocco girdle--the _pripasnjaca_
--was purfled with lovely arabesques; his princely weapons, studded
with precious stones and damaskened, were numerous and costly. His
pipe, stuck not in his girdle like his arms, but 'twixt his blue
satin waistcoat--_jacerma_--and his shirt, had the hugest amber
mouthpiece that man had ever seen; aye, the Czar himself could not
possibly have a finer pipe. What young man, seeing that pipe with its
silver mounting, adorned with coral and turquoises, could help
breaking the Tenth Commandment? He was, moreover, as handsome as a
_Macic_, aye, as winsome as Puck.

He came in the room, doffed his cap to greet the company like a
well-bred young man, then set it pertly on his head again. After
that, he went about chatting with the lads, flirting with the
lassies, as if he had long been acquainted with them, like a youth
accustomed to good company. He did not notice, however, poor Jella in
her corner. He took no part in the dances, probably because, every
Jack having found his Jill, there was nobody with whom he could
dance.

The girls all looked slily at him, and many a one wished in her heart
that she had not been so hasty in choosing her partner, nay, that she
had remained a wallflower for that night.

At last the young stranger wended his steps towards that corner where
Jella was sitting alone, moping. He no sooner caught sight of her
than he went gracefully up, and, looking at her with a merry twinkle
in his eyes, and a most mischievous smile upon his lips:

"And you, my pretty one? Don't you dance this evening?" he asked.

"I never dance, either this evening or any other."

"And why not?"

"Because there is not a single young man I care to dance with."

"Oh, Jella!" whispered the girls, "dance with him if he asks you; we
should so much like to see how he dances."

"Then it would be useless asking you to dance the _Kolo_ with me, I
suppose?"

"Oh, Jella! dance with him," whispered the young men; "it would be an
unheard-of rudeness to refuse dancing with a stranger who has no
partner."

"Even if I did not care about dancing, I should do so for the sake of
our village."

"Then you only dance with me that it might not be said: 'He was
welcomed with the sour lees of wine'?"

"I dance with you because I choose to do so."

"Thank you, pretty one."

The two thereupon began to go through the maze of the _Kolo_, and, as
he twisted her round, they both moved so gracefully, keeping time to
the music, that they looked like feathery boughs swayed by the summer
breeze.

About ten o'clock the dances came to an end, and every youth, having
gone to thank his host for the pleasant evening he had passed, went
off with his partner, laughing and chatting all the way.

"And you, my lovely one, where do you live?" asked the stranger of
Jella.

"In one of the very last houses of the village, quite at the end of
the lane."

"Will you allow me to see you home?"

"If I am not taking you out of your way."

"Even if it were, it would be a pleasure for me."

Jella blushed, not knowing what to answer to so polite a youth.

They, therefore, went off together, and in no time they reached her
house. Jella then bid the stranger good-bye, and, standing on the
door-step, she saw him disappear in the darkness of the night.

Whither had he gone? Which turning had he taken? She did not know.

A feeling of deep sadness came over her; for the first time in her
life she felt a sense of bereavement and loneliness.

Would this handsome young man come back again? She almost felt like
running after the stranger to ask him if they would meet on the
morrow, or, at least, after some days. Being a modest girl, she, of
course, could not do so; moreover, the youth had already
disappeared.

"Did you bring me any cakes?" was the mother's first question,
peevish at being awakened in her first sleep.

"Oh, no! _mati_; I never ate a crumb of a cake myself."

"And you enjoyed yourself?"

"Oh! very much so; far more than I ever thought."

Thereupon she began to relate all that had happened, and would have
made a long description of the young man who had danced with her, but
her father woke in the midst of a tough snore and bade her hold her
tongue.

On the morrow there was again a party in the village, for it was
carnival, the time of the year when good folks make merry. When night
came on, Jella went to the dance without needing to be much pressed
by her parents. She was anxious to know if the young stranger would
be there, and, also, if he would dance with her or with some other
girl.

"Remember," said her mother to her as she was going off, "do not
dance with him 'like a fly without a head'; but measure him from top
to toe, and think how lucky it would be if he, being well off, would
marry a dowerless girl like you. The whole village speaks of him, of
his weapons and his pipe; still, he might be 'like a drop of water
suspended on a leaf,' without house or home. Therefore, remember to
question him as to his land, his castle, and so forth; try and find
out if he is an only son and from where he comes, for 'Marry with
your ears and not with your eyes,' as the saying is."

"Anyhow, take this tobacco-pouch," added the old man, "and offer it to
him before he leaves you."

"Why?" asked Jella, guilelessly.

"Because it is made out of a musk-rat, and so it will be easy to
follow him whithersoever he goes, even in the darkness of the night."

Jella, being a simple kind of a girl, did not like the idea of
entrapping a young man; moreover, if she admired the stranger, it was
for his good looks and his wit rather than for his rich clothes; but
being frightened both of her father and her mother, who had never had
a kind word for her, she promised to do as she was bidden. She then
went to the party, and there everything happened as upon the
preceding evening.

The girls all waited for the handsome young man to make his
appearance, and put off accepting partners till the last moment, each
one hoping that she might be the chosen one. The hour upon which he
had come the evening before was now past, and still they all waited
in vain. The music had begun, and the young men, impatient to be up
and doing, were heavily beating time with their feet. At last the
_Kolo_ began. They had just taken their places, and all except Jella
had forgotten the stranger, when he all at once stepped into the
room, bringing with him a number of bottles of maraschino, and cakes
overflowing with honey and stuffed with pistachios.

He, as upon the evening before, went round the room, talking with the
young men and teazing the prettiest girls. Then he stepped up to
Jella, and asked her to dance with him.

The _Kolo_ at last came to an end, the boys went off with the girls,
the old folks hobbled after them, and the unknown youth, putting his
arm round his partner's waist, as if he had been engaged to her,
accompanied her home.

They soon reached her house; Jella then gave the stranger the
tobacco-pouch, and, having bid him good-night, she stood forlorn on
the door-step, to see him go off. No sooner had he turned his back,
than the father, who was holding the door ajar and listening to every
word they said, slipped out, like a weasel, and followed him by the
smell of his musk pouch.

The night was as still as it was dark, the moon had not yet risen, a
hushed silence seemed to have fallen over nature, and not the
slightest animal was heard stirring abroad.

The young fellow, after following the road for about a hundred paces,
left the highway and took a short cut across the fields. The old man
was astounded to see that, though a stranger, he was quite familiar
with the country, for he knew not only what lane to take, but also
what path to follow in the darkness of the night, almost better than
he did himself. He climbed over walls, slipped through the gaps in
the hedges, leapt over ditches, just as if it had been broad
daylight.

Jella's father had a great ado to follow him; still, he managed to
hobble along, like an ungainly, bow-legged setter, as fast as the
other one capered. They crossed a wood, where the boles of the trees
had weird and fantastic shapes, where thorny twigs clutched him by
his clothes; then they came out on a plain covered with sharp flints,
where huge scorpions lurked under every stone. Afterwards they
reached a blasted heath, where nothing grew but gnarled, knotty, and
twisted roots of trees, which, by the dusky light of the stars,
looked like huge snakes and fantastical reptiles; there, in the
clumps of rank grass, the horned vipers curled themselves. After this
they crossed a morass, amidst the croaking of the toads and the
hooting of owls, where unhallowed will-o'-the-wisps flitted around
him.

The old man was now sorely frightened; the country they were crossing
was quite unknown to him, and besides, it looked like a spot cursed
by God, and leading to a worse place still. He began to lag. What was
he to do?--go back?--he would only flounder in the mire. He crossed
himself, shut his eyes tightly, and followed the smell of the musk.
He thus walked on for some time, shivering with fear as he felt a
flapping of wings near him, and ever and anon a draught of cold air
made him lose the scent he was following.

At last he stopped, hearing a loud creaking sound, a grating
stridulous noise, like that of the rusty hinges of some heavy iron
gate which was being closed just behind him.

A gate in the midst of a morass! thought he; where the devil could
he have come to? As he uttered the ominous word of _Kudic_ he heard
the earth groan under his feet.

It is a terrible thing to hear the earth groan; it does so just
before an earthquake!

He did not dare to open his eyes; he listened, awed, and then the
faint sound of a distant bell fell upon his ears.

It was midnight, and that bell seemed to be slowly tolling--aye,
tolling for the dead, the dead that groan in the bosom of the earth.

A shiver came over him, big drops of cold sweat gathered on his
forehead. He sniffed the cold night air; it smelt earthy and damp,
the scent of musk had quite passed away.

At last he half-opened his eyes, to see if he could perceive anything
of the young stranger. The moon, rising behind a hillock, looked like
a weird eye peeping on a ghastly scene. What did he see--what were
those uncouth shapes looming in the distance, amidst the surrounding
mist?

Why was the earth newly dug at his feet, shedding a smell of clay and
mildew?

He felt his head spinning, and everything about him seemed to whirl.

What was that dark object dangling down, as from a huge gallows?

Whither was he to go?--back across the wide morass, where the earth,
soft and miry, sank under his feet, where the unhallowed lights lead
the wanderers into bottomless quagmires?

He opened his eyes widely, and began to stare around. He saw strange
shapes flit through the fog, figures darker than the fog itself rise,
mist-like, from the earth. Were they night-birds or human beings? He
could not tell.

All at once he bethought himself that they were witches and wizards,
_carovnitsi_ and _viestitche_, the _morine_ or nightmares, and all
the creatures of hell gathering together for their nightly frolic.

Fear prompted him to run off as fast as he possibly could, but huge
pits were yawning all around him; moreover, curiosity held him back,
for he would have liked to see where the damned store away their
gold; so, between these two feelings, he stood there rooted to the
earth.

At last, when fear prevailed over covetousness, he was about to flee;
he felt the ground shiver under his feet, a grave slowly opened on
the spot where he stood, for--as you surely must have understood--he
was in the very midst of a burying-ground. At midnight in a
burying-ground, when the tombs gape and give out their dead! His hair
stood on end, his blood was curdling within his veins, his very heart
stopped beating.

Can you fancy his terror in seeing a _voukoudlak_, a horrid vampire
all bloated with the blood it nightly sucks. Slowly he saw them rise
one after the other, each one looking like a drowsy man awaking from
deep slumbers. Soon they began to shake off their sluggishness, and
leap and jump and frolic around, and as the mist cleared he could see
all the other uncouth figures whirl about in a mazy dance, like
midges on a rainy day.

It was too late to run away now, for as soon as these blood-suckers
saw him, they surrounded him, capering and yelling, twisting their
boneless and leech-like bodies, grinning at him with delight, at the
thought of the good cheer awaiting them, telling him that it was by
no means a painful kind of death, and that afterwards he himself
would become a vampire and have a jolly time of it.

At the sight of these dead-and-alive kind of ghosts, the poor man
wished he had either a pentacle, a bit of consecrated candle, or
even a medal of the Virgin; but he had nothing, he was at the mercy
of the fiends; therefore, overpowered by fear, he fell down in a
fainting-fit.

That night, and the whole of the following day, Jella and her mother
waited for the old man to come back; but they waited in vain. When
the evening came on, her mother persuaded her to go to the
dancing-party and see if the young stranger would come again.

"Perhaps," said she, "he might tell you something about your father;
if not, ask no questions. Anyhow, take this ball of thread, which I
have spun myself, and on bidding him good-bye, manage to cast this
loop on one of his buttons, drop the ball on the ground, and leave
everything to me. Very likely your father has lost the scent of the
musk, and is still wandering about the country. This thread, which is
as strong as wire, is a much surer guide to go by."

Jella did as she was bid. She went to the house where the _Kolo_ was
being danced; she spent the whole evening with the young stranger,
who never said a word about her father, and when the moment of
parting on the threshold of the door arrived, she deftly fastened the
end of the thread to one of his buttons, and then stood watching him
go off.

The ball having slowly unwound itself, the old woman darted out and
caught hold of the other end of the string. Then she followed the
youth in the darkness, through thorns and thickets, through brambles
and briars, as well as her tottering legs could carry her, much in
the same way her husband had done the evening before.

That night and the day afterwards, Jella waited for her father and
mother, but neither of them returned. When evening came on, afraid of
remaining alone, she again went to dance the _Kolo_.

The evening passed very quickly, and the rustic ball came to an end.
The youth accompanied her home as he had done the evening before, and
on their way he whispered words of love in her ear, that made her
heart beat faster, and her head grow quite giddy, words that made her
forget her father and mother, and the dreaded night she was to pass
quite alone. Still, as they got in sight of the house, Jella, who was
very frightened, grew all at once quite thoughtful and gloomy. Seeing
her so sorrowful, the young stranger put again his arm round her
waist, and looking deep into her dark blue eyes, he asked her why she
was so sad.

She thereupon told him the cause of all her troubles.

"Never mind, my darling," said the youth, "come along with me."

"But," faltered Jella, hesitatingly, "do you go far?"

"No, not so very far either."

"Still, where do you go?"

"Come and see, dear."

Jella did not exactly know what to do. She fain would go with him,
and yet she was afraid of what people might say about her, and again
she shuddered at the thought of having to remain at home quite alone.

"You are not afraid to come with me," he asked; "are you?"

"Afraid? No, why should I be? you surely would take care of me?"

"Of course; why do you not come, then?"

"Because the old women might say that it is improper."

"Oh," quoth he, laughing, "only old women who have daughters of their
own to marry, say such things!"

Thereupon he offered her his arm, and off they went.

Soon leaving the village behind them, they were in the open fields,
beyond the vineyards and the orchards, in the untilled land where the
agaves shoot their gaunt stalks up towards the sky, where the air is
redolent with the scent of thyme, sage and the flowering Agnus castus
bushes; then again they went through leafy lanes of myrtle and
pomegranate-trees and meadows where orchis bloomed and sparkling
brooks were babbling in their pebbly beds.

Though they had been walking for hours, Jella did not feel in the
least tired; it seemed as if she had been borne on the wings of the
wind. Moreover, all sense of gloom and sadness was over, and she was
as blithe and as merry as she had ever been.

At last--towards dawn--they reached a dense wood, where stately oaks
and fine beech-trees formed fretted domes high up in the air. There
nightingales warbled erotic songs, and the merle's throat burst with
love; there the crickets chirped with such glee that you could hardly
help feeling how pleasant life was. The moon on its wane cast a
mellow, silvery light through the shivering leaves, whilst in the
east the sky was of the pale saffron tint of early dawn.

"Stop!" said the young girl, laying her hand on the stranger's arm.
"Do you not see there some beautiful ladies dancing under the trees,
swinging on the long pendant branches and combing the pearly drops of
dew from their black locks?"

"I see them quite well."

"They must be _Vile_?"

"I am sure they are."

"Fairies should not be seen by mortal eyes against their wish. Then
do not let us seek their wrath."

"Do not be afraid, sweet child; we are no ordinary mortals, you and
I."

"You, perhaps, are not; but as for me, I am only a poor peasant
girl."

"No, my love, you are much better than you think. Look there! the
fairies have seen you, and they are beckoning you to go to them."

"But, then, tell me first what I am."

"You are a foundling; the old man and woman with whom you lived were
not your parents. They stole you when you were an infant for your
beauty and the rich clothes you wore."

"And you, who are you, _gospod_?"

"I?" said the young man, laughing. "I am _Macic_, the merry, the
mischievous sprite. I have known you since a long time. I loved you
from the first moment I saw you, and I always hoped that, 'as like
matches with like,' you yourself might perhaps some day get to like
me and marry me. Tell me, was I right?" said he, looking at her
mischievously.

Jella told him he was a saucy fellow to speak so lightly about such a
grave subject, but then--woman-like--she added that he was not wrong.

They were forthwith welcomed by the _Vile_ with much glee, and, soon
afterwards, their wedding was celebrated with great pomp and
merriment.


"But what became of the old man and his wife?" asked an interested
listener.

"They met with the punishment their curiosity deserved. They were
found a long time afterwards locked up in an old disused
burying-ground. They were both of them quite dead, for when they
fainted at the terrible sights they saw, the vampires availed
themselves of their helplessness to suck up the little blood there
was in them."

"May St. John preserve us all from such a fate," said Milos Bellacic,
crossing himself devoutly.

The story having come to an end, toasts were drunk, songs were sung
to the accompaniment of the _guzla_, the young people flirted, their
elders talked gravely about politics and the crops, whilst the women
huddled together in a corner and chatted about household matters.

After a while, an old ladle having been brought out, lead was melted
and then thrown into a bucket of water, and the fanciful arborescent
silvery mass it formed was used as a means of divination.

Most of the girls were clever in reading those molten hieroglyphics,
but none was so versed in occult lore as an old woman, an aunt of the
_Starescina_'s, who was also skilled in the art of curing with
simples.

Uros and Milenko, therefore, begged the good old woman to foretell
them their future; and she, looking at the glittering maze, said to
them:

"See here, these two are the paths of your life; see how smoothly
they run, how they meet with the same incidents. These little needles
that rise almost at marked distances are the milestones of the road;
each one is a year. Count them, and you will see that for a length of
time nothing ruffles the course of your life. But here a catastrophe,
then both paths branch out in different directions; your lives from
then have separate ends." The two young men heaved a deep sigh.

"Anyhow, you have several years of happiness in store for you. Make
good use of your time while it is yours, for time is fleeting."

Then, as she was rather given to speak in proverbs, she said to Uros:

"Let your friend be to you even as a brother. Remember that one day,
not very far off either, you will owe your life to him."

Drinking and carousing, singing and chatting, the evening came to an
end. In the early hours the guests took leave of their host, wishing
him a long and happy life, firing their pistols, not only as a
compliment to him, but also as a means of scaring away the evil
spirits. Upon reaching their houses, they bathed and washed with dew,
they rubbed themselves with virgin oil, so as to be strong and
healthy, besides being proof against witchcraft, for a whole year.




CHAPTER II

THE BOND OF FRIENDSHIP


"Milenko," said Uros, "have you the least idea how people that are in
love feel?"

Milenko arched his eyebrows and smiled.

"No, not exactly, for I've never been spoony myself." Then, after
pondering for a moment, he added: "I should think it's like being
slightly sea-sick; don't you?"

Uros looked amused. He thought over the simile for a while, then
said:

"Well, perhaps you are not quite wrong."

"But why do you ask? You are surely not in love, are you?"

Uros sighed. "Well, that's what I don't exactly know; only I feel
just a trifle squeamish. I'm upset; my head is muddled."

"And you are afraid it's love?"

Uros made a sign of assent.

"It's not nice, is it?"

"No."

"And you'd like to get out of it?" asked Milenko.

"Yes."

"Well, then, take a deep plunge. Make love to her heart and soul, as
if you were going to marry her to-morrow. Then, I daresay, you'll
soon get over it. You see, the worst thing with sea-sickness is to
mope, to nurse yourself, and fancy every now and then that you are
going to throw up. It's better to be sick like a dog for a day or
two, as we were, and then it's all over. I think it must be the same
thing with love."

"I daresay you are right, but----"

"But what?"

"I can't follow your advice."

"Why not?"

"Because--because----" and thereupon he began to scratch his head. "I
can't make love to her."

"Can't make love to a girl?"

"No; for, you see, she's not a girl."

Milenko opened his eyes and stared.

"Who is she?" he asked.

Uros looked gloomy. He hesitated for an instant; then he whispered:

"Milena!"

Milenko started back.

"Not Milena Radonic?"

Uros nodded gravely.

"You are right," said Milenko seriously; "you can't make love to a
married woman. It's a crime, first of all; then you might get her
into trouble, and find yourself some day or other in a mess."

"You are right."

The two friends were silent for a moment; then Milenko, thinking to
have caught the dilemma by its horns, said:

"Wouldn't it be the same thing if you made love to some other pretty
damsel?"

Uros shook his head doubtfully.

"Darinka, our neighbour Ivo's daughter, is a very nice girl."

"Very."

"Well, don't you think you might fall in love with her?" asked
Milenko, coaxingly.

"No, I don't think I could."

"Then there is Liepa, for instance; she is as lovely as her name;
moreover, I think she looks a little like Milena."

"No; no woman has such beautiful eyes. Why, the first time I saw
Milena, I felt her glances scorching me; they sank into my flesh,"
and he heaved a deep sigh.

There was another pause; both the friends were musing.

"Well, then, I'll tell you what," said Milenko, after a while; "we'll
just go off to sea again. It's a pity, but it can't be helped."

"And the harvest?"

"They'll have to manage without us; that's all."

After having discussed the subject over and over again, it was agreed
that they were to sail as soon as they could find a decent vessel
that could take them both. In the meanwhile, Uros promised to avoid
Milena as much as possible, which was, indeed, no easy matter.

The day of Milena Zwillievic's marriage had, indeed, been a Black
Friday to her. First, she knew that she was being sold to pay her
father's debts; secondly, Radonic was old enough to be her father.
Added to all this, he was a heavy, rough, uncouth kind of a fellow,
the terror of all seamen, and, as he treated his crew as if they had
been slaves, no man ever sailed with him if he could possibly get
another berth.

Two or three days after the wedding, Radonic brought his girlish
bride to live with his mother, the veriest old shrewish skinflint
that could be imagined. She disliked her daughter-in-law before she
knew her; she hated her the first moment she saw her. Milena was
handsome and penniless, two heinous sins in her eyes, for she herself
had been ugly and rich. She could not forgive her son for having
made such a silly marriage at his age, and not a day passed without
her telling him that he was an old fool.

During the first months poor Milena was to be pitied, and, what was
worse, everybody pitied her. She never ate a morsel of bread without
hearing her mother-in-law's taunts. If she cried, she was bullied by
the one, cuffed by the other.

A month after the wedding, Radonic, however, went off with his ship,
and shortly afterwards his vixen of a mother died, and Milena was
then left sole mistress of the house. Her life, though lonesome, was
no more a burden to her, as it had hitherto been, only, having
nothing to do the whole day, time lay heavy on her hands.

Handsome and young as she was, with a slight inborn tendency to
flirtation; living, moreover, quite alone; many a young man had tried
to make love to her; but, their intentions being too manifest, all,
hitherto, had been repulsed. On seeing Uros, however, she felt for
him what she had, as yet, never felt for any man, for her husband
less than anybody else.

She tried not to think of Uros, and the more she tried the more his
image was before her eyes; so the whole of the live-long day she did
nothing else but think of him. She decided to avoid him, and still
--perhaps it was the devil that tempted her, but, somehow or other,
she herself could not explain how it happened--she was always either
at the door or at the window at the time he passed, and then what
could she do but nod in a friendly way to him?

If she went to pay his mother a visit, she would hurry away before he
came home, and then she was always unlucky enough to meet him on her
way. Could she do less than stop and ask him how he was; besides,
after all, he was but a boy, and she was a married woman.

Soon she began to surmise that Uros was in love with her; then she
thought herself foolish to believe such a thing, and she rated
herself for being vain. And then, again, she thought: "If he cares
for me more than he ought, it is but a foolish infatuation, of which
he will soon get rid when he goes again to sea." Thereupon she heaved
a deep sigh, and a heaviness came over her heart, at which she almost
confessed to herself that she did love that boy.

Milena, after the conversation Uros had had with his friend, seeing
herself shunned, felt nettled and sorry. At the same time she was
glad to see that he did not care for her, and then her heart yearned
all the more for him.

But if he shunned her, was it a sign that he did not care for her?
she asked herself.

Puzzled, as she was, she wanted to find out the truth, merely out of
curiosity, and nothing more.

Thus it came to pass that, standing one day on her doorstep, she
beckoned to the young man, as soon as she saw him, to come up to
her. It was a bold thing to do, nor did she do so without a certain
trepidation.

"Uros," said she to him, "come here; I have something to ask you."

"What is it?" said the young man, looking down rather shyly.

"You that have travelled far and wide, can you tell me who speaks all
the languages of this world?"

"Who speaks all the languages of this world?" echoed Uros, lifting up
his eyes, astonished, and then lowering them, feeling Milena's
glances parch up his blood.

"Who can it be?" said he, puzzled.

He tried to think, but his poor head was muddled, and his heart was
beating just as if it would burst. He had never been good at
guessing, but now it was worse than ever.

"I've heard of people speaking three, four, and five languages, but
I've never heard of anyone speaking more than five."

"What! You've been in foreign countries," quoth she, smiling archly,
and displaying her pearly teeth, "and still you cannot answer my
question?"

"I cannot, indeed. There was a man who said he spoke twenty-five
languages, but, of course, he was a humbug. First, there are not
twenty-five languages in the world, and then he couldn't even speak
Slav."

"Well, well; think over it till to-morrow."

"And then?"

"Perhaps you'll be able to guess."

"But if I don't?"

"Well, I shall not eat you up as the dragon, that Marko Kraglievic
killed, used to do, if people couldn't answer the questions he put
them."

"And you'll tell me?" Thereupon he lifted up his eyes yearningly
towards her.

"Perhaps," she replied, blushing, "but then, you must promise not to
ask Milenko."

"I promise."

She stretched forth her hand. He pressed it lingeringly.

"Nor anybody else?"

"No."

"Then I'll tell you to-morrow."

He bade her good-bye, and went off with a heavy heart; she saw him
disappear with a sigh.

That whole day Uros thought a little of the riddle, and a great deal
of Milena's sparkling eyes; moreover, he felt the pressure of her
soft hand upon his palm. But the more he pondered over her question,
the more confused his brain grew, so he gave up thinking of the
riddle, and continued thinking of the young woman. On the morrow his
excitement increased, as the time of hearing the answer drew near.

Milena, as usual, was on the watch for him, leaning on the door-post,
looking more beautiful than ever. As soon as he saw her, he hurried
up to her without being called.

"Well," said she, with a nervous smile, "have you guessed?"

"No."

"Oh, you silly fellow! Who speaks all the languages of the world?"

"It's useless to ask me; I don't know."

"What will you give me if I tell you?" said she, in a low,
fluttering voice, and with a visible effort.

He would willingly have made her a present, but he did not know what
she would like, and, as he looked up into her eyes to guess, he felt
his blood rising all up to his head.

"Do you want me to bring you something from abroad--a looking-glass
from Venice, or a coral necklace from Naples?"

No, she did not want anything from abroad.

"Then a silk scarf?"

"No, I was only joking. I'll tell you for nothing. Why, who but the
echo speaks all the languages of this world?"

"Dear me, how stupid not to have thought of it. Tell me, do you think
me very stupid?"

Milena smiled. She did think him rather dull, but not in the way he
meant.

"You see how good I am. I tell you for nothing. Now, if you had put
me a riddle, and I could not have answered, you surely would have
asked"--here there was a catch in her voice--"a kiss from me."

Uros blushed as red as a damask-rose; he tried to speak, but did not
know what to say.

"Oh! don't say no; you men are all alike."

The young man looked up at her with an entreating look, then down
again; still he did not speak. Milena remained silent, as if waiting
for an answer; she fidgeted and twisted the fringe of her apron round
her fingers, then she heaved a deep sigh. After a few minutes' pause:

"Do you know any riddles?" she asked.

"Oh, yes! I know several."

"Well, then, tell me one."

Uros thought for a while; he would have liked to ask her a very
difficult one, but the thought of the kiss he might have for it, gave
him a strong nervous pain at the back of his head.

"Well," said he, after a few moments' cogitation--"Who turns out of
his house every day, and never leaves his house?"

She looked at him for a while with parted lips and eyes all beaming
with smiles; nay, there was mischief lurking in her very dimples as
she said:

"Why, the snail, you silly boy; everybody knows that hackneyed
riddle." Then with the prettiest little _moue_: "It was not worth
while leaving your country to come back with such a slight stock of
knowledge. I hope you were not expecting a kiss for the answer?"

Uros was rather nettled by her teazing; he would fain have given her
a smart answer, but he could find none on the spur of the moment.
Besides, the sight of those two lips, as fresh and as juicy as the
pulp of a blood-red cherry, made him lose the little wit he otherwise
might have had; so he replied:

"And if I had?"

"You would have been disappointed; I don't give kisses for nothing."

"But you do give kisses?" he asked, faltering.

"When they are worth giving," in an undertone.

Uros looked up shyly, then he began to scratch his head, and tried to
think of something tremendously difficult.

"Well, do you know that one and no other?" she asked, laughing.

All at once Uros' face brightened up.

"What is it that makes men bald?" and he looked up at her
enquiringly.

Had he had a little more guile, he might, perhaps, have seen that
this riddle of his was likewise not quite unknown to her; but he saw
nothing save her pomegranate lips.

"Oh," said Milena, "their naughtiness, I daresay!"

"No, that's not it."

"Then, I suppose, it's their wit."

"Why?"

"They say that women have long hair and little wit, so I imagine that
men have little hair and much wit."

"If that's the case, then, I've too much hair. But you haven't
guessed."

"Then come to-morrow, and, perhaps I'll be able to tell you."

"But you'll not ask anybody?"

She again stretched out her hand to him. As he kept squeezing and
patting her hand:

"Shall I tell you?" he asked, with almost hungry eyes.

"And exact the penalty?"

Uros smiled faintly.

"Now, that is not fair; I gave you a whole day to think over it."

"Well, I'll wait till to-morrow; only----"

"Only, what?"

"Don't try to guess."

He said this below his breath, as if frightened at his own boldness.

On the morrow he again waited impatiently for the moment to come when
he could go and see Milena. The hour arrived; Uros passed and
repassed by the house, but she was not to be seen. He durst not go
and knock at her door--nay, he was almost glad that she did not
expect him; it was much better so.

He little knew that he was being closely watched by her, through one
of the crannies in the window-shutters. When, at last, he was about
to go off, Milena appeared on the threshold. With a beating heart the
youth turned round on his heels and went up to her. With much
trepidation he looked up into her face.

"Does she, or does she not, know?" he kept asking himself; "and if
she does, am I to ask her for a kiss?" At that moment he almost
wished she had guessed the riddle, for he remembered his friend's
words: "It was a crime to make love to a married woman."

"Oh, Uros, I'm like you! I can't guess. I've tried and tried, but
it's useless."

There was a want of sincerity in the tone of her voice, that made it
sound affected, and she was speaking as quickly as possible to bring
out everything at a gush. After a slight interruption, she went on:

"Do tell me quickly, I'm so curious to know. What is it that makes
men bald?"

"It's strange that you can't guess, you that are so very clever," he
said, in a faltering voice.

"What, you don't believe me?" she asked, pouting her lips in a pretty,
babyish fashion.

Uros stood looking at her without answering; in his nervousness he
was quivering from head to foot, undecided whether he was to kiss her
or not.

"Oh, I see, you don't want to tell me; you are afraid I'll not keep
my promise!"

"I can ask to be paid beforehand; give me a kiss first, and I'll tell
you afterwards."

Having got it out he heaved a deep sigh of relief, for he was glad it
was over.

"Here, in the street?" she asked, with a forced smile.

He advanced up to her and she retreated into the house. He was
obliged to follow her now, almost in spite of himself; moreover, he
could hardly drag himself after her, for he had, all at once, got to
be as heavy as lead.

As soon as they were both within the house, she closed the door, and
leant her back against it. Then there was an awkward pause of some
minutes, for neither of them knew what to do, or what to say. She
took courage, however, and looking at him lovingly:

"Now tell me, will you?" said she.

As she uttered these words they clasped each other's hands, whilst
their eyes uttered what their lips durst not express; then, as Uros
stood there in front of Milena, he felt as if she was drawing him on,
and the walls of the room began to spin round and round.

"Why, it is the loss of hair that makes people bald," he muttered in
a hot, feverish whisper, the panting tone of which evidently meant--

"Milena, I love you; have pity on me."

She said something about being very stupid, but he could not quite
understand what it was; he only felt the swaying motion and the
powerful attraction she had over him.

"I suppose you must have your reward now," she said, with a faint
voice.

The youth felt his face all aglow; the blood was rushing from his
heart to his head with a whirring sound. His dizziness increased.

Did she put out her lips towards his as she said this? He could
hardly remember. All that remained clear to him afterwards was, that
he had clasped her in his arms, and strained her to his chest with
all the might of his muscles. Had he stood there with his lips
pressed upon hers for a very long time? He really did not know; it
might have been moments, it might have been hours, for he had lost
all idea as to the duration of time.

From that day, Uros was always hovering in the neighbourhood of
Radonic's house; he was to be found lurking thereabout morning, noon
and night. Milenko took him to task about it, but he soon found out
that if "hunger has no eyes," lovers, likewise, have no ears, and
also that "he who holds his tongue often teaches best." As for Uros,
his friend's reproaches were not half so keen as those he made to
himself; but love had a thousand sophistries to still the voice of
conscience.

Not long after the eventful day of the riddle, Marko Radonic returned
unexpectedly to Budua, his ship having to undergo some slight
repairs.

For a few days, Milenko managed to keep Uros and Milena apart, but,
young as they were, love soon prevailed over prudence. They therefore
began to meet in by-lanes and out-of-the-way places, especially
during those hours when the husband was busy at the building yard. At
first they were very careful, but the reiteration of the same act
rendered them more heedless.

Uros was seen again and again at Milena's door when the husband was
not at home. People began to suspect, to talk; the subject was
whispered mysteriously from ear to ear; it soon spread about the town
like wild-fire.

A month after Radonic had returned, he was one evening at the inn,
drinking and chatting with some old cronies about ships, cargoes and
freights. In the midst of the conversation, an old _guzlar_ passing
thereby, stepped in to have a draught of wine. Upon seeing the bard,
every man rose and, by way of greeting, offered him his glass to have
a sip.

"Give us a song, Vuk; it is years since I heard the sound of your
voice," said Radonic.

The bard complied willingly; he went up to a _guzla_ hanging on the
wall, and took it down. He then sat on a stool, placed his instrument
between his legs, and began to scrape its single gut-string with the
monochord bow; this prelude served to give an intonation to his
voice, and scan the verses he was about to sing. He thought a while,
and then--his face brightening up--he commenced the ballad of "Marko
Kraglievic and Janko of Sebinje."

We Slavs are so fond of music and poetry, that we will remain for
hours listening to one of our bards, forgetting even hunger in our
delight. No sooner was the shrill sound of Vuk's voice heard than
every noise was hushed, hardly a man lifted his glass up to his
mouth. Even the passers-by walked softly or lingered about the door
to catch some snatches of the poet's song.

The ballad, however, was a short one, and as soon as the bard had
finished, the strong Dalmatian wine went round again, and at every
cup the company waxed merrier, more tender-hearted, more gushing; a
few even grew sentimental and lachrymose.

Wine, however, brought out all the harshness of Radonic's character,
and the more he drank the more brutal he grew; at such moments it
seemed as if all the world was his crew, and that he had a right to
bully even his betters, and say disagreeable things to everybody; his
excuse was that he couldn't help it--it was stronger than himself.

"_Bogme!_" he exclaimed, turning to one of his friends; "I should
have liked to see your wife, Tripko, with Marko Kraglievic. Ah, poor
Tripko!"

"Why my wife more than yours?"

"Oh, my wife knows of what wood my stick is made; you only tickle
yours!"

Tripko shrugged his shoulders, and added:

"Every woman is not as sharp as Janko of Sebinje's wife, but most of
them are as honest."

"That means to say that you think your wife is honest," said Radonic,
chuckling. "Poor Tripko!"

"Come, come," quoth a friend, trying to mend matters, "do not spit in
the air, Radonic Marko, lest the spittle fall back on your face."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Radonic, who, like all jokers,
could never take a jest himself.

"I? nothing; only I advise you to be more careful how you trifle with
another man's wife--that's a ticklish subject."

"Oh, Tripko's wife!" said he, disparagingly.

"Radonic Marko, sweep before your own door, _bogati_!" replied
Tripko, scornfully.

"Sweep before my door--sweep before my door, did you say?" and he
snatched up the earthen mug to hurl it at his friend's head, but the
by-standers pinioned his arm.

"I did, and I repeat it, _bogati_!"

"And you mean that there's dirt before my house?" asked Radonic,
scowling.

"More than before mine, surely."

"Come, Tripko, are you going to quarrel about a joke?" said one of
his friends.

"My wife is no joking matter."

"No, no," continued Radonic, "but he who has the itch scratches
himself."

"Then scratch yourself, Marko, for surely you must itch when you're
not at home."

"Hum!" said the host, "when asses joke it surely rains."

Then he went up to the _guzlar_, and begged him to give them a song.
"Let it be something lively and merry," said he, "something they can
all join in."

The bard thereupon scraped his _guzla_, silence was re-established,
and he began to sing the following _zdravica_:

  "Wine that bubbles says to man:
  Drink, oh! drink me when you can;
  For I never pass away,
  You albeit last but a day;
  I am therefore made for you,
  And I love men brave and true;
  Then remember, I am thine;
  Drink, oh! drink the flowing wine!"

As not one of them cared to see the quarrel continue, and end,
perhaps, in bloodshed, they all began to sing the drinking-song; the
wine flowed, the glasses jingled together in a friendly way, and, for
the nonce, peace prevailed.

Just then, Milenko--unperceived by everybody except the landlord
--happened to come in, and the host, taking him aside, said to him:

"Markovic Milenko, tell your friend, Uros, not to be seen fooling
about with Milena, for people have long tongues, and will talk; and,
above all, do not let him be found lurking near Radonic's house
to-night, for it might cost him his life."

"What! has anybody been slandering him?"

"Slandering is not the word; enough, tell him that Radonic Marko is
not a man to be trifled with."

Milenko thanked the innkeeper, and, fearing lest his friend might be
getting into mischief, went at once in search of him.

As Radonic was about to begin the discussion again, the host stopped
him.

"You had better wait for an explanation till to-morrow, for when our
heads are fuddled we, like old Marija, do not see the things exactly
as they are.

"What old Marija?" asked one of the men.

"Don't you know the story of old Marija? Why, I thought everyone knew
it."

"No; let's hear it."


Well, Marija was an old tippler, who was never known to be in her
senses.

One morning she rose early, and, as usual, went into the wood to
gather a bundle of sticks. Presently she was seen running back as if
Old Nick was at her heels. Panting, and scared out of her wits, she
dropped on a bench outside the inn. As soon as she could speak, she
begged for a little glass of brandy.

The people crowded around her and asked her what had happened.

"No sooner had I left the roadside and got into the wood," she said,
"I bent down to gather some sticks, when, lo and behold! fifty wild
cats, as big as bears, with bristling hair, glaring eyes and sharp
claws, suddenly jumped out from behind the bushes. Holy Virgin! what
a fright I got, and see how scratched and torn I was by those
brutes."

"Come, come, Marija," said the innkeeper; "you must have seen
double--you know you often do. How many cats were there?"

"Well, I don't say there were exactly fifty, for I didn't count them;
but as true as God is in heaven there were twenty-five."

"Don't exaggerate, Marija--don't exaggerate; there are not
twenty-five cats in the whole village."

"Well, if there were not twenty-five, may the devil take me; surely
there were fifteen?"

"Pooh! Marija, have another little drop, just to get over your
fright, and then you'll confess that there were not fifteen."

Marija drained down another glass, and said:

"May a thunderbolt strike me dead this very moment but five wild cats
pounced upon me all at once."

"Come, Marija, now that you are in your senses, don't exaggerate.
Tell us how many wild cats there were."

"Well, I'll take my oath that, as I bent down, a ray of sunlight was
pouring through the branches, and I saw something tremendously big
moving through the bushes; perhaps it was a cat."

"Or a hare, running away," said the innkeeper.

"Perhaps it was, for in my fright I instantly ran away too."


The men, whom wine rendered merry, laughed heartily, and the
innkeeper added:

"You see, we are all of us, at times, like old Marija."

As they were about to part, Radonic asked the man who had told him
not to spit in the wind what he and all the others had meant by their
innuendoes.

"Oh, nothing at all! were you not joking yourself?"

Still, by dint of much pressing, he got this man to tell him that
Uros Bellacic, Milos' son, had been seen flirting with Milena. "Of
course, this Uros is only a boy; still," added he, "Milena herself is
young, very young, and you--now, it is no use mincing the matter
--well, you are old, and therefore I, as a friend, advise you to be
more careful how you talk about other men's wives, for, some day or
other, you might find the laughers are against you."

Thereupon the two men parted.

Radonic now, for the first time in his life, understood what jealousy
was. He felt, in fact, that he had touched hell, and that he had got
burnt. Alas! his countrymen were right in thinking that Gehenna could
not be worse.

As he walked on, the darkness of the night and his loneliness
increased the bitterness of his thoughts. He that hitherto had felt a
pleasure in disparaging every woman, was getting to be the
laughing-stock of the town, the butt of every man's jokes.

Meanwhile, Milenko had gone in quest of his friend, his mind full of
gloomy forebodings. Passing by Radonic's cottage, he stopped and
looked round. The night was dark, and everything had a weird and
ghastly look. The leaves shivered and lisped ominously. Was it a bat
that flitted by him?

Straining his eyes, he thought he saw something darker than the night
itself move near one of the windows of the house, then crouch down
and disappear. Had his senses got so keen that he had seen that
shadow, or was it only a vision of his over-heated imagination?

He walked a few steps onward; then he stopped, and began to whistle
in a low, peculiar way. Their fathers had been wont to call each
other like that; and the two young men had sworn to each other that
whatever happened to them in their lifetime they would always obey
the call of that whistle. All dangers were to be overcome, all feuds
to be forgotten at that sound. They had sworn it on the image of St.
George.

Milenko knew that if his friend was thereabouts he would not tarry a
single moment to come to him. In fact, a moment afterwards Uros was
at his side.

Milenko explained his errand in as few words as possible.

"Thank you," said Uros. "I'll go and tell Milena what has happened,
so that she may be on her guard."

"But Radonic might be here at any moment."

"I'll be back in a twinkling."

"Anyhow, if you hear my whistle sneak off at once, and run for your
life."

"All right."

Uros disappeared; Milenko remained leaning against the bole of a
tree. He could hardly be seen at the distance of some steps. Snatches
of songs were now heard from afar; it was the drinking-song Vuk had
been singing. The drunkards were returning home. Soon after this he
heard the noise of steps coming on the road. Keeping a sharp
look-out, his keen eyes recognised Radonic's stalwart though clumsy
frame. He at once whistled to his friend, first in a low tone, then
louder and louder, as he came out from his hiding-place and walked on
to meet the enraged husband, and stop him on his way. Uros in the
meanwhile took to his heels.

"_Dobro vetchir_, Radonic Marko," said Milenko to him. "How are you?"

"And who are you, so glib with your tongue?" answered Radonic, in a
surly tone.

"What, do you not know the children of the place?"

"Children, nowadays, spring up like poisonous mushrooms after a wet
night. How is one to know them?"

"Well, I am Milenko Markovic, Janko's son."

"Ah, I thought so," replied Radonic fiercely, clasping the haft of
his knife. "Then what business have you to come prowling about my
house, making me the laughing-stock of the whole place. But you'll
not do so long."

Suiting the action to the words, he lifted up his knife and made a
rush at the young man.

Though Milenko was on his guard, and though the hand of the
half-drunken man was not quite steady, still it was firm and swift
enough in its movements for mischief's sake; and so he not only
wounded the young man slightly on his arm, but, the knife being
very sharp, it cut through all his clothes and scratched him, enough
to make him bleed, somewhere about the left breast. Had the blade but
gone an inch or two deeper, death most likely would have been
instantaneous.

Milenko, quick as lightning, darted unexpectedly upon Radonic,
grasped the knife from his hand, knocked him down, and, after a
little scuffle, held him fast. Although Marko was a powerfully-built
man, still he was heavy and clumsy, slow and awkward in his
movements; and now, half-drunk as he was, it seemed as if his huge
body was no match for this lithe and nimble youth.

When at last Radonic was fully overpowered, "Look here," said
Milenko, "you fully deserve to have this blade thrust into your
heart, for it almost went into mine. Now, tell me, what have I done
that you should come against me in this murderous way? You say that I
have been prowling about your house; but are you quite sure? And even
if I had, is it a reason to take away my life? Are you a beast or a
man?"

"Well, when you have done preaching, either let me go or kill me; but
stop talking," said Radonic, sullenly.

"I'll leave you as soon as I have done. First you must know that I
have hardly ever spoken to your wife. May God strike me blind if I
have! As for prowling about your house--well, half-an-hour ago I was
at the inn."

"You were at the inn?" asked Radonic, incredulously.

"Yes; you were all singing a _zdravica_."

"I was singing?"

"No; at least, I think not. You were, if I remember rightly, talking
with Livic. I only looked in. Uros Bellacic, another poisonous
mushroom, was with me."

Just then it came to Radonic's head that this Uros, the son of Milos,
was the young man who had been flirting with his wife.

"So your friend Uros was with you?"

"Of course he was, and from there I accompanied him to his house,
where I left him. Now, I was going home, and the nearest way was by
your house. Had I, instead, been making love to your wife, I should
not have come up to you in a friendly way, as I did. I should have
hidden behind some tree, or skulked away out of sight. Anyhow, your
wife is young and pretty; it is but right you should be jealous."

Milenko thereupon stretched out his hand to help the prostrate man to
rise.

The bully, thoroughly ashamed of himself, got up moodily enough,
ruminating over all the young man had said, understanding, however,
that he had been too rash, and had thus bungled the whole affair. He
made up his mind, however, to keep a sharp look-out.

"And now," continued Milenko, chuckling inwardly over his long-winded
speeches, made only to give his friend full time to be off, "as your
wife is perhaps in bed, let me come in and bandage up my arm, which is
bleeding; it is useless for me to go home and waken up my father and
mother, or frighten them for such a trifle. I might, it is true, go
to Uros, but it is not worth while making an ado for a scratch like
this, and have the whole town gossiping about your wife, for who will
believe that the whole affair is as absurd as it really is?"

Radonic now felt sure that he had made a mistake, for, if this youth
had been trying to make love to Milena, he would not have asked to be
brought unexpectedly before the woman whose house he had just left.

"Very well," replied he, gruffly, "come along."

Having reached the cottage, he opened the door noiselessly, stepped
in as lightly as he could, and beckoned to Milenko to follow him.

Utter darkness reigned within the house. Radonic took out his flint
and struck a light. He was glad to see that his wife was not only in
bed, but fast asleep.

He helped the young man to take off his clothes, all stained with
blood; then he carefully washed his wounds, dressed them with some
aromatic plants whose healing virtues were well known. After this he
poured out a bumper of wine and pledged Milenko's health, as a sign
of perfect reconciliation, saying:

"I have shed your innocent blood; mine henceforth is at your
disposal."

With these words he took leave of him.

Though it was late, Milenko, far from returning home, hastened to his
friend to tell him what had happened, and put him on his guard from
attempting to see Milena again.

His advice, though good, was, however, superfluous, for Milena, far
from being asleep, had heard all that had taken place, and, as her
husband kept a strict watch over her, she remained indoors for several
days.

When the incident came to the ears of either parent--though they
never knew exactly the rights of the whole affair, and they only
thought that it was one of Radonic's mad freaks of jealousy--both
Bellacic and Markovic thought it better to send their sons to sea as
soon as possible.

"Having sown their wild oats," said Milos, "they can come back home
and settle into the humdrum ways of married life."

"Besides," quoth Janko, "in big waters are big fish caught. The
shipping trade is very prosperous just now; freights are high; so
after some years of a seafaring life they may put aside a good round
sum."

"Well," replied Milos, "the best thing would be to set them up in
life; let us buy for them a share of some brig, and they, with their
earnings, may in a few years buy up the whole ship and trade for
themselves."

The vintage--very plentiful that year--was now over; the olive-trees,
which had been well whipped on St. Paul's Day, had yielded an
unexpected crop, so that the land, to use the Biblical pithy
expression, was overflowing, if not with milk and honey, at least
with wine and oil. The earth, having given forth its last fruits, was
now resting from its labours, but the young men, though they had
nothing more to do on shore, still lingered at Budua, no share of any
decent vessel having been found for them.

At last the captain of a brigantine, a certain Giuliani, wishing to
retire from business in some years, agreed to take them on a trial
trip with him, and then, if he liked them and saw that they could
manage the vessel by themselves, to sell them half of his ship
afterwards.

All the terms of the contract having been settled, it was agreed that
the two young men should sail in about a fortnight's time, when the
cargo had all been taken on board.

Before starting, however, these youths, who loved each other
tenderly, made up their minds to become kith-and-kin to each other
--that is to say, brothers by adoption, or _pobratim_.

As St. Nicholas--the patron saint of the opposite town of Bari, on
the Italian shores of the Adriatic--is one of the most revered saints
of the Slavs and the protector of sailors, his feast, which was
celebrated just a week before their departure, was chosen for the day
of this august ceremony.

On the morning of that memorable day, the two young men, dressed, not
in their simple sailor-like attire, but in the gorgeous and
picturesque Buduan costume--one of the most manly and elegant dresses
as yet devised by human fancy--with damaskened silver-gilt pistols
and daggers to match, the hafts of which were all studded with round
bits of coral, dark chalcedonies and blood-red carnelians. These had
been the weapons of their great-grandfathers, and they showed by
their costliness that they were no mean upstarts, dating only from
yesterday, but of a good old stock of warriors.

Thus decked out, and not in borrowed plumes, they wended their way to
the cathedral, where a special Mass was to be said for them. Each of
them was accompanied by a kind of sponsor or best man, and followed
by all their relations, as well as by a number of friends.

Having entered the crowded church--for such a ceremony is not often
seen--Uros and Milenko went straight to the High Altar, and, bending
down on one knee, they crossed themselves with much devotion. Then,
taking off all their weapons, they laid them down on their right-hand
side, and lighted their huge tapers. The best men, who stood
immediately behind, and the relations, lit their wax candles, just as
if it had been the ritualistic pomp of marriage; thereupon they all
knelt down till the priest had finished chanting the liturgy, and,
after offering up the Holy Sacrament, Mass came to an end. This part
of the service being over, the priest came up to them, saying:

"Why and wherefore come ye here?"

"We wish to become brothers."

"And why do you wish to become brothers?"

"Out of love," quoth Uros, who was the elder of the two by a few
months.

"But do you know, my children, what you really ask; have you
considered that this bond is a life-long one, and that, formed here
within the House of God, it can never be broken. Are you prepared to
swear that, in whatever circumstance of life you may be placed, the
friendship that binds you to-day will never be rent asunder?"

"We are."

"Can you take your oath to love and help each other as brothers
should, the whole of your lifetime?"

"We can."

"Well, then, swear before God and man to love each other with real
brotherly affection; swear never to be at variance, never to forsake
each other."

The oath was solemnly taken. After this the priest administered them
the Communion--though no more mixed up with a drop of their own
blood; he gave them the pax to kiss, whilst the thurible-bearers were
swinging their huge silver censers, which sent forth a cloudlet of
fragrant smoke. The two friends were almost hid from the view of the
gazing crowd, for, the _pobratim_ being rich, neither frankincense
nor myrrh had been spared. Then the priest, in his richest stole,
placed both his hands above their heads, and uttered a lengthy prayer
to God to bless them.

The ceremony having come to an end, the _pobratim_ rose and kissed
each other repeatedly. They were then embraced by their sponsors and
relations, and congratulated by their friends. As they reached the
church door, they were greeted by the shouts of "_Zivio!_" from all
their friends, who, in sign of joy, fired off their pistols. They
replied to their courtesy in the same fashion, and so the din that
ensued was deafening.

Holding hands, they crossed the crowd, that parted to let them pass.
Thus they both bent their steps towards Markovic's house, for, as he
lived nearer the church than Bellacic did, he was the giver of the
first feast in honour of the _pobratim_.

Upon entering the house, the young men kissed each other again; then
forthwith Uros kissed Janko Markovic, calling him father, whilst
Milenko greeted Uros' parents in the same way.

Afterwards presents were exchanged by the _pobratim_, then each
member of either family had some gift in store for their
newly-acquired kinsman, so that before the day was over they had
quite a little store of pipes and gold-embroidered tobacco pouches.

Dinner being now ready, they all sat down to a copious, if not a very
dainty meal; and the priest, who just before had asked a blessing
upon the friends, was the most honoured of all the guests.

They ate heartily, and many toasts were drunk in honour of the two
young men, and those that could made speeches in rhyme to them.

The feast was interrupted by the _Kolo_--a young man performing
sundry evolutions with a decanter of wine upon his head, looking all
the while as clumsy as Heine's famous bear, Atta Troll.

Then they began again to eat and drink, and filled themselves up in
such a way that they could hardly move from the table any more, so
that by the time St. Nicholas' Day came to an end, the hosts and
almost all the guests were snoring in happy oblivion.




CHAPTER III

CHRISTMAS EVE


The fierce equinoctial blasts which that year had lasted for more than
a month, were followed by a fortnight of fitful, heavy rain,
intermitted by sudden gales and stormy showers. Then after a period
of dull, drizzling, foggy weather, ending in a thick squall, the
clouds cleared up beautifully, the sun showed itself again, and
Spring apparently succeeded to Autumn.

The wind fell entirely. Not the slightest breeze was blowing to bring
down the dry leaves, or to bicker the smooth surface of the waters.
For days and days the sea remained as even as a mass of shining
melted lead, with the only difference that it was as fathomably
liquid and as diaphanously pure as the air itself, of which it even
had the vaporous cerulean clearness. Far away on the offing, the
waters blended with the watchet airiness of the surrounding
atmosphere, so that the line of the horizon could nowhere be seen,
the blueish-grey ocean melting into the greyish-blue of the sky.
Nearer the shore, the smooth translucent sheet was streaked and
spotted with those sheeny stripes and silvery patches, which Shelley
terms a "coil of crystalline streams."

The earth itself had a fleecy look. The shadowy opal greys of the
headlands, the liquid amethystine tints of the hills, the light
irradiated coasts, all rising out of the luminous waves, looked
lovelier even than they had done in summer, at noontide, when swathed
by a splendent haziness, for now the cold opaque clay tints themselves
looked transparent, wrapped up as they were in that vaporous pellucid
veil of mists.

Nature was wearing now her garishly gorgeous autumnal garment, and
the foliage of the trees had acquired the richest prismatic dyes, for
the reddish russets and the glowing orange yellows predominated over
the whitish blues and the faint greens. The vegetation, but for the
funereal cypresses, had the sere hectic hue of dying life.

The seafaring people of Budua had anything but an admiration for that
calm, soft, misty weather, or for that placid, unruffled sea; not
that they lacked the sense of beauty, but they chafed at being kept
at home, when they ought already to have been in distant parts of the
Mediterranean, or even returning from the farthermost corners of the
Adriatic.

Thus the departure of the _pobratim_ had already been postponed for
about a fortnight, as every day they waited patiently for a
favourable wind to swell their flagging sails; but the wind never
came. The friends, however, did not fret at this delay, and now,
having stayed so long, they hoped that the calm weather would
continue a little longer, so that they might spend Christmas at home
with their families.

Radonic had sailed off some time since. Milena, after that, had gone
to spend some weeks with her parents in Montenegro. On her return,
she kept a good deal at home, for after the fright she had had on
that eventful night when she had seen Milenko all covered with blood,
she had made up her mind to give up flirting, either with Uros or
with any other young man, and, for a short time, she kept her
resolution. Moreover, she felt that she cared for the young man far
more than she liked to confess to herself, and that she thought
oftener of him than she ought to have done, and much more than was
good for the peace of her mind. Another reason now prompted her to be
seen abroad as little as possible.

The man who, after the quarrel at the inn, had followed Radonic to
his house, and told him of his wife's levity in her conduct towards
Uros, was a certain Vranic, one of Milena's rejected suitors. He was
more than a plain-looking man; he was mean and puny. Besides this, he
had a cast in his eye, which rendered him hateful to all people, and
justly so, for does not the wisdom of our ancients say: "Beware of a
man branded by the hand of God?" Still, as if this was not enough,
Vranic possessed the gift of second sight, if it can be called a
gift. He was, therefore, a most unlucky fellow. The priest had, it
appears, made some mistake in christening him, so that nothing ever
had gone on well with him.

Vranic had, therefore, always been not only shunned by all the girls
as an uncanny kind of man who always saw ghosts, but even all the men
avoided him. He ought to have left Budua and gone to live abroad in a
place where he was not known, but it is a hard thing for a man to
leave his own country for ever.

Amongst many defects, Vranic had one quality, if really it can be
called a quality. This was the stern tenacity of purpose, the stolid
opiniativeness of the peasant, the stubborn firmness of the mule, the
ant and the worm, that nothing baffles, nothing turns aside. Once
bent upon doing something, it would have been as easy to keep water
from running down a hill as make him desist from his obstinacy.
He had, in fact, the inert, unreasoning will of the Slovene.

The day after Radonic's departure, Vranic had come again to make love
to Milena. Of course, she would not listen to him, but spurned him
from her like a cur. He simply smiled, in the half-shrewd, half-apish
way in which peasants grin, and threatened to report everything she
did to her husband on his return. He told her he would poison
Radonic's ear in such a way that her life would henceforth be
anything but a pleasure. Milena answered that, as her conscience was
quite clear, she allowed him to act as he pleased.

In the meanwhile Uros' love was getting the mastery over him.
Milena's presence haunted him day and night; it overflowed his heart
in a way that made him feel as if he were suffering from some slow,
languishing fever. Looking upon Milena's face was like gazing at the
full moon on a calm summer night; only that this planet's amber light
shed a sense of peace on the surface of the rippleless waters, whilst
this woman's beauty made his heart beat faster and his nerves tingle
with excitement. Listening to her voice reminded him of the
love-songs he had heard the _guzlari_ chant on winter evenings
--amatory poems which heated the blood like long draughts of strong
wine. His love for her had changed his very nature; instead of caring
only for fishing and shooting, unfurling the broad sails and seeing
the breeze swell the white canvas, a yearning hitherto unknown now
filled his breast. At times he even avoided his friend, and went
wandering alone, his steps--almost unwillingly--leading him to choose
places where he had met Milena, and which were still haunted by her
presence. Many a night he would roam or linger near her house, hoping
to catch a glimpse of her; but, alas! she seldom came out, and she
was never seen either at her window or her door. Her lonely cottage
looked deserted, desolate.

On the night when the brig was expected to weigh anchor, Uros slunk
away stealthily, when the crew were fast asleep, and went on shore.
The inns were already shut, and not a light was to be seen in any
window. He, therefore, plucked up all his courage, hastened to reach
Milena's lonely house, and there, under her casement, he sang to her
the following _rastanak_, or farewell song:

  Though cold and deaf, farewell, love;
    We two must part.
  But can you live alone, love,
    If I depart?

  From o'er the boundless sea, love,
    And mountains high,
  From o'er the dark, deep wood, love,
    You'll hear me sigh.

  If you are deaf to me, love,
    Still on the plain
  You'll see the flowers fade, love,
    Seared by my pain.

  Still you are deaf to me, love,
    Without a tear;
  I go without a word, love,
    My soul to cheer.

  I send you back those blooms, love,
    Which once you gave;
  For they are now to me, love,
    Rank as the grave.

  Amongst those cold, grey buds, love,
    A snake doth lie,
  As you have not for me, love,
    A single sigh.

He finished and listened, then he heard a slight noise overhead; the
window was quietly opened, and Milena's face was seen peeping between
the cranny as she held the shutters ajar, for her beautiful, lustrous
eyes sparkled in the darkness.

"Uros!" she whispered, "how can you be so very foolish as to come and
sing under my windows! What will the people say, if they should
happen to see you?"

"Who can hear me in this lonely spot? Everybody is asleep, not a
mouse is stirring abroad."

"Someone or other seems always to hang about, spying all I do. For
your sake, and for mine, go away, I beg you. After the fright I had
upon that dreadful night, I have got to be such a coward."

"No; the truth is, after that night, you never cared for me any
more."

"I must not care for you;" then, with a sigh, and faintly: "nor must
you for me."

"Would it make you very happy if I forgot you--if I loved someone
else?"

She did not give him any reply.

"You don't answer," he said.

"You'll forget me soon enough, Uros--far from the eyes, far from the
heart."

"And if I come back loving you more than ever?"

"You'll be away for a long time; when you come back----"

"Well?"

"Perhaps I'll be dead."

"Don't say such things, Milena, or you'll drive me mad."

Then, with cat-like agility, he climbed the low wall, and, with hands
clutching at the window-sill, and the tips of his _opanke_, or
sandal-like shoes, resting on some stones jutting out, he stood at
the height of her head. His other arm soon found itself resting round
her unresisting neck. He lifted up his mouth towards hers, and their
pouting lips met in a long, lingering kiss.

But all at once she shivered from head to foot, and, drawing herself
away, she begged Uros to have pity on her and to go away.

"Milena, it is perhaps the last time we meet; more than one ship
never came back to the port from which it sailed; more than one
sailor never saw his birth-place again."

"But, only think, if some one passing by should see us here."

"Well, then, let me come in, so nobody'll see me."

"Uros, are you mad? Allow you to come in at this hour of the night!"

"What greater harm would there be than in the broad daylight?"

"No; if you really love me, don't ask me such a thing."

Uros obeyed, and, after a few minutes, with the tears gushing to his
eyes, he bade her good-bye. As he was sliding down, he thought he
heard a noise of footsteps on the shingle of the pathway near the
house. Uros shuddered and listened. Was it some man lurking there, he
asked himself. If so, who could it be? Radonic had, perhaps, come
back to Budua to keep watch over his wife--catch her on the hop, and
then revenge himself upon her. The sudden fright now curdled his
blood. Still, he was not afraid for himself; he was young and strong,
and he was on his guard. Even if it was the incensed husband, the
night was too dark for anyone to take a good aim and fire from a
distance. If he was afraid, it was for Milena's sake. Radonic had,
perhaps, returned; he had seen him climb down from his own house at
that late hour. Rash as he was, he would surely go and kill his wife,
who, even if she was a flirt, was by no means as bad as what he or
the world would think her to be.

"Anyhow," said Uros to himself, "if it is Radonic, he will either
rush at me, or fire at me from where he is hiding; or else he will go
towards his own house." His suspense would only last a few seconds.

It lasted much longer. Many minutes passed, if he could reckon time
by the beating of his heart. In the meanwhile he tried to fathom the
darkness from whence the slight sound had come. Not being able to see
or hear anything, he went off, walking on tip-toe; but he listened
intently as he went. All at once there was again a slight rustling
sound. Uros walked on for a while, then, stepping on the grass and
crouching between the bushes, slowly and stealthily he came back near
the house and waited. Not many minutes had elapsed when he heard the
noise of footsteps once more, but he saw nobody.

Oh! how his heart did beat just then! The sound of steps was
distinctly heard upon the shingle, and yet no human being, no living
creature, was to be seen. What could this be?

"_Bogme ovari!_--God protect me"--he said to himself, "it is,
perhaps, a ghost, a vampire!"

Darkness in itself is repellent to our nature; therefore, to be
assaulted at night, by any unseen foe, must daunt the bravest amongst
the brave.

It is, then, not to be wondered that Uros was appalled at the idea of
having to become the prey of an invisible, intangible ghost, against
which it was impossible to struggle. He waited for a while,
motionless, breathless. There was not the slightest noise, nothing
was stirring any more; but in the dusky twilight everything seemed to
assume strange and weird shapes--the gnarled branches of the olive
trees looked like stunted and distorted limbs, whilst the bushes
seemed to stretch forth long waving tentacles, with which to grasp
the passer-by. As he looked about, he saw a light appear at a
distance, flit about for a while, extinguish itself, reappear again
after some time, then go out as before. Then he heard the barking of
a dog; the sound came nearer, then it lost itself in the stillness of
the night.

Uros, horror-stricken, was about to take to his heels, when again he
heard the footsteps on the shingle. He, therefore, stood stock-still
and waited, with a heart ready to burst. He could not leave Milena to
the danger that threatened her, so he chose to remain and fall into
the clutches of a vampire. He listened; the steps, though muffled,
were those of a rather heavy man. The sound continued, slowly,
stealthily, distinctly. Uros looked towards the place from whence the
noise came, and thereupon he saw a man creep out from within the
darkness of the bushes and go up towards Radonic's house.

Uros, seeing a human figure, felt all his superstitious fears vanish;
he looked well at it to convince himself that it was not some
deceptive vision, some skin all bloated with blood, as vampires are.
No, it was a man. Still, who could it be, he was too short and puny
to be Radonic?

Who could this man be, going to Milena's in the middle of the night?

A bitter feeling of jealousy came over him, a steel hand seemed to
grasp his heart. Milena had just been flirting with him, could she
not do the same with another man. She had listened to his vows of
love, he had been a fool to go off when she begged him to remember
that she was another man's wife. At that moment he hated her, and he
was vexed with himself.

There are moments in life when we repent having been too good, for
goodness sometimes is but a sign of weakness and inexperience; it
only shows our unfitness for the great struggle of life, where the
weak go to the wall.

During the time that Radonic had been at home he had never felt the
bitter pangs of jealousy as much as he did now. It humbled him to
think that he had left his place to another more fortunate rival,
apparently an older man.

Then he asked himself how he could have been so foolish as to love a
married woman.

"After all," said he to himself, "it is but right that I should
suffer, why have I lifted up my eyes upon a woman who has sworn to
love another man?"

He had sinned, and he was now punished for his crime.

When flushed with success the voice of conscience had ever been mute,
but now, when disappointment was sinking his heart, that voice cried
out loudly to him. Conscience is but a coward at best, a sneak in
prosperity, a bully in our misfortune.

There in the darkness of the night, lifting his eyes up towards
heaven, he called upon the blessed Virgin to come to his help.

"Oh! immaculate mother of Christ our Saviour, grant me the favour of
seeing that this man is no fortunate rival, that he is not Milena's
lover, and henceforth I shall never lift up my eyes towards her, even
if I should have to crush my heart, I shall never harbour in it any
other feeling for her except that of a brother or a friend."

During this time the man had gone up to the cottage door. Almost
unthinkingly and with the words of the prayer upon his lips, Uros
stood up, went a step onwards, and then he stopped. The man now
tapped at the door. A pause followed. The man knocked again a little
louder. Thereupon Milena's voice was heard from within. Though Uros
was much too far to hear what she had said, he evidently understood
that she was asking who was outside; the young man, treading on the
grass as much as he could, stole on tip-toe a little nearer the
house.

He could not catch the answer the man had given, for it was in a low
muffled undertone.

"Who are you?" repeated Milena from inside, "and what do you want?"

"It is I, Uros," said the man in a muffled tone; "open your door, my
love."

"Liar," shouted Uros from behind, and with a bound he had jumped upon
the man and, gripping him by the nape of the neck and by the collar
of his _jacerma_, he tugged at him and dragged him away from the
door.

As the man struggled to free himself, Uros recognised him to be
Vranic--Vranic the ghost-seer, Vranic the spy.

"How dare you come here in my name, you scoundrel," said the young
man, and giving him a mighty shake, that tore the strong cloth of the
jacket, he cast him away.

"And pray what are you doing here at this time of the night?" asked
Vranic, his hand on the haft of his knife.

"And what is that to you--are you her husband or her kinsman? But as
you wish to know, I'll tell you; I came to protect her from a
dastardly coward like yourself."

"I doubt whether Radonic will be glad to hear that you go sneaking
into his house at the dead of night, just to keep his wife from any
harm; that is really good of you." And Vranic, standing aloof, burst
out laughing. Then he added, "Anyhow, he'll be most grateful to you
when he knows it."

"And who'll tell him?"

"I shall."

"If I let you, you spy."

Thereupon Uros rushed upon Vranic so unexpectedly, that the latter
lost his balance, slipped and fell. The younger man held him down
with one hand, and with the other he lifted up his dagger. Seeing
himself thus overpowered:

"What, are you going to murder me like that?" he gasped out, "do you
not see that I was joking? If you'll but let me go I'll swear not to
say a word about the matter to anyone."

"On what will you swear?"

"On anything you like, on the holy medals round my neck."

With a jerk that almost choked the man, Uros broke the string and
snatched the amulets from Vranic's neck, and presented them to him,
saying:

"Now, man, swear."

Vranic took his oath.

"Now," said Uros, "swear not to harm Milena while I am away, swear
not to worry her by your threats, or in any other way soever."

Vranic having sworn again, was left free to get up and go off.

When he was at a few paces from Uros he stopped, and with a scowl
upon his face he muttered:

"Those medals were not blessed, so you can use your dagger now, if
you like, and I shall use my tongue, we shall see which of us two
will suffer most; anyhow, remember the proverb, 'Where the goat
breathes, even the vine withers.'"

Then, stooping down, he gathered a handful of stones and flung them
with all his might at Uros, after which he took to his heels and ran
off with all his might.

The stones went hissing by Uros, but one of them caught him on his
brow, grazing off the skin and covering his eyes with blood. Uros,
blinded by the stone, remained standing for a while, and then, seeing
that Vranic had run off, he went up to Milena's door and tapped
lightly.

"Milena," said he, "have you heard the quarrel I have had with
Vranic?"

"Yes, did he hurt you?"

"Only a mere scratch."

"Nothing more?"

"No."

"Surely?"

"No, indeed!"

Milena would willingly have opened the door to see if Uros was only
scratched, but she was in too great a trepidation to do so.

"Well," added she, "if you are not hurt, please go away."

"But are you not afraid Vranic might come back?"

"Well, and if he does? He'll find the door shut as before. Moreover,
I'm by no means afraid of him, he is the greatest coward, or at least
the only coward, of the town; therefore do not stay here on my
account, you can do me no good."

"Then you do not want me?" said Uros, in a lingering way, and with a
sigh.

"No; go," quoth she. "If you love me, go."

Uros turned his back on the cottage and wended his steps homewards.
The moon was now rising above the hills in the distance. Milena went
to the window and looked at the young man going off. Her heart
yearned after him as he went, and she fain would have called him
back.

Poor fellow, he had fought for her, he was wounded, and now she let
him go off like that. It was not right. Was his wound but a scratch?
She ought to have seen after it. It was very ungrateful of her not to
have looked after it.

All at once Uros stopped. Her heart began to beat. He turned round
and came back on his steps. At first she was delighted, then she was
disappointed. She wished he had not turned back.

He walked back slowly and stealthily, trying to muffle his steps.

What was he going to do?

Milena ran to the door and put her ear close to the key-hole.

She heard Uros come up to the very sill and then it seemed to her
that he had sat or crouched upon the step.

Was he hurt? Was he going to stay there and watch over the house like
a faithful dog?

She waited a while; not the slightest sound was heard; she could
hardly keep still. At last, unable to bear it any longer:

"Uros," said she, "is that you?"

"Yes."

"And what are you doing there?"

"I was going to watch over you."

Overcome by this proof of the young man's love, Milena slowly opened
the door, and taking Uros by both his hands she made him come in.

The wind did not rise and the brigantine rode still at anchor in the
bay. The days passed, and at last merry Christmas was drawing near.
The _pobratim_--though anxious to be off--hoped that the calm weather
would last for a week longer, that they might pass the
_badnji-vecer_--or the evening of the log--and Christmas Day with
their parents.

Their wishes were granted; one day passed after the other and the
weather was always most beautiful. Not the slightest cloud came
either to dim or enhance the limpid blue sky, and though the mornings
were now rather fresh, the days were, as yet, delightfully warm and
radiant with sunshine. In the gardens the oleanders were all in full
bloom, so were also the roses, the geraniums and the China asters;
whilst in the field many a daisy was seen glinting at the modest
speedwell, and the Dalmatian convolvulus entwined itself lovingly
around the haughty acanthus, which spread out their fretted leaves to
the sun, taking up as much space as well they could, while in damp
places the tall, feathery grasses grew amidst the sedges, the reeds,
and the rushes and all kinds of rank weeds of glowing hues. Not a
breath of wind came to ripple the surface of the shining blue waters.

On the 24th a little cloud was seen far off, the colour of the waters
grew by degrees of a dull leaden tint, and the wind began to moan. In
the meanwhile the cloudlet that had been the size of a weasel grew to
be as big as a camel, then it swelled out into the likeness of some
huge megatherium, it rolled out its massy coils and overspread the
whole space of the sky. Then the clouds began to lower, and seemed to
cover the earth with a ponderous lid. The wind and the cold having
increased, the summer all at once passed away into dreary and bleak
winter.

Christmas was to be kept at Milos Bellacic's house, for though the
two families had always been on the most friendly terms, they, since
the day upon which the two young men had become _pobratim_, got to be
almost one family. Some other friends had been asked to come and make
merry with them on that evening. Amongst other guests Zwillievic,
Milena's father, who was a cousin of Bellacic's, having come with his
wife to spend the Christmas holidays at Budua, had accepted his
kinsman's hospitality. Milena had also been asked to come and pass
those days merrily with her parents.

At nightfall, all the guests being already assembled, the yule-log,
the huge bole of an olive tree, was, with great ado, brought to the
house. Bellacic, standing on the threshold with his cap in his hand,
said to it:

"Welcome log, and may God watch over you."

Then, taking the _bucara_ or wooden bottle, he began to sprinkle it
with wine, forming a cross as he did so, then he threw some wheat
upon it, calling a blessing upon his house, and upon all his guests,
who stood grouped behind him, after which all the guests answered in
chorus, "And so be it." Thereupon all the men standing outside the
house fired off their guns and pistols to show their joy, shouting:
"May Christmas be welcome to you."

After this Uros brought in his own log and the same ceremony had once
more to be gone through.

The logs were then festively placed upon the hearth, where they had
to burn the whole night, and even till the next morning.

In the meantime a copious supper was prepared and set upon the table.
In the very midst, taking the place of an _epergne_, there was a
large loaf, all trimmed up with ivy and evergreens, and in the centre
of this loaf there were thrust three wax candles carefully twisted
into one, so as to form a taper, which was lit in honour of the Holy
Trinity. Christmas Eve being a fast day, the meal consisted of fish
cooked in different ways.

First, there was a pillau with scallops, then cod--which is always
looked upon as the staple fare of evening--after which followed
pickled tunny, eels, and so forth. The _starescina_, taking a
mouthful of every dish that was brought upon the table, went to throw
it upon the burning log, so that it might bring him a prosperous
year; his son then followed his example.

After all had eaten and were filled, they gathered around the hearth
and squatted down upon the straw with which the floor was strewn
--for, in honour of Christ, the room had been made to look as much as
possible like a manger, or a stable. They again greeted each other
with the usual compliments, "for many years," and so forth, and black
coffee was served in Turkish fashion, that is, in tiny cups, held by
a kind of silver, or silvered metal, egg-cup instead of a saucer.
Most everyone loosened his girdle, some took off their shoes, and all
made themselves comfortable for the night. Thereupon Milenko, who was
somewhat of a bard and who had studied an epic song for the
occasion, one of those heroic and wild _junaske_, took his _guzla_,
and gave the company the story of "Marko Kraglievic and the Moor of
Primoryé," as follows:--


KRAGLIEVIC MARKO I CRNI ARAPIN.

  An Arab lord had once in Primoryé,
    A mighty castle by the spray-swept shore;
  Its many lofty halls were bright and gay,
    And Moorish lads stood watching at each door.
  Albeit its wealth, mirth never echoed there;
    Its lord was prone to be of pensive mood,
  And oft his frown would freeze the very air;
    On secret sorrow he e'er seemed to brood.
  At times to all his _svati_ would he say:
   "What do I care for all this wide domain,
  Or for my guards on steeds in bright array?
    Much more than dazzling pomp my heart would fain
  Have some fond tie so that the time might seem
    Less tedious in its flight. I am alone.
  A mother's heart, a sister's, or, I deem,
    A bride's would be far more than all I own."
  Thus unto him his liegemen made reply:
    "O, mighty lord! they say that Russia's Czar
  Has for his heir, a daughter meek and shy,
    Of beauty rare, just like the sparkling star
  That gleams at dawn and shines at eventide.
    Now, master, we do wait for thy behest.
  Does thy heart crave to have this maid for bride?
    Say, shall we sally forth unto her quest?"
  The master mused a while, then answered: "Aye,
    By Allah! fetch this Russian for my mate!
  Tell her she'll be the dame of Primoryé,
    The mistress of my heart and my estate.
  But stop.--If Russia should not grant his child,
    Then tell him I shall kill his puny knights,
  And waste his lands. Say that my love is wild,
    Hot as the Lybian sun, deep as the night!"
  Now, after riding twenty days and more,
    The _svati_ reached at last their journey's end,
  Then straightway to the Russian King they bore
    Such letters as their lord himself had penned.
  The great Czar having read the Moor's demand,
    And made it known to all his lords at Court,
  Could, for a while, but hardly understand
    This strange request; he deemed it was in sport.
  A blackamoor to wed his daughter fair!
    "I had as lief," said he, "the meanest lad
  Of my domains as son-in-law and heir,
    Than this grim Moor, who must in sooth be mad."
  But soon his wrath was all changed into grief,
    On learning to his dread and his dismay,
  That not a knight would stir to his relief,
    No one would fight the Moor of Primoryé!
  Howe'er the Queen upon that very night
    Did dream a dream. Within Prilipù town,
  Beyond the Balkan mounts, she saw a knight,
    Whose mighty deeds had won him great renown.
  (Kraglievic Marko was the hero's name);
    His flashing sword was always seen with awe
  By faithless Turks, who dreaded his great fame;
    And in her dream that night the Queen then saw
  This mighty Serb come forth to save her child.
    Then did the Czarin to her lord relate
  The vision which her senses had beguiled,
    And both upon it long did meditate.
  Upon the morrow, then, the Czar did write
    To Marko, asking him to come and slay
  This haughty Moor, as not a Russian knight
    Would deign to fight the lord of Primoryé.
  As meed he promised him three asses stout,
    Each laden with a sack of coins of gold.
  As soon as Marko read this note throughout,
    These words alone the messenger he told:
  "What if this Arab killed me in the strife,
    And from my shoulders he do smite my head.
  Will golden ducats bring me back to life?
    What do I care for gold when I am dead?"
  The herald to the King this answer bore.
    Thereon the Queen wrote for her daughter's sake:
  "Great Marko, I will give thee three bags more,
    Six bags in all, if you but undertake
  To free my daughter from such heinous fate,
    As that of having to become the bride
  Of such a man as that vile renegade."
    To Prilipù the messenger did ride,
  But Marko gave again the same reply.
    The Czar then summoned forth his child to him:
  "Now 'tis thy turn," said he; "just write and try
    To get the Serb to kill this man whose whim
  Is to have thee for wife." The maid thus wrote:
    "O Marko, brother mine, do come at once.
  I beg you for the love that you devote
    To God and to St. John, come for the nonce
  To free me from the Moor of Primoryé.
    Seven sacks of gold I'll give you for this deed,
  And, if I can this debt of mine repay,
    A shirt all wrought in gold will be your meed.
  Moreover, you shall have my father's sword;
    And as a pledge thereon the King's great seal,
  Which doth convey to all that Russia's lord
    Doth order and decree that none shall deal
  Its bearer harm; no man shall ever slay
    You in his wide domains. Come, then, with speed
  To free me from the lord of Primoryé."
    To Prilipù the herald did proceed
  With all due haste; he rode by day and night,
    Through streams and meads, through many a bushy dell;
  At last at Marko's door he did alight.
    When Marko read the note, he answered: "Well--"
  Then mused a while, then bade the young page go.
    But said the youth: "What answer shall I give?"
  "Just say I answered neither yes nor no."
    The Princess saw that she would ne'er outlive
  Her dreadful doom, and walking on the strand,
    There, 'midst her sobs, she said: "O thou deep sea,
  Receive me in thy womb, lest the curst brand
    Of being this man's wife be stamped on me."
  Just when about to plunge she lifts her eyes,
    And lo! far off, a knight upon a steed,
  Armed cap-à-pie, advancing on, she spies.
    "Why weepest thou, O maid? tell me thy need,
  And if my sword can be of any use . . ."
    "Thanks, gentle sir. Alas! one knight alone
  Can wield his brand for me; but he eschews
     To fight."
                "A coward, then, is he."
                                         "'Tis known
  That he is brave."
                      "His name?"
                                    "He did enrich
    The soil with Turkish blood at Cossovo.
  You sure have heard of Marko Kraglievic."
    Thereon he kissed her hand and answered low:
  "Well, I am he; and I come for your sake.
    Go, tell the Czar to give thee as a bride
  Unto the Moor; then merry shall we make
    In some _mehan_, and there I shall abide
  The coming of the lord of Primoryé."
    The Princess straightway told the Czar, and he
  At once gave orders that they should obey
    All that the Serb might bid, whate'er it be.
  That night with all his men the Arab came--
    Five hundred liegemen, all on prancing steeds;
  The Czar did welcome them as it became
    Men high in rank, and of exalted deeds.
  Then, after that, they all went to the inn.
    "Ah!" said the Moor, as they were on their way,
  "How all are scared, and shut themselves within
    Their homes; all fear the men of Primoryé."
  But, as they reached the door of the _mehan_,
    The Arab, on his horse, would cross the gate,
  When, on the very sill, he saw a man
    Upon a steed. This sight seemed to amate
  The Arab lord. But still he said: "Stand off!
    And let me pass."
                     "For you, this is no place,
  Miscreant heathen dog!"
                                 At such a scoff
  Each angry liegeman lifted up his mace.
    Thereon 'twixt them and him ensued a fight,
  Where Marko dealt such blows that all around
    The din was heard, like thunder in the night.
  He hacked and hewed them down, until a mound
    Of corpses lay amid a pool of blood,
  For trickling from each fearful gash it streamed,
    And wet the grass, and turned the earth in mud
  Of gore; whilst all this time each falchion gleamed,
    For Marko's sword was ruthless in the fray,
  And when it fell, there all was cleaved in twain;
    No coat of mail such strokes as his could stay,
  Nor either did he stop to ascertain
    If all the blood that trickled down each limb
  Was but that of the foe and not his own.
    And thus he fought, until the day grew dim,
  And thus he fought, and thus he stood alone
    Against them all; till one by one they fell,
  As doth the corn before the reaper's scythe,
    Whilst their own curses were their only knell!
  The Serb, howe'er, was still both strong and lithe,
    When all the swarthy Arabs round him lay.
  "Now 'tis thy time to die, miscreant knight!"
    He called unto the Moor of Primoryé.
  With golden daggers they began to fight;
    They thrust and parried both with might and main;
  But soon the Arab sank to writhe in pain.
    Then Marko forthwith over him did bend
  To stab him through the heart. Then off he took
    His head, on which he threw a light cymar
  (For 'twas, indeed, a sight that few could brook):
    Thus covered up, he took it to the Czar.
  Then Marko got the Princess for his wife--
    Besides the gold that was to be his meed,
  And from that day most happy was his life,
    Known far and wide for many a knightly deed.


The merry evening came to an end; in the meanwhile the weather had
undergone another transformation. The cold having set in, the thin
sleet had all at once changed into snow. The tiny patches of ice and
the little droplets of rain had swelled out into large fleecy flakes,
which kept fluttering about hither and thither, helter-skelter,
before they came down to the ground; they seemed, indeed, to be
chasing one another all the time, with the grace of spring
butterflies. Even when the flakes did fall it was not always for
long, for the wind, creeping slily along the earth, often lifted them
up and drove them far away, whirling them into eddies, till at last
they were allowed to settle down in heaps, blocking up doors and
windows; or else, flying away, they ensconced themselves in every
nook and corner, in every chink and cranny.

That evening, when the good Christians went to church to hear the
oft-repeated tidings of great joy, uttered by the _vladika_, or
priest, in the sacramental words: _Mir Bogig, Christos se rodè_, or
"The peace of God be with you, Christ is born"; and when, after
midnight, they returned home, while huge logs were blazing on every
hearth, they hardly knew again either the town or its neighbourhood,
all wrapped up in a mantle of dazzling whiteness; the sight was a
rather unusual one, for the inhabitants of Budua had seen snow but
very seldom.

The whole Christmas Day was spent very pleasantly in going about from
house to house, wishing everyone joy and happiness, or receiving
friends at home and drinking bumpers to their health. It was, indeed,
a merry, forgiving time, when the hearts of men were full of
kindness and good-will, and peace reigned upon earth.

There were, indeed, some exceptions to the general rule of
benevolence, for, now and then, some man, even upon that hallowed
day, bore within his breast but a clay-cold heart, in which grudge,
envy and malice still rankled, and the Christmas greetings, wheezed
through thin lips, had but a chilling and hollow sound.

The very first person who came to Bellacic's house early on Christmas
morning was Vranic, the spy. It was not out of love that he came. He
had been sneaking about the house, casting long, prying glances from
beneath the hood of his _kabanica_, or great-coat, trying to find out
whether Milena were there, for he knew that she had not passed the
night in her own house.

All at once, whilst he was sneaking about, he was met by several
young men, bent on their Christmas rounds of visits; they took him
along with them, and, though quite against himself, he was the first
to put his foot in Bellacic's house upon that day.

According to the Slav custom, he was asked, after the usual
greetings, to tap the yule log with his stick. He at once complied,
with as much good grace as he could muster, uttering the well-known
phrase:

"May you have as many horses, cows, and sheep as the _badnjak_ has
given you sparks."

Knowing that while he was saying these words every member of the
family, and every guest gathered together around him, would hang upon
his looks, trying to read in his face whether the forthcoming year
would be a prosperous one, for the expression of the features, as
well as the way in which these words are uttered, are reckoned to be
sure omens, Vranic, therefore, tried to put on a pleasant look and a
good-natured appearance, but this was so alien to his nature that he
was by no means sure of success.

Uros and Milena had, however, stood aloof; they had understood that
the prediction must be unfavourable, and, though they did not look
up, they heard that the voice, which was meant to be soft and oily,
was bitter, hard and grating.

A gloom had come over the house just then; it seemed as if that man
of ill-omen had stepped in to damp everyone's joy.

Uros remained stock-still, and though his fingers instinctively
grasped the handle of his knife, still he was too much of a Slav to
harm a guest in his own house. As for Milenko, not having any reasons
for being so forbearing, he was about to thrust the fiend out of his
adopted parents' house, when Vranic, drawing back from the hearth,
caught his foot on the fag end of a log, and, not to fall, stepped
over it. This was the remainder of that log which Uros had himself
put upon the fire, and, according to the traditional custom, it had
been taken away from the hearth before it had been quite consumed,
for it was to be kept, as the fire on New Year's Eve was to be
kindled with it. Vranic hardly noticed what he had done, but everyone
present looked stealthily at one another, and quietly crossed
themselves. Vranic, they knew, had come with evil thoughts in his
head, but now he had only brought harm upon himself, for it is well
known that whoever steps over a _badnjak_ is doomed to die within the
year.

The seer went off soon after this, and then, when the other
well-wishers came, the gloom that he had left behind him was
dispelled, and the remainder of the Christmas Day was spent in mirth
and jollity.




CHAPTER IV

NEW YEAR'S DAY


On the last day of the year the _pobratim_ were sailing on the waters
of the Adriatic not far from the island of Lissa, now famed in
history for its naval wars. Soon the sun went down behind a huge mass
of grey clouds, and night set in when the vessel was about to sail
amidst that maze of inlets, straits, channels and friths, which
characterise all that part of the Dalmatian coast. But, though the
night was dark and wild, their schooner was strong and stout, and
accustomed to weather such heavy seas.

A head-wind arose, which first began to shiver amidst the rigging
like a human being sick of a fever; then it changed into a slight
wailing sound, so that it seemed at times the voice of a suffering
child tossing about in its cot unable to find rest. The wind
increased, and the sound changed into a howl like the rage of untamed
beasts; it was a horrible concert, where serpents hissed, wild cats
mewed and lions roared in and out of time and tune; but not without a
strange, weird, uncouth harmony. It was the voice of the storm. Great
Adamastor, the genius of the foul weather, baffled at not being able
to snap all the ropes asunder and break down the straining masts, was
yelling with impotent rage. He was, withal, a cunning old man and
knew more than one trick, for, after holding his breath for a while,
he would whisper no louder than a mother does when her babe is
asleep, and then again, he would begin to snicker slily in a low,
snorting way, until, all at once, he broke loose into loud fits of
fiendish, hoarse merriment.

Added to this head-wind, a heavy sea rolled its huge waves against
the prow of the ship and dashed the spray of its breakers up its very
sails; then the strong rain would come down in showers at every gust
of wind. The elements seemed, indeed, bent upon overwhelming the poor
craft groaning at this ill-treatment.

Eleven o'clock having just struck, Uros went below and Milenko got
ready to take up his watch.

Poor Uros! he was not only weary and wet to the skin--for his huge
_kabanica_, or overcoat, had been of little avail against the pelting
rain--but, worse than that, for the first time in his life he felt
home-sick and love-sick. He remembered the pleasant Christmas Eve,
the last night but one which he had passed at home. Whilst the wind
howled and the waves rolled high he recalled to mind the many
incidents of that evening, which had been for him the happiest of his
life, and there, in the darkness of the night, Milena's bright and
laughing eyes were always twinkling before him. Her sweet looks,
which he had drunk down like intoxicating wine, had maddened his
brain.

Hitherto Uros had been passionately fond of the sea, and his great
ambition was to be one day the master of a ship. Now that his dream
seemed about to be realised even beyond his wildest ambition--for the
brig was really a fine ship--his heart was far behind on shore, and
the sea had lost its charm. That night especially he wished he could
have been back by his own fireside watching the remainder of the
yule-logs as they burnt away into cinders.

When Uros came down, the captain brought out a bottle of some rare
old genuine cognac, which on some former voyage he himself had got at
Bordeaux. Punch was made, Milenko was called down and toasts were
drunk to the health of the absent ones, songs were sung about the
pleasantness of a life upon the wide, wide sea; but the voice of the
waves seemed to jeer them, and then the captain fell a-thinking that
he was growing of an age when it was far more agreeable to remain
amidst his little brood at home. As for poor Uros, he thought of the
woman who lived in a lonely cottage, and he wondered whether harm
might not befal her, now that he was no more there to watch over her.
He thought that, after all, it was useless to go roaming about the
world when he might remain at home tilling his father's fields.
Milenko alone was of a cheerful mood; perhaps it was because he
thought less of himself and more of those around him.

Milenko came and went up and down like a squirrel, keeping his watch
and trying to cheer his friend. Still, each time he went up and
looked about, he found that the wind was stronger and the waves
rolled higher. Meanwhile the captain, roused to a sense of duty,
tried to enliven the passing hours by telling old tales, comical
adventures, and strange sea legends.

Soon the storm increased apace, and Milenko had to remain on deck;
but Uros, being tired and sleepy, was about to betake himself to
rest. Midnight had just struck, and the hands of the clock were on
twelve, a last cup was drained, and the three seamen having thus seen
the old year out and the new year in, separated and each one went his
own way. The clock withal was rather fast, and it was only some
moments after they had separated from one another that the old year
breathed its last.

Before going to rest, Uros, who had slightly bruised his forehead
just where Vranic had cut him with the stone, went to his chest and
took out of it a small round tin looking-glass and opened it. He
wished to see what kind of a scratch it had left, and if the scar
were healing. He had scarcely cast his eyes upon it when, to his
great surprise, lo, and behold! far from seeing his own face in the
glass, Vranic's likeness was there, staring upon him with his usual
leer!

Uros was startled at this sight; then, for a while he stood as if
transfixed, gloating on the image within the glass, unable to turn
away his eyes from it. Then, appalled as he was, he almost dropped
the looking-glass he was holding.

All at once remembering that it was midnight--the moment when the old
year passes into oblivion and the new one rises from chaos--his hand
fell, and he stood for a while, pale, shuddering, and staring upon
vacancy. But--recalled to himself--he endeavoured to retrace the long
string of thoughts that had flitted through his brain, since he had
left the captain and Milenko up to the moment that he had looked upon
the glass, and Vranic was not amongst them. His brain had been
rather muddled by sleepiness and brandy, and he had hardly been
thinking about anything.

Having lifted up the glass to the height of his face, he for a moment
held his head averted, for he had really not the courage to look upon
it.

After a while he shrugged his shoulders, muttering to himself: "I
have always been thinking of Milena, and of the last days I passed at
home, so that now this man's face--such as I had seen it on Christmas
morning--has been impressively recalled to my mind. It must be this
and nothing more."

Still, the moment when he tried again to look upon the glass, a vague
terror came over him, and all his courage passed away; it was just as
if he were looking upon some unhallowed thing, as if he were
indulging in witchcraft. But curiosity prevailed once more, and as he
did so, a trepidation came all over his limbs. This time he was
surely not mistaken; it was no vision of his overheated fancy, seen
with his mind's eye; sleepiness and the effect of the brandy had
quite passed away, and still the glass--instead of reflecting his own
features--was the living portrait of the man he hated. There he was,
with his low forehead, his livid complexion, his pale greyish-green
eyes, his high cheekbones and his flat nose.

He was almost impelled to dash down the glass and break it into
pieces, but still he durst not do it; a superstitious fear stopped
him; it was, as we all know, so very unlucky to break a
looking-glass by accident, but to break it of his own free will must
be far worse.

He now kept his eyes riveted upon the tiny mirror, and then he saw
Vranic's face slightly fade and then vanish away; then the glass for
a few seconds grew dim as if a damp breath had passed upon it; then
the dimness disappeared little by little, the glass again grew clear
and reflected his own pale face, with his eyes wildly opened,
glistening with a wild, feverish look. Now, he was not mistaken;
Vranic was not to see another year!

Uros had often heard it said that, if a young unmarried man looks by
chance in a looking-glass at the stroke of twelve, just when the old
year is dying out, he will perhaps see, either the woman he is to
marry in the course of the year, Death, or a man of his acquaintance
doomed to die within the year. He had never tried it, because it is a
thing that has to be done by chance, and even then the mirror does
not always foretell the future. Now, the thing happened so naturally,
in such an unforeseen, unpremeditated way, that there was no
possibility of a doubt. Vranic, then, was doomed to die.

A week before, his death had been predicted the moment when he
stumbled and slipped over the stump of the yule-log--aye, it was his
own log--now again his enemy's death was foretold to him.

As he stood there with his glass in his hand, a thought struck him,
and in answer to this, he lifted his eyes upwards and begged his
patron saint to keep his hands clean, and not to make him the
instrument of his enemy's death.

"He is a villain," muttered he to himself, "and he fully deserves a
thousand deaths; but let him not die by my hand. If he dies of a
violent death, let me not be his executioner."

Uros stood there for some time as if bewildered and very much like a
man who had seen a ghost, afraid to look round lest he should see
Vranic's face gloating upon him; then shuddering, he ran upstairs to
tell his adoptive brother all that had happened, and the strange
vision he had seen.

When Uros went up on deck, he found that the wind had greatly
increased, and that from a cap-full, as it had been in the beginning,
it had grown into a hurricane. The sky was even darker than before;
the waves, swollen into huge breakers, dashed against the prow of the
ship, making her stagger and reel as if she had been stunned by those
mighty blows.

The captain had now taken command of the ship, for all that part of
the Adriatic up to the Quarnero, with its archipelago of islands, its
numerous straits, its friths and rock-bound inlets, where the
mountains of the mainland--sloping down to the water's edge--end in
long ledges and chasms all interspersed with sharp ridges, rocks and
sunken reefs, through which the ships have often to wind carefully in
and out, is like a perilous maze. The navigation of these parts,
difficult enough in the day-time by fair weather, is more than
dangerous on a dark and stormy night.

The ship, according to all calculation, had passed the Punta della
Planca, and was not very far from the port of Sebenico. It was
useless to try and take shelter there, for the town is most difficult
of access, especially during contrary winds.

All that night the whole crew were on deck obeying the captain's
orders, for it was as much as they could do to manage the ship, at
war with all the elements; besides, as she rode forecastle in, she
had shipped several seas, so that, deeply-laden as she was, she
wallowed heavily about, and looked every moment as if she were ready
to founder.

The storm had now risen to the highest pitch, and the captain, who,
as it has been said, was an elderly man, as well as an experienced
sailor, acknowledged that he scarcely remembered a more fearful gale
in the whole of his lifetime. All waited eagerly for the first
streaks of dawn; for a tempest, though frightful in broad daylight,
is always more appalling in the dead of the night. They waited a long
time, for it seemed as if darkness had set for ever over this world.

At last a faint grey, glimmering light appeared in the east; then, by
degrees, towards daybreak, the waters overhead, and the waters
underneath, had a gloomy, greyish hue. Light spread itself far and
wide, but the storm did not abate.

Milenko, with his spy-glass in his hand, was searching through the
veil of mist that surrounded the ship, for some island in the offing,
when, all at once, he thought he could perceive a dark speck not very
far off. This object, apparently cradled by the waters, was so dimly
seen that he could not even guess what it was; but after keeping his
eyes steadily upon it, he saw, or rather, he thought he saw, the hull
or wreck of a ship, or a buoy. No, surely it could not be a buoy
floating there in the midst of the waters. Was it not, perhaps, some
foam-covered rock against which the waves were dashing? His eyes were
rooted upon it for some time, and then he was certain that it was not
a rock, for it moved, nay, it seemed to float about. He pondered for
a while. Could it not be, he thought, the head of one of those huge
sea-snakes, upon which ships, having sometimes cast their anchors,
are dragged down into the fathomless abysses of the deep, there to
become the prey of this horrible monster? It was really too far off
for him to understand what it was.

He waited for some time, then he strained his eyes, and he saw that
it could be nothing but a boat. He called Uros to him, but his
friend's sight being less keen than his own, he could make nothing of
it. The captain, having come to them, could not distinguish the
floating object at all. As they steered onwards, they came nearer to
it, and then they found out that it was indeed the hull of a caique
or galley-boat, which, having lost its masts and rudder, was tossed
about at the mercy of the breakers, that always seemed ready to
swallow it up. The crew on board were making signs of distress, but
it was a rather difficult task to lend a helping hand to that crazy
ship. It was impossible, with that heavy sea, for the brig to go
alongside of her, or to lie near enough for her crew to manage to get
on board. Nay, it was very dangerous for the brig to attempt going
anywhere near the caique, for the consequences might have been
disastrous if the wreck were thrown against her, as the stronger one
of the two would thus have dashed the weaker vessel to pieces.

In this predicament Milenko volunteered to go in a little boat, if
any two men would go with him. At first all refused, but when Uros
said that he was ready to share his friend's fate, another sailor
came forth to lend a helping hand in rescuing those lives in fearful
jeopardy.

The _pobratim_ having skilfully managed to get near enough to the
caique, so as to be understood, they called out to the captain to
throw them a rope overboard. This was done, but the hawser, without a
buoy, could hardly be got at; it was, therefore, pulled back, a
broken spar was tied at its end, and then it was again cast
overboard.

After a full half-hour's hard work, Milenko and his mates managed to
get to the floating hawser and to haul it up; then they rowed lustily
back to the ship with it. The caique was then tugged close to the
brig's stern, which steered towards the land as well as she could.

The poor bark, shorn of her masts, was in a wretched state, and one
of her men having gone down in the hold to see how much water there
was in her, found that she had sprung a leak and that she was filling
fast, notwithstanding all the exertions of the men at the pump.

Though the storm had somewhat abated, still the caique was now
sinking, so that it was beyond all possibility to reach the shore in
time to save her. The two friends again got into the boat, and went
once more beside the wreck. This time they managed to get near enough
to save the crew and the few passengers they had. When all were on
board, then this little boat, heavily laden with human lives, was
rowed back to the brig. After this, the rope which bound the caique
was cut off, and she was left to drift away at the mercy of the
waves, and, little by little, sink out of sight.

The first person that Milenko had got into the little boat, and who
he now helped on board the brig, was a young girl of about sixteen,
but who, like the women of her country, looked rather older than she
was. After her came her father and her mother, who were passengers on
board of the caique; they had come from Scio, and were bound for
Nona, a small town near Zara. The young girl had, throughout the
storm, shown an extraordinary courage; nay, she had been a helpmate
rather than an encumbrance. But when she saw herself safe on board
the _Spera in Dio_ (Hope in God)--for this was the brig's name--then
her strength failed her all at once, and she sank into a deep swoon.
Milenko, who had helped her on board, and who was standing by her,
caught her up in his arms, carried her downstairs and laid her upon
his bed.

Milenko had hitherto never cared for any woman; but now, as he
carried this lifeless body, and he saw this pale, wan, childlike face
leaning on his shoulder, he felt a strange unknown flutter somewhere
about his heart. Then the sense of his own manhood came over him; he
knew himself strong, and he was glad to be able to shelter this frail
being within his brawny arms.

Having rescued this girl from the jaws of death, she seemed to be his
own, and his bosom heaved with a feeling quite new to him. He would
have liked to have gone through life with this weak creature clinging
to him for strength, just as a mother would fain have her babe ever
nestling on her bosom. Now, having to relinquish her, he was glad to
lay her upon his own bed, for thus she still seemed to belong to him.

Her mother was at once by her side, her father and the captain soon
followed, and all the care their rough hospitality could afford was
lavished upon her. As the fainting-fit had been brought on through
long fasting, as well as by a strain of the nerves, a spoonful of the
captain's rare cognac had the desired effect of recalling her to
life.

Coming to herself, she was astonished at seeing so many sunburnt,
weather-beaten, unknown faces around her; she looked at them all,
from one to the other, but Milenko's deep blue eyes, wistfully
gloating upon her own, attracted her attention. She had seen him in
the boat when he came to their rescue, he had helped her on board;
and now, after that fainting-fit, which seemed to have stopped the
march of time for a while, she fancied she had known him long ago.
She looked first at him, then at her mother; then again at him. After
this, feeling as if she was quite safe as long as her mother and that
unknown young man--who still was no stranger--stood watching over
her, her heavy eyelids drooped, and she fell into a light slumber.

The captain having persuaded the mother to take some rest, all went
to attend to their duties; still, Milenko softly crept down every now
and then to see if the women wanted anything, and to have a sly look
at the young girl sleeping in his bed. As he stood there gazing upon
her, he was conscious that his senses had grown more mellow--that
life henceforth had an aim. This was the dawn of real love in a
strong man's breast. Whilst he was looking at her, the young girl
woke from her slumbers; she opened her eyes, and her glances fell
again upon him.

"Where am I?" she said, half-frightened. Then, recognising the young
man, she added: "Yes, I know, you saved my life when I was drowning."

The mother, hearing her daughter speak, yawned, stretched out her
arms and woke.

The storm had now abated. The dark clouds were quickly flitting, and
the sun, which had risen upon that first day of the year, was now
shining in all its splendour on the broad expanse of the blue waters
and upon the huge crested waves; and the sight was as exhilarating as
it was delightful.

The poor wrecked family having gathered together on deck, breakfast
was got ready, and all sat down to the frugal meal which the ship's
provisions afforded.

When the breakfast was over, the father of the young girl--who had
been questioned several times as to the place from where he was
coming, to the port whither he was bound, his occupation, and so
forth--related to his hosts the story of his adventures, which can be
abridged as follows:

"My name is Giulianic. Our family, though Slav and Orthodox, is said
to have been of Italian origin, and that the name, years ago, was
Giuliani. Still, I cannot swear as to the truth of this assertion. My
father in his first youth had gone to the Levant, and had settled at
Chios. He was a coppersmith; and, as far as I can remember, he was
very prosperous. He had a large and well-furnished shop, and employed
a good many workmen.

"I was the eldest of the family; after me there came a girl, who,
happily for herself, died when she was yet quite a baby, and before
trouble befel us; for had she been spared, she doubtless would have
ended her life in some harem, if not in a worse way, losing thus both
soul and body. After her came two boys; so that between myself and
my youngest brother there was a difference of about ten years, if not
more. I was, therefore, the only child of our family who knew the
blessing of a happy boyhood, for my early years, spent either in my
father's shop or in our country-house, were passed in bliss; but
alas! that time is so far off that its remembrance is only like a
dream.

"When I was about ten or twelve years--I cannot say exactly how old I
was, as all the registers have been destroyed--a terrible revolution
took place. It was, I remember, an awful time, when Christian blood
ran in streams through the streets of towns and villages, when houses
were burnt down, and the whole island remained a mass of smouldering
ruins.

"My father was, if I am not mistaken, the first victim of that bloody
fray; like all men of pluck, and indeed like most men of no pluck at
all, he was butchered by the Turks. My mother----"

There was a pause. A tear glistened in the corner of the old man's
eye, then it rolled down his wrinkled cheek and disappeared in the
long, bristling white moustache; his voice faltered. Though more than
half a century had passed since that dreadful day, still he could
hardly speak about it. After a moment he added, drily:

"My mother fell into the hands of those dogs. I was separated from my
brothers. The youngest, as I was told, was taken by those fiends. He
was a bright, handsome boy; they made a Turk of him. My other brother
disappeared; for days I sought him everywhere, but I could not find
him.

"Before I go on with the story of my life, I must tell you that all
the men in the Giulianic family have, since immemorial times, a
bright red stain, like a small drop of blood, on the nape of the
neck, just about where the collar-bone is bound to the skull. Its
peculiarity is that its colour increases and decreases with the lunar
phases. Besides this, my father in those troubled times, foreseeing
that the day might come when we should be snatched from him, caused a
little Greek Cross to be tattooed upon us."

Here, suiting the action to the words, he bared his left breast and
showed us the holy sign just near the place where the heart is seen
to throb.

"Thus, to resume the story of my life, when I was hardly twelve I
found myself an orphan, alone and penniless. The night of that
dreadful day I went to cry by the smouldering ruins of our house,
looking if I could at least find the mangled remains of that father
whom I loved so dearly. When morning came, I knew that I was not only
turned adrift upon this wide world, but that I had to flee, whither I
knew not. I lurked about in all kinds of hiding-places, and when I
crawled out I always seemed to hear the steps and the voices of those
bloodthirsty murderers. The falling leaf, the sudden flight of a
locust, the chirrup of an insect filled me with terror, and indeed
more than once, hidden within a bush or crouching behind a stone, I
saw the tall _zeibeks_, those fierce-looking mountaineers, the
scourge of the country far around, in search of prey. For days I
managed to live, I really do not know how, but principally on
oranges, I think. One day, being on the strand and seeing a vessel
riding at anchor at some distance, I swam up to it. The captain, who
was a Dalmatian, took pity on me, and brought me to Zara, whither his
ship was bound. From that time I managed to drag on through life;
still, I should not have been unhappy had I been able to forget.

"After several years of hard struggle, I at last went to Mostar;
there fate, tired of persecuting me, began to be more favourable. I
was prosperous in all my undertakings; I married; then my
restlessness began to wear away, I thought I had settled down for
life. Had I only been able to find out something about my lost
brothers, I do not think anything more would have been wanting to my
happiness.

"Years passed, aye, a good many years since those terrible days which
had blighted my childhood, for my eldest child, who died soon
afterwards, was then about the age I had been when I was bereft of
kith and kin. It happened that one day--stop, it was on Easter
Monday--I was having a picnic with some friends at a farm belonging
to my wife's father. We were sauntering in the fields, enjoying the
beauty of the country, which at that time was in all its bloom, when
looking down from a height upon the road beneath, we saw a cloud of
dust. We stopped to look, and we perceived at a few yards from us,
two or three panting men evidently running for their lives.

"They were all armed, not only with daggers and pistols, but also
with long muskets. At twenty paces behind them came half-a-dozen
_zaptiehs_, or guards.

"The highwaymen, for such they seemed to us, evidently tired out,
were losing ground at every step, and the Turks were about to
overtake them. All at once the robbers reached a corner of the road,
just under the hill on which we were standing; there the foremost man
amongst them stopped, and after bidding the others to be off, he put
his musket to his shoulder. When the _zaptiehs_ came nearer, he
called to them to turn back if they cared for their lives. There was
a moment of indecision amongst the guards; each one looked upon his
neighbour, wondering what he would do, when the one who seemed to be
their officer took out his pistol and pointed it at the highwayman,
calling to him to give up. For all reply, the robber took a
deliberate aim at the Turk. Both men fired at once. The guards,
astonished, stood back for a trice. The Turk fell, the highwayman
remained unhurt; thereupon he laid by his gun and took out a
revolver. The guards came up and fired off their weapons; the robber
fell, apparently shot through by many balls.

"The _zaptiehs_ stopped for a moment to look at their companion; they
undid his clothes. Life was already extinct; the highwayman's bullet
had struck him above the left breast, and, taking a downward course,
it had pierced the heart. Death must have been instantaneous. By the
signs of grief given to him, the man must have been admired and
beloved by his companions; but their sorrow seemed all at once to
melt into hatred and a thirst for revenge, so that they all rose and
ran after the two fugitives, evidently hoping to overtake them.

"I can hardly describe the feelings that arose in my breast at that
sight; it was the first time in my life that I had beheld the corpse
of a Turk, not only without any feeling of exultation, but even with
a sense of deep pity.

"'He was a brave man,' said I to my friends; 'therefore he must have
been a good man.'

"As soon as the _zaptiehs_ were out of sight, we ran down to see the
two men, and ascertain if life were quite extinct in them.

"I went up to the Turkish guard. I lifted up his lifeless head, and,
as I did so, my heart was filled with love and sorrow. He was a
stalwart, handsome man, in the flower of his years.

"'Is he quite dead?' I asked myself; 'is he not, perhaps, only
wounded?'

"I opened his vest to look at the wound, and as I laid his chest
bare, there, to my astonishment, grief and dismay, below the left
breast, pricked in tiny blue dots, was the sign of the holy Cross
--the Greek Cross, like the one which had been tattooed on my own
flesh.

"I felt faint as I beheld it; my eyes grew dim, my hands fell
lifeless. Was this man one of my long-lost brothers?

"My strength returned; with feverish hands I sought the mark on the
nape of the neck. It was full-moon; therefore the stain was not only
visible, but as red as the blood which flowed from his wounds.

"A feeling of faintness came over me again; I knew that I was deadly
pale. I uttered a cry as I pressed the lifeless head to my heart.

"This man, no doubt, was my youngest brother, whom those hell-hounds
had snatched away from our mother's breast upon that dreadful day,
and--cursed be their race for ever--they had made a Turkish guard of
him.

"His head was lying upon my lap; I bowed upon it and covered it with
kisses.

"My wife and all my friends, seeing me act in such a strange way,
unable to understand my overwhelming anguish, thought that I had been
all at once struck with madness.

"'What is the matter?' said my wife, looking at me with awe-struck
eyes.

"I could hardly speak. All I could do was to point with my finger at
the sign of the Cross on the _zaptieh_'s breast.

"'Can it be possible? Is it your brother?'

"I mournfully nodded assent. Then, after a few moments, I added that
I had also found the family sign on the nape of this man's neck.

"In the meantime help was given to the highwayman, who,
notwithstanding his wounds, was not quite dead, though he had fallen
into a death-like swoon. My father-in-law was vainly endeavouring to
bring him back to life, whilst I was lavishing my sorrow and caresses
upon the man I had so longed to see.

"'Let us take him away from here,' said I, trying to lift him up; 'he
shall not be touched by those dogs. Christian burial is to be given
him; he must lie in consecrated ground.'

"'But,' said my father-in-law----

"'There are no "buts." They have had his body in his lifetime; they
shall not have it after his death. Besides, his soul will have no
rest, thinking that its earthly shell lies festering unhallowed. No;
even if I am to lose my head, they shall not put a finger upon him.'

"Instead of giving me an answer, my father-in-law uttered a kind of
stifled cry of astonishment. My wife, who was by his side, shrieked
out, looked wildly at me, and then lifted both her hands to her head,
with horror and amazement.

"What had happened?

"I looked round. The highwayman, the man who had shot my brother
through the heart, was coming back to life; he was panting for
breath. I looked at him. He opened his eyes. A shudder came over me.
There was a strange likeness between the murderer and the murdered
man. Perhaps it was because the one was dying and the other was dead.

"My father-in-law, my wife and my friends looked at the robber, then
at me; awe, dread, sorrow was seen in all their eyes.

"I looked again at the highwayman. He had moved a little; his
_jacerma_ was loosened, his shirt was torn open, his breast was all
bare.

"Horror! There, under the left breast, I saw the sign of the Greek
Cross.

"For a moment I remained stunned, hardly knowing whether I was in my
senses or if I was mad.

"A feeling of overpowering fear came upon me; it seemed as if I were
in the midst of a mighty whirlwind. For the first time in my life I
beheld the sign of the holy Cross with horror and dismay.

"I lifted my hands up towards heaven in earnest supplication.

"A religious man prays, perhaps, two or three times a day; still,
those are lip-prayers. Few men pray from the innermost depths of
their hearts more than ten times during their life, and that, indeed,
is much. At that moment my very soul seemed to be upheaved towards
heaven with the words that came from my mouth. I entreated the
All-wise Creator of heaven and earth that this _heyduke_ might be no
kith and kin to me, that his blood-stained hands might not be
polluted with a brother's murder.

"During these few instants, my friends had gently lifted the dying
man from the ground, and then they had sought for the family sign on
the highwayman's neck. Like my brother's and mine, that stain was
there, of a blood-red hue.

"I left the body where life was extinct to tend the one where a spark
of life was yet lingering. Slowly and carefully we had the bodies
transported to my father-in-law's house.

"The Turkish guards on their pursuit of the robbers did not, on their
return, come back the same way. On the morrow a search was made for
their officer's body and for that of the highwayman, but, not finding
them, they came to the conclusion that they had been devoured by wild
beasts.

"With great difficulty, and with much bribing (for, as you yourselves
know, even our own priests are fond of _backseesh_) my dead brother
was laid low in our churchyard, and Masses were said on his earthly
remains. The wounded man lingered on for some days, between life and
death, and during all that time I was always by his bedside. He was
delirious, and by his ravings I understood that he hated the Turks as
much as I did, for he was always fighting against them. We called a
skilful surgeon of the Austrian army, who, though he gave us but
little hope, managed to snatch him from the jaws of death.

"His convalescence was very slow, but health kept creeping back. When
he was quite out of danger I questioned him about his youth, his
early manhood, and the circumstances that urged him to take to the
daring life of a _klefte_. Thereupon he related all the vicissitudes
of his good and bad fortune, which I shall resume as follows:

"'I was born at Chios; therefore, though I am of Slav origin and I am
called Giulianic, I am known throughout all Turkey as the Chiot. You
yourself must have heard of me. I remember but little of my family.
My life begins with a terrible date--that of the massacre of the
Christians in my native island. Upon that day I lost my father, my
mother and two of my brothers. Left alone, I was saved by a rich
Greek landowner. He had friends amongst the Turks, and was,
therefore, spared when almost all our fellow-countrymen were
butchered. This gentleman, who had several girls and no boy, treated
me like his own son; and when I reached early manhood, I was engaged
to my adopted father's eldest daughter. Those were the happiest days
of my life, and I should have been far happier still, had my soul not
been parched by an almost irresistible desire for vengeance.

"'The day of my wedding had already been fixed, when an imprudent
person happened to point out to me the man who had done us a grievous
wrong--the man who had torn our baby brother from my mother's breast,
the man whom I hated even more and worse than those who had killed my
father. Well, as you can well understand, I slew that man. Put
yourself in my place, and tell me if you would not have done the
same?

"'After that deed it was useless to think of marrying. I fled from
Chios; I went to Smyrna. There I put myself at the head of a gang of
robbers.

"'My life from that day was that of many _heydukes_; that is to say,
we got by sheer strength what most people get by craft--our daily
bread and very few of the superfluities of life. One thing I can say:
it is that neither I nor any of my men ever spilt a single drop of
Christian blood. It is true that I was the bane of the Turks, and I
never spared them any more than they had spared us. I was beloved by
the poor, with whom I often shared my bread; treated with
consideration by the rich, who preferred having me as their friend
rather than as their enemy; regularly absolved by the Church, whose
feasts and fasts I always kept. I was only dreaded by the Turks, who
set a very great price upon my head. Thus I got to be in some years a
rich and powerful man. I left Asia Minor and passed into Europe, and
then, feeling that I was growing old, I was about to retire from my
trade, when--when you saved my life.'

"'And now,' I asked him, 'what are you going to do?'

"'What! That, indeed, is more than I know.'

"He remained musing for some time, and then he added:

"'When a man is without any ties, when he has drunk deep the free
mountain air, when the woods have been his dwelling-place and the
starry heaven his roof, when he has lived the lawless life of a
_heyduke_, can he think of cooping himself up within the narrow walls
of a house and live the life of other men?'

"He stopped for a while, as if lost in his thoughts, and then he
added:

"'The girl I loved is married; my brothers whom I hoped to meet
again, and for whom I had bought the ground our family once owned at
Chios, are for ever lost to me--doubtless, they perished upon that
dreadful day--therefore, why should I live to drag on a life which
henceforth will be wearisome to me?'

"'Well, then, what will you do?'

"'There is, perhaps, more work at Chios for me; I might find out the
men who murdered my father----'

"'No, no; there is enough of blood upon your hands.'

"'I thought you were a Slav; as such you must know that the men of
our nation never forgive.'

"'Listen; if you should happen to meet one of your brothers, if, like
you, he were well off, would you not look upon his home as your own,
his children--whom you might love without knowing--as your children?'

"'I should love and cherish him, indeed; I should give him the lands
I bought for him at Chios. But, alas! what is the use of speaking
about such a thing? It is only a dream, so listen: no man, hitherto,
has loved me for my own sake, so as to risk his own life for me, as
you have done, though, indeed, I have met with great kindness during
the whole of my lifetime, and have had a great many friends. Well,
then, will you be my brother?'

"'If I consented, would you remain with me, share my heart and my
home?'

"'For ever?'

"'For our whole life.'

"'No, do not ask me that.'

"'But should you find your brother after these many years, how would
you know him?'

"'We have each a Cross tattooed on our left breast, as you, perhaps,
have seen----'

"'Besides this, a vanishing sign on the nape of the neck,' said I,
interrupting him.

"'How do you know? Have you ever met?--or perhaps you----'

"For all answer I opened my vest and showed him the sign of the Greek
Cross. His delight upon knowing me to be his brother knew no bounds.
He threw his arms round my neck, kissed me, and, for the first time
in his life, he cried like a child.

"Time passed. He recovered his strength, but with it his
restlessness, and his craving for revenge. We soon removed from
Mostar to Ragusa, on account of his safety, and then I hoped that the
change of scenery would quiet him. Alas! this larger town was but a
more spacious prison. From Ragusa we went to Zara, and from there to
Nona, for Ragusa itself was too near Turkey. The change quieted him
for a short time; but his roving disposition soon returned, and then
he talked of going to Chios. One day, seeing that he was about to put
his words into execution, and feeling that I could not keep him with
me any longer, I told him who the Turkish _zaptieh_, against whom he
had fired, really was, and what blood was the last he had spilt.

"The blow was a terrible one; for days he seemed to be stunned by it.
Little by little, however, it changed the current of his thoughts. He
shortly afterwards gave up to the Church his ill-gotten wealth,
except the Chios estate, of which he had made me a gift. Then he
became a _caloyer_, or Greek monk, and once a year he went on a
pilgrimage to Mostar, to pray upon my brother's tomb. From sinner he
turned saint; but he pined like a wild bird in a cage. He lingered
for some time and then he died at Mostar, where he was buried by the
side of the _zaptieh_ whom he had killed.

"We had now been to Chios to look after our vineyards and our orange
groves; but I must say that this island, where I was born, is no home
for me. I have lived away from it the whole of my lifetime, and the
remembrances which it brings back to my mind are anything but
pleasant. We were on our way to Nona, and had almost reached the goal
of our voyage when that dreadful storm overtook us, and had it not
been for your kindness and bravery we should all have been lost."

Evening had set in when Giulianic finished the story of his life,
just when the walls of Zara were in sight; but as it was too late to
land, we spent New Year's night on board the _Spera in Dio_.




CHAPTER V

DUCK SHOOTING AT NONA


The weather was clear and bright on the second day of the year. The
sea was not only calm, but of the most beautiful turquoise blue, not
the slightest cloud was to be seen in the sky, and the sun's rays
were as sparkling and as warm as if it had been a glowing day in the
latter part of April instead of early January. Nature looked
refreshed and coquettishly radiant; her beauty was enhanced by the
storm of the day before.

The red-tiled roofs of the higher houses, such as convents and public
buildings, the domes and spires of churches, peeped slily over the
town walls of Zara, and the brig, the _Spera in Dio_, which that
morning lay at anchor by the wharf opposite the principal gate, the
Porta San Grisogono, or Porta del Mare, as it is also called.

On the pier, along the wharf, on the strand, and within the narrow
street, a motley crowd is to be seen; everyone is gaily decked out in
festive apparel; this sight is one that would have rejoiced a
painter, for few towns present such a variety of dresses as Zara.
There were fair _Morlacchi_ in white woollen clothes, their trousers
fitting them like tights, with their reddish hair plaited into a
little pig-tail; tall and swarthy, long-moustachioed _pandours_,
handsome warlike men, that any stranger might mistake for Turks,
their coats laced and waistcoats covered with silver buttons, bugles
and large coins, glittering in the sunshine, that make them look, at
a distance, as if dressed in armour; then there were peasants, whose
cottages are built on the neighbouring reefs, clad in tight blue
trousers, trimmed in red, red waistcoats laced in yellow, and brown
jackets embroidered in various colours; country girls in green
dresses, red stockings and yellow shoes. These men and women all wear
shirts and chemises prettily stitched and worked in all possible
colours of silks and cottons. Some of these embroideries of flowers
and arabesques are of the richest dyes, and the cherry-red is mingled
with ultramarine blue and leek-green; they are sometimes interwoven
with shells or tinsel; their stockings and leggings are bits of
gorgeous tapestry, whilst the women's aprons are like Eastern
carpets. As for the jewellery, it varies from rows of arangoes to
massive gold beads studded with pearls and other precious stones,
similar to those which the Murano manufactories have artistically
imitated.

Amongst these peasants are to be seen tall, stately white friars,
portly grey friars, and stout and snuffy-brown friars; priests in
rusty black, priests in fine broadcloth, with violet stockings and
shoes with silver buckles, priests of high and priests of low degree.
Then Austrian officers in white jackets, Croat soldiers in tight
trousers, Hungarians in laced tunics. Lastly, a few civilians, who
are very much out of place in their ungainly, antiquated clothes.

On the morrow, it was found that the _Spera in Dio_ had been much
damaged by the late storm, and that it was impossible for her to sail
without being thoroughly repaired. The little ship-yard of Zara was
too busy just then to undertake the work, so Giulianic persuaded the
captain to proceed onwards as far as Nona, where he could get
shipwrights to work for him. Therefore, two days after their arrival
at Zara, they set sail for Nona, together with their shipwrecked
guests. The captain and his two mates had now become intimate friends
with Giulianic and his family, who did their utmost to try and
entertain the young men.

Nona, however, offers but few amusements, nay, hardly any, excepting
hunting; still, Giulianic being a great sportsman, a shooting party
was arranged on the brackish lake of Nona, which at that time of the
year abounds in coots, wild ducks, and other migratory birds.

Milenko, though fond of this sport, vainly tried to stay on board,
thinking that an hour in Ivanika Giulianic's company was better than
a whole day's shooting on the lake; but all the paltry excuses he
gave for staying behind were speedily overcome, so he had to yield to
Uros and the captain, and go with them.

The lake of Nona, which is just outside the old battlemented walls of
the town, is about a mile in length: its waters are always rather
salty, on account of two canals which at high tide communicate with
the sea.

The little party, composed of the captain, his two mates, Giulianic
and some other friends of his, started for the lake about an hour
before sunrise; and towards dawn they all got into the canoes that
were there waiting for them, as every hunter had a little boat and an
oarsman at his disposal.

They left the shores on different sides, and noiselessly glided
towards the place where the coots had gathered for the night,
surrounding them on every side, so as to cut away from them every
means of escape.

When they had reached the goal, the signal for beginning the attack
was given, a musket being fired from off the shore. That loud noise,
midst the stillness of early dawn, startled the poor birds from their
peaceful slumbers; they at once foolishly rise, fly and flutter about
in all directions, but without soaring to any great height. The
slaughter now begins. Soon the birds get over their first fright, and
the hunters not to scare them away, leave them a few moments'
respite; the coots then seem loath to abandon such a rich pasture and
turn back to their sedges. Therefore they see the boats appear on
every side and hedge them within a narrow circle. They are once more
on the wing, ready to fly away. Greed again prevails over fear; the
birds gather together, but do not make their escape. Pressed closer
by the hunters they at last rise all in a flock. It is too late;
death reaches them on every side. All at once, amidst the smoke and
the noise, they make a bold attempt to cross the enemy's line, but
only do so in the greatest confusion, flying hither and thither,
helter-skelter, the one butting against the other, and thus they all
kept falling a prey to the keen-eyed, quick-handed sportsmen.

At first the shores of the lake are but dimly seen through the thick
veil of mist arising from the smooth surface of the rippleless
waters, as from a huge brewing-pan, and everything is of a cold
greyish hue, fleecy on the shore. But now the sun has appeared like a
burnished disc of copper amidst a golden halo; soon all the mist
vanishes beneath his warm rays. The mellow morning light falls upon
the numberless feathered carcasses that dye the waters of the
stagnant mere.

The pulse of every sportsman flutters with excitement; despair has
given courage to the birds, which rise much higher than before, and
are making heroic efforts to break through the lines. Soon the flurry
that had prevailed amongst the birds, falls to the lot of the
sportsmen; they give orders and counter orders to the oarsmen, and
the circle of boats has become an entangled maze.

The lake now resounds, not so much with firing as with shouts of
merriment and peals of laughter, sometimes because one of the boats
has butted against the other, and one of the hunters has lost his
balance and got a ducking. The morning being now far advanced, the
sportsmen gather together for breakfast, leaving time to the birds to
get over their bewildered state and settle quietly again in a flock
round about their resting-place.

In an hour's time the shooting begins again, but the head is not so
light, the sight so keen, nor the hand so quick as before breakfast;
nay, it happened at times that the captain saw two coots instead of
one, and fired just between the two; besides, the birds were also in
a more disbanded state, so that the quantity of game killed was not
what it had been in the early part of the morning. Mirth, however,
did not flag; the mist, moreover, having quite vanished, the beauty
of the green shores was seen in all its splendour.

Many of the youthful inhabitants of Nona had come to see the sport,
picking up some wounded bird bleeding to death in the fields; whilst
many a countryman passing thereby, wearily trudging towards his home,
his long-barrelled gun slung across his shoulder, shot down more than
one stray coot that had taken refuge in a neighbouring field, hoping
thereby to have escaped from the general slaughter.

At last, late in the afternoon, our sportsmen, heavily laden,
followed Giulianic to his house, to finish there the day which they
had so well begun.

Moreover, the men having risen so very early and being tired out,
fell to dozing. Uros had gone to the ship to see how the repairs were
getting on, and Milenko was thus left alone with Ivanika, or
Ivanitza, as she was usually called. This was the opportunity he had
eagerly wished for, to confess his love to her; nay, for two days he
had rehearsed this scene over and over in his mind, and he had not
only thought of all he would say to her, but even what she would
answer.

Although he was said to be gifted with a vivid imagination, now that
he was alone with her he could hardly find a word to say. It was,
indeed, so much easier to woo in fancy than in reality.

How happy he would have been, walking in the garden with this
beautiful girl, if he could only have got rid of his overpowering
shyness. How many things he could have told her if he had only known
how to begin; but every monosyllable he had uttered was said with
trepidation, and in a hoarse and husky tone. Still, with every
passing moment, he felt he was losing a precious opportunity he might
never have again.

He did not know, however, that, if his lips were dumb, his eyes,
beaming with love, spoke a passionate speech that words themselves
were powerless to express. Nor was he aware that--though with
maidenly coyness she turned her head away--she still read in his
burning glances the love she longed to hear from his lips.

After a few commonplace phrases they walked on in silence, and then
the same thoughts filled their hearts with almost unutterable
anguish. In a few days the brig would be repaired, the sails
unfurled, the anchor weighed; then the broad sea would separate them
for ever.

The sun was just sinking beyond the waves, and the shivering waters
looked like translucent gold; a mass of soft, misty clouds was
glowing with saffron, orange and crimson hues, whilst the sky above
was of a warm, roseate flush. Little by little all the tints faded,
became duller, more delicate; the saffron changed into a pale-greyish
lemon green, the crimson softened into pink. The sun's last rays
having disappeared, the opaline clouds looked like wreaths of smoke
or pearly-grey mists.

Milenko's heart felt all the changes that Nature underwent; his
glowing love, though not less intent, was more subdued, and though,
in his yearning, he longed to clasp this maiden in his arms, and to
tell her that his life would be sadder than dusk itself without her
love, still he felt too much and had not the courage to speak.
Sometimes in the fulness of the heart the mouth remains mute.

Now the bell of a distant church began to ring slowly--the evening
song, the dirge of the dying day. Ivanitza crossed herself devoutly;
Milenko took off his cap, and likewise made the sign of the Cross.
Both of them stopped; both breathed a short prayer, and then resumed
their walk in silence.

After a few steps he tried to master his emotion and utter that short
sentence: "Ivanitza, I love you."

Then something seemed to grip his throat and choke him; it was not
possible for him to bring those words out. Besides, he thought they
would sound so unmeaning and vapid, so far from expressing the hunger
of his heart; so he said nothing.

Meanwhile the bell kept doling out its chimes slowly, one by one, and
as he asked himself whether it were possible to live without this
girl, whom he now loved so dearly, the harmony of the bell chimed in
with his thoughts, and said to him: "Ay, nay; ay, nay."

All at once, feeling that this girl must think him a fool if he kept
silent, that he must say something, no matter what it was, and
happening to see a lonely gull flying away towards the sea, he said,
in a faltering tone:

"Ivanika, do you like coots?"

It was the only thing that came into his mind. She looked up at him
with a roguish twinkle in her eyes.

"Do you mean cooked coots or live coots?"

Milenko looked for a while rather puzzled, as if bewildered by the
question. Then, taking the tips of the girl's fingers: "I was not
thinking of them, either alive or cooked."

Ivanika quietly drew her hand away.

"What were you thinking of, then?" she said.

"May I tell you?"

"Well, if you want any answer to your question," added she, laughing.

"Please don't make fun of me. If you only knew----"

"What?"

He grasped her hand, and held it tight in his.

"Well, how deeply I love you."

He said this in a tragic tone, and heaved a sigh of relief when it
was out at last.

The young girl tried to wrench away her hand, but he held it fast.
She turned her head aside, so that he could not see the
uncontrollable ray of happiness that gleamed within the depths of her
eyes. Her heart fluttered, a thrill of joy passed through her whole
frame; but she did her best to subdue her emotion, which might seem
bold and unmaidenly, so that she schooled herself to say demurely,
nay almost coldly:

"How can you possibly love me, when you know so little of me?"

"But must you know a person for ages before you love him, Ivanitza?"

"No, I don't mean that; still----"

"Though I have never been fond of any girl till now, and therefore
did not know what love was, still, the moment I saw you I felt as if
my heart had stopped beating. You may think it strange, but still it
is true. When I saw you with my spy-glass standing bravely on the
deck of your crazy boat, whilst the huge billows and breakers were
dashing against you, ever ready to wash you away, then my heart
seemed to take wings and fly towards you. How I suffered at that
moment. Every time your boat was about to sink, I gasped, feeling as
if I myself was drowning; but had the caique foundered, I should have
jumped in the waves and swum to your rescue."

Ivanitza's heart throbbed with joy, pride, exultation at the thought
of having the love of such a brave man.

"You see, I had hardly seen you, and still I should have risked my
life a thousand times to help you. It was for you, and you alone,
that I got into the boat to come to you, though the captain and Uros
at first thought it sheer madness; and if my friend and the other
sailor had not accompanied me--well, I should have come alone."

"And got drowned?"

"Life would not have been worth living without you."

The young girl looked at him with admiring eyes, and nature, for a
moment, almost got the mastery over her shyness and the stern
claustral way in which, like all Levantine girls, she had been
brought up; for her impulse was to throw herself in his arms and
leave him to strain her against his manly chest. Besides, at that
moment she remembered what a delightful sensation she had had when,
awaking from her swoon, she had felt herself carried like a baby in
his strong arms. Still, she managed to master herself, and only said:

"So, had it not been for you, we should all have been drowned."

"Oh, I don't say that! Seeing your danger, at the last moment someone
else might, perhaps, have volunteered to come to your rescue. Uros
and the captain are both very brave; only the captain has a family of
his own, and Uros---"

"What! is he married?"

"Oh, no!" said Milenko, laughing; "he is not married, but----"

"But what?"

"Well, you see, he is in love; but please do not mention a word about
it to him or anyone else."

"Why, is it a secret?"

"Yes, it is a very great secret--that is to say, not a very great
secret either, but it is a matter never to be spoken of."

"No? Why?"

"I can't tell you; indeed, I can't."

"How you tantalise me!"

"I'll tell you, perhaps, some other time."

"When?"

"Well, perhaps, when----"

"Go on."

"When we are married."

The young girl burst out laughing. It was a clear, silvery,
spontaneous, merry laugh; but still, for a moment, it jarred upon
Milenko's nerves. He looked rather downcast, for he was far from
thinking the matter to be a joke.

"Why do you laugh?" said he, ruefully.

"Because, probably, I shall never know your friend's secret."

The poor fellow's brown complexion grew livid, the muscles of his
heart contracted with a spasm, he gasped for breath; the pang he felt
was so strong that he could hardly speak; still, he managed to
falter:

"Why, are you, perhaps, already engaged to be married?"

"I?" said she, with another laugh. "No."

"Nor in love with anyone?"

"No."

"Then, don't you think----"

He stopped again.

"Think what?"

"Well, that you might love me a little some day?"

She gave him no answer.

"What, you don't think you could?" he asked, anxiously.

"But I didn't say that I couldn't, only----"

"Only what?"

"A girl cannot always choose for herself."

"Why not?"

"Suppose my father chooses someone else for me?"

"But surely he will not."

"Suppose he has already promised me----"

"Why go and suppose such dreadful things? Besides, he ought to
remember that I risked my life to save yours; that----"

Milenko stopped for a moment, and then he added:

"Well, I don't like boasting; still, if it had not been for me--well,
I suppose your caique would have foundered. No, tell me that you love
me, or at least that you might get to love me. Let me ask your
father----"

"No, no; not yet."

"Why not?"

"Well, we hardly know each other. Who knows, perhaps, the next port
you go to----"

Here she heaved a deep sigh.

"Well, what?" asked the youth, ingenuously.

"You might see some girl that you might like better than myself, and
then you will regret that you have engaged yourself to a girl whom
you think you are obliged to marry."

"How can you think me so fickle?"

"You are so young."

"So is Uros young, and still----"

"Still?" she asked, smilingly, with an inquisitive look.

"He is in love."

"With?"

"A woman," said Milenko, gloomily.

"Of course."

"Well, I'll tell you, only please don't mention it--with a married
woman. Are you not sorry for him?"

"No, not at all; a young man ought not to fall in love with a married
woman--it's a sin, a crime."

"That's what I told him myself."

After a short pause, Milenko, having now got over his shyness:

"Well, Ivanitza, tell me, will you not give me a little hope; will
you not try to love me just a little?"

"Would you be satisfied with only just a little?"

"No."

"Well, then--I am afraid----"

"What?"

"I shall have to love you a good deal."

He caught hold of her reluctant hand and covered it with kisses.

"If you think that your father might object to me because I am a
seaman, tell him that my father is well off, and that I am his only
son. Both Uros and I have gone to sea by choice, and to see a little
of the world; still, we are not to be sailors all our lives."

Afterwards he began to ask her whether she would not like to come and
sail with him in summer, when he would be master of the brig; then
again he ended by begging her to allow him to speak to her father.

"No, not now. It is better for you to go away and see if you do not
forget me. Besides, neither your father nor your mother know anything
about me, and it may happen that they have other views about you."

"Their only aim is my happiness."

"Still, they might think that you were wheedled----"

"How could they think so ill of you?"

"You forget that they do not know me. Anyhow, it is more dutiful that
you should speak to them before you speak to my father."

"Well, perhaps you are right. Only, you see, I love you so; I should
be so frightened to lose you."

"It is not likely that anybody will think of me for some years yet."

"Well, then, promise me not to marry anyone else. In a year's time,
then, I shall come and speak to your father. Will you promise?"

"I promise."

"Will you give me a pledge?"

She gave him her hand, but he gently pulled her towards him, clasped
her in his arms, and kissed her rosy lips. Then they both went into
the house.




CHAPTER VI

THE BULLIN-MOST


"I suppose you have been to Knin and Dernis?" said the captain by
chance after dinner to his host, speaking about the trade with the
interior, whilst puffing away at the long stem of his cherry-wood
pipe.

"Of course. Haven't you?"

"Oh, no! we sailors are always acquainted with the coasts of
countries, nothing more. What kind of a place is this Knin?"

"Much of a muchness, like other places. The country, however, is fine
and picturesque. There is, besides, the Bullin-Most."

"What is that?"

"The name of a bridge at the entrance of the town, and almost at the
foot of the fortress which tops the crags. It is called the
Bullin-Most, or the Bridge of the Turkish Woman. Formerly it used to
be called the Bridge of the Two Torrents."

"Well, and what is there remarkable about it?"

"Don't you know the tale of 'Hussein and Ayesha'?"

"No."

"It is the subject of one of Kacic's finest poems. Would you like to
hear it?"

"Of course."

"Well, then, about two hundred years ago, more or less, Kuna Hassan
was the governor of Knin and of the neighbouring province. The _Aga_
was said to be a man of great wisdom and courage; but his many
qualities were marred by his severity towards the Christians, whom he
hated, and subjected to all kinds of vexations and cruel treatment.

"This _Aga_ had a numerous family, being blessed with many children
by his several wives; but Ayesha, the only daughter of his favourite
wife, was the child in whom he had put all the fondness of his heart.
She was, it is true, a girl of an extraordinary beauty. Her skin,
they say, was as white as the snowy peaks of the Dinara, the mountain
over against the fort of Knin; her eyes were black, but they sparkled
softly, like the star which shines at twilight; her curly hair had
the colour of the harvest moon's mellow light.

"All the _vati_ of her father's palace were in love with her, only
hearing her beauty extolled by the eunuchs of the harem, and seeing
her glorious eyes sparkle through her veils, or the tips of her
tapering fingers, as she held her _feredgé_.

"The principal lords of Kuna Hassan Aga's Court were, first, Ibrahim
Velagic, the _Dizdar_ of Stermizza; then Mujo Jelascovic, the
governor of Biscupia; lastly old Sarè the _Bulju Pasha_, or
lieutenant of the troops. The old Sarè had a son named Hussein, who
was the standard-bearer; he was the most beautiful young man of the
land, nay, it was difficult to find his like. He was, indeed, as
handsome as Ayesha was comely. The one was like a lily, the other
like a pomegranate flower.

"At that time, as I have said before, the Christians were groaning
under the Turkish yoke, and several attempts had already been made to
shake it off; nay, many of the struggles which had taken place
between the Turks and the men of the Kotar had been most successful,
as they had for their chief, Jancovic Stoyan, or Stephen, known in
history as 'the clearer of Turkish heads.' These continual skirmishes
had weakened our oppressors in such a way, and spread so much fear
amongst them, that Kuna Hassan never felt sure whenever he left his
castle walls. Finding himself reduced to this extremity, he
determined to muster all the troops he could get together and make
war upon the Christians.

"And now," said Giulianic, "I think I can give you some of Kacic's
verses on this subject;" therefore, taking a guitar, he sang as
follows:

  "A letter wrote Hassan Aga
  From Knin itself, the white-walled town;
  He sent it to the bordering Turks,
  To Mujo and to Velagic.

  "And in this letter Kuna spake:
  'Oh! brave men of my border-lands,
  Now muster all your borderers,
  And hie to Knin, the white-walled town.

  "'For we shall raid upon Kotar,
  And there rich plunder shall we get
  Both gold and young Molachian maids,
  Shall be the prize of all the brave.

  "'Kotar will be an easy prey
  For you, the warriors of the Cross!
  Besides, the Sirdars are away,
  And Stoyan is in Venice now.

  "'Milikovic has fallen sick,
  Mocivana has lost his horse,
  Mircetic has sprained his hand,
  And Klana to a feast is gone.'

  "The Bulju Pasha heard all this,
  And wisely answered to Kuna:
  'Forbear, Kuna Aga; forbear
  To make a raid upon Kotar!'"

Giulianic stopped to take breath. "The poem is long," said he, "and I
am old; I shall relate the story in my own words:--Well, Kuna Hassan
Aga would not be dissuaded, especially as the _Dizdars_ were for it.
The expedition took place. Jelascovic and Velagic--called the snakes
of the empire, on account of their strength and craft--came to Kuna's
castle, bringing each man three hundred men with him. The _Aga_
mustered as many men himself, and with this little array they set off
for the Kotar. At first they were successful; they fell upon the open
country, plundering and sacking, carrying away young boys and girls
as slaves, finding nowhere the slightest opposition. It was not a
war, but a military march; thus they went on until they reached the
lovely meadows at the foot of the hills of Otre, a most pleasant
country, watered by many rivulets.

"There they pitched their tents, and began to prepare their meal and
make merry. All at once as the sun went down, a slight mist began to
rise from the waters and from the marshes of Ostrovizza, not very far
off from there. As the day declined, the fog grew denser, and when
night came on Jancovic Stoyan, who had returned from Venice, together
with the other _Sirdars_, fell upon them, threw them upon the
marshes, and not only obliged them to give back all their plunder,
but killed more than six hundred of their men. It was only with great
difficulty that the _Aga_ and _Dizdars_ got back to Knin; they were
all in a sorry plight, regretting deeply not to have followed Sarè's
advice.

"Shortly after this, Kuna Hassan, having recovered from the wounds he
had received, gathered again all his chief warriors together. Then he
made them a long speech, saying that it was time that the Christian
hornets should be done away with, and their nests destroyed, for, if
left alive, they would daily become more troublesome; then he made
them many promises, so as to induce them to fight, but without much
success. At last he offered the hand of his handsome daughter, who, as
I have said, was indeed as beautiful as a heavenly houri, and a bride
fit for the Sultan, or the Prophet himself, to the bold warrior who
would bring him the head of Jancovic Stoyan, or those of the three
hundred Christians. The prize he requested was a great one, but the
reward he offered was such as to inflame the hearts of the greatest
cowards.

"However, amongst the warriors that Kuna Hassan had gathered together
that day, neither old Sarè nor his son, the handsome
standard-bearer, had been requested to attend, doubtless, because the
_Aga_ had thought the _Bulju Pasha_ too old, and his son too young
and too rash, for such an undertaking. Perhaps he also felt a grudge
against the _Bulju Pasha_ for having dissuaded him from the first
attack, which had met with such a bad success.

"When poor Hussein heard of the slight he and his father had met
with, he was very much grieved, for, though he was the _Aga_'s
standard-bearer, he had been treated as a mere boy. Moreover, he was
madly in love with the beautiful Ayesha, who returned his affection.
In fact, whenever she had an opportunity, she sent him a message by
one of the eunuchs, and every time he used to pass under her window
she was at the lattice, and she often dropped a flower, or even her
handkerchief, if no one was looking on.

"Hussein would have risked his life to try and obtain her; nay, he
would even have gone to Zara and fight Stoyan, if he could get her
father's consent to wed her.

"As for the _Sirdars_, they were only too glad that Hussein was not
amongst the warriors called forth to strive for Ayesha's hand, nor
would they now allow any new pretender to come forth and take part in
their raids with them.

"During the many skirmishes that took place round about Knin, Hussein
had been left to take care of the castle, and then he had succeeded
in bribing the head eunuch to allow him to talk with Ayesha.

"This keeper, knowing how fond his mistress was of the handsome
standard-bearer, had consented to allow the lovers to meet, while he
watched over their safety.

"At first, when all the Mussulman warriors met with so many losses,
the lovers were happy, for they thought it would be years before any
of them could ask for their reward; but afterwards, when it was known
that Velagic's heap of heads was daily increasing, their gladness of
heart changed into the deepest sorrow. Both saw that there was very
little chance of their ever being able to marry, and Ayesha, rather
than give up the man she loved so deeply and become the wife of the
old _Dizdar_, whom she detested, proposed to her lover that they
should run away together.

"They waited till the very last moment, thinking that Velagic might
be killed, or some other unforeseen circumstance might take place;
but they had no _Kismet_, for the _Dizdar_ seemed to have a charmed
life; he had already got together about two hundred and ninety heads.
How he had got them, nobody could understand, for he had never
received the slightest wound in any of his many fights.

"The last time the lovers met, they agreed that the day upon which
Velagic brought the ten last heads they would make their escape.
Hussein, upon that night, was to be on the rocks at the foot of the
castle, somewhere near the place occupied by the harem; then, at
midnight, when all the town had sunk into rest, and all the lights
were extinguished, Ayesha would put a taper by her window to guide
him if everything was ready for their flight. After the _muezzin_ had
called the faithful to prayers, she would open the lattice and throw
out a rope-ladder, by means of which he would climb up into the
castle. There he was to be received by the eunuch that had hitherto
befriended him--be led to her chamber-door. From there they would
pass by an underground passage, the keys of which she had. This
passage had an outlet, somewhere beyond the town, near the bridge,
where, indeed, there is a kind of den or hole. There Hussein was to
have swift horses ready, so that they might at once escape to Zara or
Sebenico, and if that was not far enough, they could there freight a
ship and go off to Venice.

"Hussein, overjoyed, promised that he would take the necessary steps,
so that nothing might hinder their flight.

"Poor lovers! they little knew how all their designs were to be
thwarted!

"At about four miles from Knin, and not far from the highway leading
to Grab, rises a huge beetling rock about thirty feet in height; it
seems to slant so much over the road that all the passers-by shudder
lest it should fall and crush them. The name of this rock is the
Uzdah-kamen, or the Stone of the Sighs--perhaps, because the wind
which always blows there seems to be moaning, or, as there is a kind
of natural cistern, spring, or well of water, which is said to be
fathomless, more than one luckless wanderer, going to drink of that
icy-cold water, happened to slip into it, utter a moan and a sigh,
and then all was over with him.

"Near this fountain there is a deep cavern, which is the
dwelling-place of a witch, well known in Turkish and Arabian
mythology, as well as Chaldean lore. Her name, which is hardly ever
uttered, and never without a shudder of awe, is Nedurè; but she is
usually spoken of as The Witch. This Nedurè--for we may well call
her by her name without fear--used to take the form of a lovely young
female, and come and sit by the spring at the entrance of her cave.
There she would sit, combing her long hair, which was of the deepest
hue of the night. Then, displaying all the bewitching beauty of
sixteen summers, she would press all the handsome youths who passed
thereby to come and rest in her den.

"Like a wily spider, she daily caught some silly man to linger and
gaze upon her large, languishing black eyes with long silken lashes,
like natural _khol_, or to look on the dark moles on her alabaster
skin. If he did so, he was lost, and nothing more was heard of him,
but his sighs wafted by the wind.

"Now, it happened one day that as Hussein was going to Grab on
horseback, he passed by the rock of Uzdah-kamen, and, lo and behold!
Nedurè was sitting by the fountain waiting for him. As soon as she
saw him she beckoned to him to go up to her; but he, far from
obeying, spurred his horse and turned away from the woman.

"'Hussein,' said she, 'you are warm and weary; come and have a
draught of this delicious water and rest a while in my moss-grown
cavern.'

"'Thank you, I am neither warm nor weary; so I require neither water
nor rest.'

"'Hussein, why do you turn away your head, and will not even deign to
cast a glance upon me?'

"'Because I have heard of your enticements and blandishments, and do
not wish to fall a prey to such charms.'

"'I am afraid people have slandered me to you,' quoth she; 'but
believe them not. I am your friend--as I am, indeed, that of all
lovers. I know how your heart yearns for Kuna Hassan Aga's daughter,
and I should like to be kind to you, and help you in getting her for
your bride.'

"'Thank you, indeed,' replied the standard-bearer, who knew the wiles
of the witch; 'you are very good, but I hope to obtain Ayesha by the
strength of my love, and not by your wicked art.'

"'Look how ungracious you are. I wish to befriend you, whilst you
only answer me by taunts.'

"'Thank you, but your friendship would cost me too dear.'

"'No; my help is only paid by love. You see, I do not ask much.'

"'Still, I should have to remain your debtor. My heart is full of
love for Ayesha, and it can harbour none for creatures such as you.'

"'Well, then,' said she, in her sweetest voice, which was as soft as
the morning breeze amongst the orange-groves, 'if you hate me in this
way, why do you not look upon me? Do you think my charms can have any
temptation for you?'

"'We should try to resist temptation, and then it will flee from us.'

"Thereupon he spurred his horse and rode away.

"From that day, Nedurè's heart, which had until then burned with
lust, was filled with the bitterest hatred for the young man, who had
not yielded to her request.

"Therefore she only thought to bring about his death, and was ever
plotting by which way she could harm him, for the Most High would not
allow her to do any harm to the faithful, so she strove to find
someone who would take up her vengeance for her, and now she was
about to reach her aim.

"When Hussein and Ayesha had planned together everything for their
escape, Nedurè, the witch, who by her art could read the future, and
who, besides, could change herself into the likeness of a bird, a
rat, or even into that of any of the smaller insects, managed somehow
or other to overhear all that conversation of the lovers, and then
she at once sent for Velagic and informed him of what was to take
place.

"'Velagic,' said she, 'you are old, and it is true you think yourself
a world-wise man, but do you really believe that Ayesha, who is as
beautiful as the rising moon, for whose charms all men lose their
wits, can fall in love with an old man like you?'

"'I do not ask her to fall in love with me. Now, by your help, I
shall have got together the number of heads which the _Aga_ requires
as the prize for his daughter, and then she will be mine.'

"'Do not be too sure of that. Whilst you are numbering your heads,
Hussein, the handsome standard-bearer, has found his way to Ayesha's
heart.'

"Velagic winced at hearing this; but soon he shrugged his shoulders,
and added:

"'What does it matter if that young coxcomb is in love with her, or
even she with him. In a day or two I shall claim her as my bride.
Once she is in my stronghold of Stermizza, woe to the flies that come
buzzing around my honey.'

"'Velagic, Velagic,' said the witch, 'there is many a slip 'twixt the
cup and the lip; to-morrow you may find the cage empty and the bird
flown.'

"'What do you mean, Nedurè?'

"'I mean what I say.'

"'Explain yourself, I beg you.'

"The witch thereupon told the _Dizdar_ all that was to take place,
and then advised him what he had to do.

"That day passed away and night came on; it was even a very dark one,
because, not only was there no moon, but the sky was overspread with
a thick mass of clouds, and heaven seemed to be lowering on the
earth.

"The hours passed slowly for three persons at Knin that night. Two of
them repeated their prayers devoutly, and tried to fix their thoughts
towards the holy _Kaaba_; one alone, whose heart was full of
murderous designs, could not pray at all.

"Velagic had been a wicked man; he had forfeited the happiness of his
future life, but never as yet had he rendered himself guilty of
shedding the blood of a Mussulman, nay, of murdering the son of one
of his greatest friends. The guilt he was about to commit was beyond
redemption; he knew that the Compassionate would spurn him away in
his wrath, and that he would be doomed to eternal fire; but what
could he do now? it was too late to retreat. He was in the witch's
power, nay, an instrument in her hands.

"He tried to pray, but every time he attempted to utter Allah's
sacred name, it seemed as if the three hundred heads now gathered
upon his tower were all blinking and grinning at him.

"Midnight came; all the preparations were made, every necessary
precaution against surprise was taken, the horses were ready for the
fugitives at the opening of the cave beyond the bridge.

"Hussein, at the foot of the tower, saw the beacon light at Ayesha's
window, and slowly and stealthily he scrambled on to the rocks
beneath it, awaiting, with a beating heart, for the given signal.

"All at once, in the midst of the darkness, he heard the _adan_--the
chant of the _muezzin_--calling the faithful to the prayers of the
_Ramazan_.

"'God is most great,' uttered Hussein faintly, and then lifting his
eyes as the sound of the _muezzin_'s voice had died away in the
distance, he saw the lattice of Ayesha's window open, and he heard
the ladder of ropes slowly being let down.

"He had time to say one _rekah_, or prayer, before the ladder reached
the ground, and then he seized the ropes and began to go up. The
ascent was a long one, for the tower was very high. He had not gone
up many steps, when he heard a noise somewhere above his head. He
shuddered and listened. It was nothing but an owl that had its nest
in some hole in the wall; doubtless it had been frightened by the
ladder, and now it flew away with a loud screech, grazing Hussein
with its wings as it passed.

"Hussein, though brave, felt his limbs quake with fear; was it not an
evil omen? Would not something happen now that he was about to reach
the goal of his happiness!

"Was it not possible that the eunuch had betrayed him? No, that could
not be; this man had always been so fond of Ayesha. A thousand dismal
thoughts crowded through his brain; the way up in the midst of the
darkness seemed everlasting. He looked towards the lighted window; he
was only half-way up.

"Just then he thought he heard something creak. Was it the rope
breaking beneath his weight? Frightened, he hastened to climb up; if
there was any danger it would soon be over.

"He muttered a few verses of the Koran; he looked up again; now he
could see Ayesha's face at the open window; she stretched forth her
arms towards him. How beautiful she was! There, in the darkness, it
seemed as if all the constellations had hidden themselves before her
radiant beauty.

"He stopped one moment to take breath and to look at her, when again
he heard the ropes creak, and at the same moment the ladder snapped
under the young man's weight. He lifted up his arms towards her, but
alas! she was beyond his grasp. The next instant he fell with a heavy
thud upon the rocks, and from those into the yawning precipice over
which the castle was built.

"Ayesha uttered a loud cry, which was repeated several times by the
surrounding echoes, and then she swooned away in the eunuch's arms.

"Velagic, who, apparently, had been hidden close by, saw Hussein fall
into the chasm, and heard Ayesha's cry; then he mounted his horse and
galloped away.

"When Ayesha, with the help of the eunuch, got over her faintness,
she went to the window and looked down, but she could only see the
darkness of the chasm below. She listened; she heard nothing but the
wind, the rustling of the leaves, and now and then the screech of
some night-bird. She pulled up the ladder; she saw that it had been
cut in several places, at one of which it snapped. She understood
that some foul treachery had been committed, but she could not make
out who had discovered their secret and had dealt her this cruel
wrong. She could not suspect the eunuch, who was there by her side,
her friend to the last.

"She passed a night of most terrible anguish and anxiety, waiting
impatiently, and still dreading the morrow. She tried to hope that
Hussein might not have fallen down the chasm, that he might have been
caught by some of the trees or bushes that grew on the rocks, and
thus saved from death; but it was, at best, only a faint kind of
forlorn hope.

"Not a cry, not a groan escaped from her lips, as she stood cold and
tearless, at her window, almost stupefied by the intensity of her
grief. Thus she remained motionless and dumb for hours, until the
first rays of dawn lighted the tops of the Veli-Berdo, the mountain
over the fortress.

"Her eyes pierced the faint glimmering of the dawn, and, looking down
into the chasm, at the place where the two torrents meet, there she
saw three lovely maidens of superhuman beauty, tending the remains of
her lover. By their garments, of the colour and splendour of
emeralds, by their faces shining like burnished silver, she knew that
they were celestial houris, and that her lover was already amongst
the blessed.

"When she saw this sight, she wanted to dash herself down into the
chasm and rejoin her happy lover, hoping that Allah would be merciful
and allow her to meet Hussein in the abode of the blessed; but then
one of the houris beckoned to her to stop, and in a twinkling she was
by her side, whispering words of comfort in her ear.

"Her attendants, whom she had dismissed in the early evening, came
back to her early in the morning, and they were surprised to see she
had fainted by the window.

"When she recovered from her swoon, every recollection of that
terrible night seemed to have passed away; far from being bereaved
and forlorn, she was a happy maiden, about to be united to her lover
in eternal bliss.

"Later on in the day her father summoned her to his presence, to tell
her that the _Dizdar_ of Stermizza had brought the three hundred
Christian heads demanded as the price for her hand, and that she was
to get ready to receive him as the man who was to be her husband.

"Ayesha crossed her hands on her breast and bowed; then she uttered,
in a soft, slow voice, that sounded as an echo of a distant sound:

"'My lord, it shall be as Kismet has ordained.'

"As Kuna Hassan knew nothing of all that had happened, he thought
that his daughter meant that she was ready to obey the decrees of the
Fates, that had chosen Velagic for her husband; so he answered:

"'Though he would not have been the man I should have chosen for
thee, still, by his bravery, he has won thee for his bride; so
prepare yourself to go with him this very evening. But, daughter of
my heart,' added he, taking her hand, 'before parting with your
father, have you no request to make?'

"'Yes, father.'

"'Well, let me hear it, my child, and if it is in my power to grant
it, you may be sure that your wish will be gratified.'

"'My request, though strange indeed, is a very simple one; it is that
my betrothal should take place this evening, on the Poto-devi-Most,
just when the sun gilds with its rays the snowy peaks of the
Veli-Berdo. This, and nothing more.'

"The father looked at his child, astonished.

"'It is, indeed, a strange request, and were it not for the earnest
way in which it is made, I should think that it was merely a joke.
Anyhow, it shall be as you wish; only, may I know why you do not wish
to be married in the usual way?'

"'I have had a vision at day-break, and the powers above have decreed
that it shall be so; but I cannot speak about it till this evening,
at the appointed place.'

"The _Aga_, wishing the ceremony to be performed with the utmost
splendour, sent word at once to the _Dizdar_ of Stermizza to be on
the Bridge of the Two Torrents at the appointed time. Similar
messages were likewise sent to the other _Dizdars_ and _Sirdars_, and
to all the gentry of Knin and of the neighbouring towns.

"The sun was sinking down below the horizon when Ibrahim Velagic,
followed by Mujo Jelascovic, by the old _Bulju Pasha_, who was as yet
ignorant of his son's fate, by the other Mussulman warriors, as well
as by a number of _svati_--all came to the bridge, attired in
magnificent clothes of silk and satin, laced in gold, with their
finest weapons glittering with precious stones. Then came Kuna Hassan
Aga, with all his train and a number of slaves, some carrying a
palanquin, the others the bridal gifts.

"When the two parties had met at the bridge, all wondering what would
take place next, Ayesha ordered the slaves to put her down.

"Velagic at once dismounted from his horse, and came forward to help
her to alight, offering her his hand.

"She simply waved him off, and standing up: 'How dare you come to me!
Look at your hand; it is stained with blood; and not with Christian,
but with Moslem blood.'

"The eyes of the bystanders were all turned upon the _Dizdar_ of
Stermizza, who got all at once of a livid hue; still, he lifted up his
hand and said:

"'Ayesha, my hands have often been stained with the blood of our
enemies, never with that of our brethren.'

"'Man,' said the young girl, 'in the name of the Living God, thou
liest!'

"There was a murmur and a stir amongst the crowd, as when the slight
wind which precedes the storm rustles amongst the leaves of the
trees.

"Then Ayesha, turning towards Sarè: 'Father,' said she to him, 'your
hand.'

"The _Bulju Pasha_ rushed forward and helped her to alight.

"As soon as she was on the ground she threw off her veil and her
_feredgé_, and stood there in her glittering bridal dress, the
costly jewels of which seemed to shine less than her beautiful face.

"All the men were astounded at such an act of boldness from so modest
a maiden; but her dazzling beauty seemed to fill them with that awe
which is felt at some supernatural sight. They all thought they were
looking upon a houri, or some heavenly vision, rather than upon a
human being; so that when she opened her lips again to speak, a
perfect silence reigned everywhere.

"'Sarè,' said she, 'where is your son?'

"'My child?' replied the old man; 'I have not see him the whole of
this long day.'

"'Ibrahim Velagic, _Dizdar_ of Stermizza, where is Hussein, the
standard-bearer?'

"'How am I to know? Am I his keeper?'

"'Sarè,' continued the young girl, 'when, after the fight of
Ostrovizza, my father had promised me as the bride of the warrior who
would bring him the head of the brave Christian knight Jancovic
Stoyan, or those of three hundred of our foes, Hussein, your son, by
the machinations of Ibrahim Velagic and his friends, was excluded
from amongst the warriors who could obtain my hand by fighting for
our faith and our country. Sarè, I loved your son; yes, father, I
say it aloud and unblushingly, for Hussein was as good as he was
handsome, and as brave as he was good. I loved him with all my heart,
and he loved me, because the Fates had decreed that we should be man
and wife, if we lived. Our faith, therefore, was plighted. We waited,
hoping that some happy incident would happen to free me from my
impending fate. At last I knew that Ibrahim Velagic had got together
the number of heads demanded by my father for my dower, and that
to-day he was coming to claim me as his bride. Rather than be the
wife of that imposter, felon and murderer, I should have thrown
myself in yonder chasm.

"'You are astonished at such language; but, father, how is it that
all the warriors aspiring to my hand cannot put together a hundred
heads, whilst Velagic alone has three hundred?

"'Well, then, know that those heads are by no means the heads of our
enemies; they are rather those of the unhappy beings who of late have
been seduced by Nedurè, the witch, into her den, and who after their
rash act never saw daylight again. Look at those ghastly heads, and
perhaps many of you will find there people that you have known.'

"At these words, stirred to rage at the light of truth which gleamed
from Ayesha's eyes, there was such a yelling and hissing, that it
seemed as if all the men there had been changed into snakes. They
would have thrown themselves on the _Dizdar_ and torn him to pieces
there and then, had Ayesha not stopped them.

"'Forbear,' said she, 'and hear me out; wait at least for the proofs
I shall give you of his guilt.'

"'Ayesha!' cried out old Sarè, overcome by anguish, 'and my son
--where is my son? Is my beautiful boy's head amongst the three
hundred?'

"'No; brave Hussein withstood long ago the enticement of the witch,
and she has been since then his bitterest enemy.'

"Sarè heaved a deep sigh of relief.

"'Hussein was to deliver me from that heinous wretch. Last night we
were to flee together. I had the houris to help me, but alas! Ibrahim
Velagic had the powers of darkness. It was night, and he won. Hussein
yesternight was under my windows, as we had agreed upon. I opened my
lattice and lowered him a ladder of ropes, upon which he was climbing
joyfully; a moment more he would have reached the windowsill. All at
once, an owl screeched, the ropes gave way, and Hussein, my brave
Hussein, was dashed down those rocks and into the dreadful chasm.
Sarè, my poor Sarè, you have no son. Still, be of good cheer; this
morning, when the first rays of the sun were gilding the tops of the
Veli-Berdo, I saw the celestial maidens tending him. His mangled body
is in the chasm, but his soul is in the blessed abode of peace.'

"'Ayesha,' interrupted the _Aga_, 'is all this true?'

"The girl beckoned to a slave to approach, and then she took a parcel
from his hands.

"'This,' said she, opening it, 'is what remains of the ladder; and
you will find Hussein's body in the chasm, smiling in the happy sleep
of death. The houris, who have been praying over him the whole day,
have covered him with garlands of flowers. Go and dig his grave in
the burying-ground, and dig another one by his side.'

"'But,' said Kuna Hassan, 'how did the accident happen?'

"'Nedurè hated Hussein, but she could not harm him, so she apprised
Velagic of what was to happen; nay, she did more, she transformed him
into the likeness of a rat, and changing herself into an owl, she
deposited the _Dizdar_ on the sill of my room, there he came and
gnawed at the ropes of the ladder.'

"'This is false,' said the _Dizdar_. 'Whoever can believe such a
story? Why, the girl is mad!'

"'Guards,' said the _Aga_, with his hand on the haft of his dagger,
'seize Velagic, and mind that you do not let him escape!'

"'Away!' replied the _Dizdar_. 'A man of my rank can only be judged
by the Sultan.'

"'Stop!' cried Ayesha; then, lifting her beautiful arm, naked up to
the shoulder, and whiter than the strings of pearls entwined around
it, and pointing towards the highway:

"'Do you see there a cloud of dust on the road? Do you see those men
coming here? Do you know who they are? You cannot distinguish them,
but I can.'

"'Who are they, Ayesha?' cried all the bystanders.

"'The foremost man amongst them, that tall and handsome youth, that
looks like Prince George of Cappadocia, is no less a hero. It is
Stoyan Jancovic, the man whose back you never saw; the others are but
a few of his followers.'

"Then, turning to Velagic: 'Now, craven, utter your last prayer, if
you can and if you dare, then prepare to fight; your hour has come.'

"Hearing these words, the _Dizdar_ grew ashy pale; then he began to
quake with fear. Such an overpowering dread filled his soul that he
seemed to have been smitten with a strong fit of the ague. Still,
trying to hide his anxiety:

"'Yes, we shall fight; Allah be thanked, brothers, that this infidel
dog is within our reach. Yes, friends, we shall see the power of the
Crescent over the Cross.'

"'No; you shall fight alone,' said Ayesha, authoritatively; 'and it
is useless to contaminate the name of the All-powerful. As you are
already doomed to perdition, call to your aid Sheytan and Nedurè.'

"Ayesha had hardly uttered these words when Stoyan, having made a
sign to his companions to keep back, rode boldly up to where the
chiefs were standing, and, when a few steps from Ayesha, he curbed
his foaming steed, that, unable to brook control, began at once to
paw the ground.

"'Maiden,' said he, bowing, 'I am here at thy behest. I have this
night had a strange dream. A _Vila_ appeared to me in my sleep, first
in the likeness of a nightingale and then in the shape of a dainty,
glittering little snake. She told me that for your sake I had to
accomplish, this very day, two mighty deeds of justice. The one was
to rid this neighbourhood of the evil doings of Nedurè, the powerful
witch. This is already done.'

"Thereupon, loosening a silken scarf attached to his saddle, he threw
the sorceress's head at the _Dizdar_'s feet.

"'Now,' said he, turning to Velagic, 'you who have been her
accomplice--you who brag to have killed three hundred Christians,
who, while skulking away like a cur, dare to say that you have been
looking everywhere for me, to slay me--here I am.'

"Appalled at the sight of the witch's hideous head, terrified by the
hero's words, shaking like an aspen leaf, full of dread and
consternation, Velagic looked up at his companions for help; but on
their faces he saw nothing but angry scowls, looks of scorn and
hatred.

"'Fight,' cried the _Aga_, 'or a worse death awaits thee, the
ignominious death of a murderer and a sorcerer! Fight, coward, fight!
for if thou fallest not by that brave man's hand, thou shalt this
very day be impaled as a wizard.'

"The _Dizdar_, seeing that there was no escape, plucked up his
courage in his own defence, called the powers of darkness to his
help, and unexpectedly rushed upon Stoyan, hoping to catch him off
his guard, and to despatch him with a treacherous blow of his
scimitar.

"'Fair play! fair play!' shouted the chiefs.

"'The laws of chivalry, gentleman, are not expected to be known by a
vile recreant like Ibrahim Velagic,' quoth Stoyan, whose keen eye
forthwith saw the stroke, and whose deft hand not only parried it,
but dealt his adversary such a mighty blow that it cut off the
_Dizdar_'s head and sent it rolling on the ground by the side of
Nedurè's.

"'And now, beautiful maiden, the task you have enjoined me is done;
would to God thou hadst called upon me before.'

"'I thank thee, gentle knight,' said Ayesha, who all the time had
been standing on the parapet of the old stone bridge. 'Thou hast
avenged my lover's death; may Heaven reward thee for thy deed.'

"'_Allah, bismillah!_' cried out the chiefs.

"Thereupon Stoyan, bowing courteously, wheeled round his horse and,
galloping away, was soon out of sight.

"'And now,' said Ayesha, 'I had sworn to Hussein, that flower of
youth and beauty, to be his for ever. Now I shall keep my vow. May
the Most Merciful unite me to my lover. God of my fathers, God of
Mohamed, receive me amongst the blessed.'

"Thereupon, lifting a small dagger which she held in her hand, she
plunged it into her heart, and before her father had time to rush up
to her, she had fallen into the torrent underneath, dyeing its waters
of a crimson hue, just as the last rays of the sinking sun seemed to
tinge in blood the lofty tops of the Veli-Berdo.

"From that day the Bridge of the Two Torrents has ever been called
the Bullin-Most, or the Bridge of the Turkish Maiden, and every
evening, when the day is fine, the sun sheds a blood-red light on the
highest peaks of the Dinara, and the wind that, at gloaming, blows
down the dell and through the arches of the bridge, seems to waft
back an echo of the last moan of the _Aga_'s beautiful daughter."




CHAPTER VII

SEXAGESIMA


The days that followed the departure of the _pobratim_ were sad ones
indeed. The Zwillievics had gone back to Montenegro; then Milena, not
having any excuse to remain longer a guest of the Bellacics, was
obliged to go back with a sinking heart to her lonely, out-of-the-way
cottage; a dreary house which had never been a home to her.

When the Christmas snow had melted away, a sudden strong gale of wind
dried up the sods, so that the grass everywhere was withered and
scorched; the very rocks themselves looked lean, pinched-up, bare and
sharp. All nature had put on a wizened, wolfish, wintry appearance.
The weather was not only cold, it was bleak and gloomy.

After a fortnight of a dull, overcast sky, it began to drizzle;
everything smelt of mildew; the mouldy turf oozed with moisture, the
rotting trees dripped with dampness. The world was decaying. If at
times a ray of sunlight pierced the grey clouds, its pale yellow,
languid light brought with it neither warmth nor comfort. Evidently
the sun was pining away, dying; our bereaved planet was moaning for
the loss of his life-giving light.

During all this time the dull sirocco never ceased to blow, either in
a low, unending wail, or in louder and more fitful blasts. Usually,
as soon as one gust had passed away, a stronger one came rolling down
the mountain side, increasing in sound as it drew nearer; then
passing, it died away in the distance.

These booming blasts made every mother think of her sailor boy,
tossed far away on the raging mountain waves; wives lighted candles
to St. Nicholas, for the safety of their husbands; whilst the girls
thought of their lovers by day, and at night they dreamt continually
of flowers, babies, stagnant waters, white grapes, lice and other
such omens of ill-luck.

For poor, forlorn Milena, those days were like the murky morning
hours that follow a night of revelry. She was dull, down-hearted,
dispirited; nor had she, indeed, anything to cheer her up. In her
utter solitude, she spun from the moment she got up to the moment she
went to bed; interrupting herself only to eat a crust of bread and
some olives, or else to mope listlessly. At times, however, her
loneliness, and the utter stillness of her house, oppressed her in
such a way that it almost drove her to distraction.

She mused continually over all the events of her life during the last
months, after her merry girlhood had come to an end by that hateful
and hasty marriage of hers; she recalled to mind that time of misery
with her old miserly mother-in-law, who even counted the grains of
parched Indian-corn she ate. Still, soon after this old dame's death,
came that fated St. John's Eve. It was the first ray of sunlight in
the gloom of her married life. It was also the first time she had
seen Uros.

She had not fallen in love with him that evening; she had only liked
him because he was good-looking and his ways were so winning.
Everybody was fond of him, he was so winsome.

Little by little, after that, his presence began to haunt her, his
face was always before her eyes. When she woke in the morning, his
name was on her lips. Still, that was not love; she even fancied she
only liked to teaze him because she was a married woman, a matron,
whilst he was but a boy; moreover, he was so shy.

When Radonic came home, she woke to the stern reality of life; she at
last found out that she hated her husband and loved Uros, who, though
a boy, was, withal, older than herself. That was the time when
Radonic's rage being roused by Vranic, he had almost killed Milenko.
Then, lastly, shuddering and appalled, she remembered that night when
Uros came to sing his farewell song.

She stopped spinning now; the corners of her pretty, childish mouth
were drawn down; she hid her face between her hands, whilst the tears
trickled slowly through her fingers.

Why had she been so foolishly weak? Now the thought of that night
drove her mad. Could she but blot away the past months and begin life
anew!

Alas! what was done could never be undone. She rocked herself on her
stool in a brown study. What was she to do? What was to become of
her?

Radonic would return in a few months; then he would kill her. That, at
least, would put a stop to her misery. But the thought of having to
live for months in mortal dread was worse than death itself. The
maddest thoughts came to her mind. She would leave Budua, dress up as
a boy, go off to Cattaro, embark for some distant town. And then?

Far away the people spoke a gibberish she could not understand, and
they were heathens, who even ate meat on fast-days. These thoughts,
in her loneliness, were almost driving her to distraction, when,
unexpectedly, her husband came back home. His ship, in a tempest, had
been dashed against a reef, off the shores of Ustica, the westernmost
of the Æolian Islands. Not only the vessel, but also the cargo, and
even two sailors, were lost.

On seeing her husband appear before her, Milena felt all her blood
freeze within her veins. She had disliked Radonic from the very first
moment she had cast her eyes upon him; since her marriage her
antipathy had increased with his ill-treatment, so that now she
positively loathed him.

Still, when the first moment of almost insurmountable dread was over,
she heaved a deep sigh of relief. His return was a godsend to her.
Had he not just come in time to save her from ignominy? She even
mastered herself so far as to make Radonic believe that she was glad
to see him, that she was longing for his return, and for a while he
believed it. Still, when his mouth was pressed on hers, as he clasped
her fondly in his arms, the kiss he gave her now was even worse than
the first one she had received from him on her wedding-day. It seemed
as if he had seared her lips with burning, cauterising steel. After a
day or two, she could not keep up this degrading comedy any longer;
her whole being revolted against it in such a way that Radonic
himself could not help noticing how obnoxious his presence was to
her.

She was, however, glad about one thing. Her husband, having lost his
large vessel and all his costly cargo, for he had of late been
trading on his own account, would not be able to settle down in
Budua, as he had intended doing; then, being now quite poor, people
would not be envying her any more. What good had her husband's riches
done to her? None at all.

Even in that she was doomed to disappointment. The widow of one of
the sailors who had got drowned at Ustica came to beg for a pittance.
She had several little children at home clamouring for bread. Milena
gave her some flour and some oil, and promised to speak to her
husband.

"But," said she, "we, too, are very poor now."

"Poor!" replied the woman. "Why, you are richer now than you ever
were."

"How, if we've lost our ship with all its cargo?"

"Yes, but it was insured."

"Insured? What's that?"

"You mustn't ask me, for I'm only a poor ignorant woman. Only they
say that when a ship is insured, you get far more money for it than
it was ever really worth."

"And who is to give you money for a few planks rotting at the bottom
of the sea, or some stray spars washed ashore?" asked Milena,
incredulously.

"Who? Ah! that's more than I can tell. Anyhow, I know it's true, for
all that."

Milena, astonished, stared at the poor woman. She asked herself
whether grief had not muddled the widow's brain. No, she did not look
insane.

"Who told you such foolish things, my poor Stosija?" said she,
enquiringly, after a while; "for you know very well that you are
speaking nonsense."

"It is no nonsense, for the _pop_ himself told me."

Milena's bewilderment increased.

"Moreover, the priest added that insurances are one of the many
sacrilegious inventions which lead men to perdition." Then, lowering
her voice to a whisper: "They have a pact with Satan."

Milena drew back appalled.

"When a ship is insured the owners care very little what becomes of
the precious lives they have on board. The captains themselves get
hardened. They do not light any more tapers to St. Nicholas to send
them prosperous gales; the priests offer no more prayers for their
safety; and, as for silver _ex-votos_, why, no one thinks of them any
more. The _pop_ is so angry that he says, if he had his own way, he'd
excommunicate every captain, even every sailor, embarking on an
insured ship."

"Mercy on us!" quoth Milena, crossing herself repeatedly.

"In fact, since all these new-fangled, heathenish inventions, you
hear of nothing but fires on land and shipwrecks at sea. People once
went to bed as soon as it was dark; at eight o'clock every fire and
every light was put out. Now, people will soon be turning night into
day, as they do in Francezka and Vnetci (Venice), flying thus in the
very face of God Himself. Now all the rotten ships are sent to sea,
where they founder at the very first storm. It isn't true, perhaps?"

"Aye, it must be true," sighed Milena, "if the _pop_ says so."

"Once fires and shipwrecks were sent as punishments to the wicked, or
as trials to the good; now, with the insurances, God Himself has been
deprived of His scourge. The wicked prosper, the rich grow richer,
and as for the poor--even the Virgin Mary and all the saints turn a
deaf ear to them."

Milena shook her head despondingly.

"For instance," continued Stosija, "would the miser's heart ever have
been touched, had his barns been insured."

"What miser?" asked Milena.

"Is it possible that you don't know the story of 'Old Nor and the
Miser'?"

"Oh! it's a story," added Milena, disappointed.

"Yes, it's a story, but it's true for all that, for it happened at
Grohovo, and my grandfather, who was alive at that time, knew both
the miser and the idiot. Well, the miser--who had as much money as
his trees had leaves, and that is more than he could count--was one
day brewing _rakee_, when an old man, who lived on the public
charity, or in doing odd jobs that could be entrusted to him, stopped
at his door.

"'I smell _rakee_,' said Old Nor" (ninny), "who, by-the-bye, was not
quite such an idiot as he was believed to be.

"'Oh, you do!' quoth the miser, sneeringly.

"'Yes,' said Nor, his eyes twinkling and his mouth watering.

"'And I suppose you'd like to taste some?'

"'That I should; will you give me a sip?'

"'Why not?'

"Thereupon the miser dipped a small ladle in a kettle of boiling
water and offered it to Old Nor.

"The idiot drank down the hot water without wincing.

"'It's good, isn't it?' asked the rich man.

"'Delicious!' and the old man smacked his lips.

"'It warms the pit of your stomach nicely?'

"'It even burns it.'

"'It's rare stuff, I can tell you; will you have some more?'

"'It's of your own brewing, one can see; I'll have some more.'

"The miser once more dipped the ladle in the hot water and offered it
again to the beggar, who quaffed the contents unflinchingly.

"'You see, bad tongues say I'm a miser, but it's all slander; for
when I like a fellow, I'd give him the shirt off my back, and I like
you, Old Nor. Will you have another ladleful?'

"'Willingly,' and the ninny's eyes flashed.

"Thereupon he again swallowed up the scalding water, but not a muscle
of his face twitched.

"'Are you not afraid it'll go to your head, old man?' asked the
miser, mischievously.

"'Old Nor's head isn't muddled with so little,' added he, scowling.

"'Then try another cup?'

"'No,' replied the ninny, shaking his head, 'for to-day I've had
enough. As soon as the _Cesar_' (emperor) 'sends me the money he owes
me, and I marry the Virgin Mary--for that was his craze--I'll give
you something that'll warm the pit of your stomach, too.'

"Then he turned round and went off without any thanks or wishing the
blessing of God on the miser's dwelling, as he was wont to do.

"The miser's house was all surrounded by sheds, storehouses and
stables; barns groaning under the weight of corn, hay and straw; his
sacks were heaped with flour and wheat; his cellars overflowed with
wine and oil; in his dairies you could have bathed in milk, for he
neither lacked cows, nor sheep, nor goats. Well, not long after the
beggar had been scalded with hot water, a fire broke out in his
granaries at night, and all the wealth that was stored therein was
wasted by fire.

"The miser grieved and lamented, but he soon had masons and
bricklayers come from all around, and in a short time they built him
finer stables, sheds and stores than the old ones; and after the
harvest was gathered, and the aftermath was garnered, and all the
outer buildings were filled, with the grace of God, a terrible fire
broke out one morning, and before the men could bring any help, for
the flames rose fiercely on every side like living springs that have
burst their flood-gates, so that the water poured down upon it only
scattered the fire far around, and the fine new buildings came
crumbling down with a crash, just like houses built upon sand. Then
the miser had new masons and bricklayers, and also architects and
engineers. Soon they built him stately store-houses of stone and
beautiful barns of bricks, higher, vaster and stronger than the
former ones. These granaries were like palaces, and a wonder in the
land. When the fruits of the field were gathered and the heart of the
miser was rejoiced at the sight of so much wealth, then, in the
middle of the day, as he was seated at table eating cakes overflowing
with honey, and quaffing down bumpers of wine, then the fire broke
out in his barns, and, behold, his buildings looked like a dreadful
dragon spouting and spurting sparks of fire, and vomiting out volumes
of smoke and flames. It was, indeed, a terrible sight.

"The rich man saw at last that the hand of God was weighing upon him,
and he felt himself chastened. He cast about for some time, not
knowing what to do. So he took a fat calf and two lambs and a kid,
and killed them; and he cooked them; and he baked bread; and he
invited all his acquaintances, rich and poor, to a feast, where he
spared neither wine nor _slivovitz_; and he did not scald their
throats with hot water, but with his own strong _rakee_. Then, when
they had all eaten and were merry, he said to them:

"'The Lord, in His mercy, has scourged me--for whom the Lord loveth
He chasteneth--He has given me a warning and a foretaste of what
might be awaiting me hereafter. Therefore, I am humbled, and I
submit; but if God has chosen any one among you to chastise me,
kindly tell me, and I swear, on my soul, on the Cross of our Saviour,
Who died for our sins, not only never to harm him, but to forgive him
freely.'

"Thereupon Old Nor rose and said:

"'_Gospod_, it is I who have burnt down your barns. One day I passed
by your door and begged you for a draught of the liquor you were
brewing; then you offered me scalding water, and when I gulped it
down you laughed at me because you thought me witless. Three times
did I drink down the fiery water you offered me; three times did I
consume with fire all the barns that surround your house. Still, I
only made you see, but not taste, fire, for I might have burned you
down in your house, like a rat in his hole, and then the pit of your
stomach would have been warm indeed; but I did not do so, because I
am Old Nor, and the little children jibe and the big children jeer at
me, and all laugh and make mouths at me.'

"The rich man bowed down his head, rebuked. Then he stretched out his
arms and clasped the beggar to his breast, saying:

"'Brother, you are, after all, a better and a wiser man than I am,
for if I was wicked to you, it was only out of sheer wantonness.'

"Then he plied him, not with warm water, but with sparkling wine and
strong _slivovitz_, and sent him home jolly drunk. From that time he
mended his ways, gave pence to the poor, presents to the _pop_,
candles and incense to the Church. Therefore, he was beloved by all
who knew him, his barns groaned again with the gifts of God, his
flocks and his herds increased by His blessings.

"Now, tell me. If the insurance company had paid him for the damage
every time his barns had been burnt, would he have been happy with
his ill-gotten wealth? No; his heart might have been hardened, and
Satan at last have got possession of his soul."

That evening Milena referred to her husband all that Stosija had said
to her. Radonic scowled at his wife, and then he grunted:

"The _pop_--like all priests, in fact--is a drivelling old idiot; so
he had better mind his own business, that is, mumble his meaningless
prayers, and not meddle with what he doesn't understand."

"What! is there anything a _pop_ doesn't understand?" asked Milena,
astonished.

Radonic laughed.

"Oh! he'll soon see something that'll make his jaw fall and his eyes
start from their sockets."

"And what's that?"

"A thing which you yourself won't believe in--a ship without masts."

"And what are its sails tied to?"

"It needs no sails; it has only a big chimney, a black funnel, that
sends forth clouds of smoke, flames and sparks; then, two tremendous
wheels that go about splashing and churning the water into a mass of
beautiful spray, with a thundering noise; then, every now and then,
it utters a shrill cry that is heard miles away."

"Holy Virgin!" gasped Milena; "but it must be like Svet Gjorgje's
dragon!"

"Oh!" sneered Radonic, "St. George's dragon was but a toy to it."

"And where have you seen this monster?"

"It isn't a monster at all; it's a steamer. I saw one on my last
voyage. It came from the other side of the world, from that country
where the sun at midday looks just like a burnished copper plate."

"Of course," added Milena, nodding, "if it's on the other side of the
earth, they can only see the sun after it's set. But where is that
place of darkness? Is it Kitay?"

"Oh, no! it's Englezka."

"But to return to what the _pop_ said. Then it's true that you'll get
more money for your ship even than what it was worth?"

"Whether I get more or whether I get less, I'm not going to keep all
the beggars of the town with the money the insurance company will
give me. If sailors don't want their wives to go begging and their
brats to starve, they can insure their lives, or not get married. As
for Stosija, you can tell her to go to the _pop_, and not come
bothering here; though I doubt whether a priest will even say a
prayer for you without the sight of your money. Anyhow, to-morrow I
start for Cattaro, where I hope to settle the insurance business."

On the morrow Radonic went off, and Milena heaved a deep sigh of
relief; for, although the utter loneliness in which she lived was at
times unbearable to her, still it was better than her husband's
unkindness.

Alas! no sooner had Radonic started than Vranic came with his odious
solicitations, for nothing would discourage that man. In her
innocence she could rely on her strength, so she had spurned him from
her. She had till then never been afraid of any man. Was she not a
Montenegrin? She had, in many a skirmish, not only loaded her
father's guns, but also fired at the Turks herself; nor had she ever
missed her man. Still, since that fateful night all her courage was
gone. Was Vranic not a seer, a man who could peer into his fellow
creatures as if they were crystal? Did he not know that she had
sinned? He had told her that all her struggles were unavailing; she
was like the swallow when the snake fascinates it. She, therefore,
had been cowed down to such a degree that she almost felt herself
falling into his clutches.

Not knowing what to do, she had gone to Mara, and had confessed part
of her troubles to her; she had asked her for help against Vranic.
Although Uros' mother did not dabble in witchcraft, still she was a
woman with great experience. So she thought for a while, and then she
gave Milena a tiny bit of red stuff, and told her to wear it under
her left arm-pit; it was the most powerful spell she knew of, and
people could not harm her as long as she wore it. She followed Mara's
advice; but Vranic was a seer, and such simples were powerless
against him.

Radonic came back from Cattaro, and, by his humour, things must have
gone on well for him; still, strange to say, he brought no money back
with him. He only said he had put his money in a bank, so that he
might get interest for it, till such times when he should buy another
ship.

"And what is a bank?" asked Milena, astonished.

Radonic shrugged his shoulders, and answered peevishly, that she was
too stupid to understand such things. "Montenegrins," he added, "have
no banks, nor any money to put in banks; they only know how to fight
against the Turks."

For a few days Milena asked all her acquaintances what a bank was,
and at last she was informed that it was like insurances, one of
those modern inventions made to enrich the rich. Putting money in a
bank was like sinking a deep well. After that you were not only
supplied for your lifetime, but your children and the children of
your children were then provided for; for who can drink the water of
a well and dry it up?

For Milena, all these things were wonders which she could not
understand. She only sighed, and thought that Stosija was right when
she had said to her that this world was for the wealthy; the poor
were nowhere, not even in church.

Although Radonic had come back, still Vranic, far from desisting from
his suit, became always more pressing; for he seemed quite sure that
she would never speak to her husband against him. Once more she went
to Mara and asked her for advice.

"Why not mention the subject to your husband?" asked her friend.

"First, I dare not; then, it would be quite useless. He would not
believe me; Vranic has him entirely under his power. In fact, I am
quite sure if Radonic is unbearable, it is the seer who sets him on
to bait me."

"But to what purpose?"

"Because he thinks that, sooner or later, I'll be driven to despair,
and find myself at his mercy. Though I'm no seer myself, still I see
through him."

Withal Uros' mother was a woman of great experience, still, she could
not help her friend; she only comforted her in a motherly way, and
her heart yearned for her.

As Milena, weary and dejected, was slowly trudging homewards, she
saw, not far from her house, a small animal leisurely crossing a
field. Was it a cat? She stood stock-still for a moment and stared.
Surely, it was neither a hare, nor a rabbit, nor a dog. It was a big,
dark-coloured cat! How her heart began to beat at that sight!

At that moment she forgot that it was almost dusk, that the days were
still short, that the light was vanishing fast. She forgot that it
would be very disagreeable meeting Vranic--always lurking
thereabout--that her husband would soon be coming home. In fact,
forgetting everything and everybody, she began running after the cat,
which scampered off the moment it saw her. Still, the quicker the cat
ran, the quicker Milena went after it.

Of course, she knew quite well, as you and I would have known, that
the cat was no cat at all, for real pussies are quiet, home-loving
pets, taking, at most, a stroll on the pantiles, but never go roaming
about the fields as dogs are sometimes apt to do.

That cat, of course, was a witch--not a simple _baornitza_, but a
real sorceress, able to do whatever she chose to put her hand to.

The nimble cat ran with the speed of a stone hurled from a sling, and
Milena, panting, breathless, stumbling every now and then, ran after
it with all her might. Several times the fleet-footed animal
disappeared; still, she was not disheartened, but ran on and came in
sight of it after some time. At last, she saw the cat run straight
towards a distant cottage. Milena slackened her speed, then she
stopped to look round.

The cottage was built on a low muddy beach. She remembered having
been in that lonely spot once before with Uros; she had seen the
strand all covered with bloated bluish medusas, melting away in the
sun.

With a beating heart and quivering limbs Milena stopped on the
threshold of the hut, and looked about her for the cat. The door was
ajar; perhaps it had gone in. For a moment she hesitated whether she
should turn on her heels and run off or enter.

A powerful witch like that could, all at once, assume the most
horrible shape, and frighten her out of her wits!

As she stood there, undecided as to what she was to do, the door
opened, as if by a sudden blast of wind, and there was no time to
retreat. Milena then, to her surprise, saw an old woman standing in
the middle of the hut. She was quietly breaking sticks and putting
them on a smouldering fire. As for the cat, it was, of course,
nowhere to be seen.

The old woman, almost bent double by age, turned, and seeing Milena,
smiled. Her face did not express the slightest fear or ill-humour,
nay, she seemed as if she had been expecting her.

"Good evening, _domlada_," said the old woman, with a most winning
voice, "have you lost your way, or is there anything you want of me?"

Milena hesitated; had she been spoken to in a rough, disagreeable
manner, she would, doubtless, have been daunted by the thought that
she was putting her soul in jeopardy by having recourse to the witch;
but the woman's voice was so soft and soothing, her words so
encouraging, her ways so motherly, that, getting over her
nervousness, she went in at once, and, almost without knowing it, she
found herself induced to relate all her troubles to this utter
stranger.

"First, if you want me to help you," said the old woman, "you must
try and help yourself."

"And how so?"

"By thinking as little as possible of a handsome youth who is now at
sea."

Milena blushed.

"Then you must bear your husband's ill-humour, even his blows,
patiently, and, little by little, get him to understand what kind of
a man Vranic is. Radonic is in love with you; therefore, 'the sack
cannot remain without the twine.' You must not fear Vranic; 'the
place of the uninvited guest is, you know, behind the door.'
Moreover, to protect you against him, I'll give you a most powerful
charm."

Saying this, she went to a large wooden chest and got out of it a
little bag, which she handed to Milena.

"In it," whispered the old woman, mysteriously, "there is some hair
of a wolf that has tasted human flesh, the claw of a rabid old cat, a
tiny bit of a murdered man's skull, a few leaflets of rue gathered on
St. John's Night under a gibbet, and some other things. It is a
potent spell; still, efficient as it is, you must help it in its
work."

Milena promised the old woman to be guided entirely by her advice.

"Remember never to give way to Vranic in the least, for, even with my
charm, if you listen to him you might become his prey. You must not
do like the dove did."

"And what did the dove do?"

"What! don't you know? Well, sit down there, and I'll tell you."

"But I'm afraid I'll be troubling you."

"Not at all; besides, I'll prepare my soup while I chat."

"Still, I'm afraid my husband might get home and not find me; then----"

"Then you'll keep him a little longer at the inn."

Saying these words, the witch threw some vegetables in the pot
simmering on the hob, and on the fire something like a pinch of salt,
for at once the wood began to splutter and crackle; after that, she
went to the door and looked out.

"See how it pours!" said she. "Radonic will have to wait till the
rain is over."

Milena shuddered and crossed herself; she was more than ever
convinced that the old woman was a mighty sorceress who had command
over the wind and the rain.

"Well," began the _stari-mati_, "once a beautiful white dove had
built her nest in a large tree; she laid several eggs, hatched them,
and had as many lovely dovelets. One day, a sly old fox, passing
underneath, began leering at the dove from the corner of his eye, as
old men ogle pretty girls at windows. The dove got uneasy. Thereupon,
the fox ordered the bird to throw down one of her young ones. 'If you
don't, I swear by my whiskers to climb up the tree and gobble you
down, you ----, and all your young ones.'

"The poor dove was in sore trouble, and, quaking with fear, seeing the
fox lay its front paws on the trunk of the tree, she, flurried as she
was, caught one of her little ones by its neck and threw it down. The
fox made but a mouthful of it, grumbling withal that it was such a
meagre morsel.

"'Mind and fatten those that are left, for I'll call again to-morrow,
and if the others are only skin and bones, as the little scarecrow
you've thrown me down is, you'll have, at least, to give me two.'

"The fox went off. The poor dove remained in her nest, mourning over
her lost little one, and shuddering as she thought of the morrow.
Just then another bird happened to perch above the branch where the
dove had her nest.

"'I say, dove,' said the other bird, 'what's up, that you are cooing
in such a dreary, disconsolate way?'

"The dove thereupon related all that had happened.

"'Oh, you simpleton! oh, you fool!' quoth the other bird, 'how could
you have been so silly as to believe the sly old fox? You ought to
have known that foxes cannot climb trees; therefore, when he comes
to-morrow, ordering you to throw him down a couple of your little
ones, just you tell him to come up himself and get them.'

"The day after, when the fox came for his meal, the dove simply
answered:

"'Don't you wish you may get it!'

"And the dove laughed in her sleeve to see the fox look so sheepish.

"'Who told you that?' said Reynard; 'you never thought of it
yourself, you are too stupid.'

"'No,' quoth the dove, 'I did not. The bird that has built her nest
by the sedges near the river told it me.'

"'So,' said the fox; and he turned round and went off to the bird
that had built her nest by the river sedges, without even saying
ta-ta to the dove. He soon found her out.

"'I say, bird, what made you build your nest in such a breezy spot?'
said the fox, with a twinkling eye.

"'Oh! I don't mind the wind,' said the bird. 'For instance, when it
blows from the north-east, I put my head under my left wing, like
this."

"Thereupon, the bird put its head under its left wing, and peeped at
the fox with its right eye.

"'And when it blows from the south-west?' asked the fox.

"'Then I do the contrary.'

"And the bird put its head under its right wing, and peeped at the
fox with its left eye.

"'And when it blows from every side of the compass at once?'

"'It never does,' said the bird, laughing.

"'Yes it does; in a hurricane.'

"'Then I cover my head with both my wings, like this.'

"No sooner had the poor bird buried her head under both her wings,
than the sly old fox jumped at her, and ate her up.

"But," said the witch, finishing her story, "if you are like the
dove, I'm not like the bird of the sedges; and Vranic would find me
rather tough to eat me up. And now, hurry home, my dear; if ever you
want me again, you know where to find me."

The rain had ceased, and Milena, thanking the old woman for her
kindness, went off. She had been back but a few minutes when Radonic
returned home, ever so much the worse for drink. Not finding any
supper ready, he at first began to grumble; then, little by little,
thinking himself very ill-used, he got into a tremendous rage. Having
reached this paroxysm of wrath, he set to smash all the crockery that
he could lay his hands on, whilst Milena, terrified, went and shut
herself up in the next room, and peeped at him through the keyhole.

When he had broken a sufficient number of plates and dishes, he felt
vexed at having vented his rage in such a foolish way, then to pity
himself at having such a worthless wife, who left him without supper,
and growing sentimental, he began to groan and hiccough and curse,
till he at last rolled off the stool on which he had been rocking
himself, and went to sleep on the floor.

On the morrow the husband was moody, the wife sad; neither of them
spoke or looked at the other. The whole of that day, Milena--in her
loneliness--revolved within her mind what she would do to get rid of
Vranic's importunities, and, above all, how she could prevent him
from harming Uros, as he had threatened to do.

The day passed away slowly; in the evening Radonic came home more
drunk than he had ever been, therefore maliciously angry and
spiteful.

The front room of the house, like that of almost all other cottages,
was a large but dark and dismal-looking chamber, pierced with several
small windows, all thickly grated; the ceiling was raftered, and
pieces of smoked mutton, wreaths of onions, bundles of herbs, and
other provisions dangled down from hooks, or nails, driven in nearly
every beam. As in all country-houses, the hearth was built in the
very midst of this room, and the smoke, curling upwards, found an
outlet from a hole in the roof. That evening, as it was pouring and
blowing, the gusts of wind and rain prevented the smoke from finding
its way out.

Milena was seated on a three-legged stool at a corner of the hearth,
by a quaint, somewhat prehistoric, kind of earthenware one-wick
oil-lamp, which gave rather less light than our night-lamps usually
do, though it flickered and sputtered and smoked far more. She was
sewing a very tiny bit of a rag, but she took much pride in it, for
every now and then she looked at it with the fond eyes of a girl
sewing her doll's first bodice. Hearing her husband's step on the
shingle just outside, she started to her feet, thrust the rag away,
looking as if she had almost been caught doing something very guilty.
After that she began mixing the soup boiling in the pot with great
alacrity.

Radonic was not a handsome man at the best of times, but now,
besotted by drink, shuffling and reeling, he was positively
loathsome. He stopped for a moment on the sill to look at his wife,
grinning at her in a half-savage, half-idiotic way.

Milena shuddered when she saw him, and turned her eyes away. He
evidently noticed the look of horror she cast on him, for holding
himself to the door-post with one hand, he shook the other at her, in
his increasing anger.

"What have you been doing all the day?--gadding about, or sitting on
the door-step to beckon to the youths who pass by?" he said, in a
thick, throaty voice, interrupted every now and then with a drunken
hiccough. Then he let go the door-post and shuffled in.

"A fine creature, a very fine creature, a slut, a good-for-nothing
slut, not worth the salt she eats! You hear, madam? you hear,
darling? it's to you I'm speaking."

Milena stood pale, awe-stricken, twisting the fringe of her apron
round her fingers, looking at him with amazement. It was certainly
not the first time in her life that she had seen a drunken man;
still, she had never known anyone so fiendish when tipsy.

"A nice kind of woman for a fellow to marry," he went on, "a thing
that stands twisting her fingers from morning to night, but who
cannot find time to prepare a little supper for a hungry man, in the
evening." Then, with a grunt: "What have you been doing the whole of
the live-long day?"

Milena did not answer.

"I say, will you speak? by the Virgin, will you speak? or I'll slap
that stupid sallow face of yours till I make it red with your blood."

Milena did try to answer, but the words stuck in her throat and would
not come out. Radonic thought she was defying him.

"Ah, you'll not answer! You were fooling about the town, or sitting
at the window eating pumpkin seeds, waiting for the dogs that pass to
admire those meaningless eyes of yours. They are dark, it's true, but
I'll make them ten times darker."

Thereupon he made a rush at her, but, swift-footed as she was, she
ran on the opposite side of the room. She glanced at the door, but he
had shut and bolted it, therefore--being afraid that he might be upon
her before she managed to open it--she only kept running round the
hearth, waiting till chance afforded her some better way of escape.

He ran after her for some time, but, drunk and asthmatic as he was,
he stopped at last, irritated by his non-success. Vexed at seeing a
faint smile on her lips, he took up a plate, that had been spared
from the day before, and shied it at her. She was too quick for him,
for she deftly moved aside, and the plate was smashed against an
oaken press.

He gnashed his teeth with rage and showed her his fists; then he bent
down, picked up a log, and flourished it wildly about. She at once
made for the door. He flung the piece of wood at her with all his
might. She once more stooped to avoid it, but, in her eagerness to
get out, she was this time rather flurried; moreover, the missile
hurled at her was, this time, much bigger than the former one, so
that the log just caught her at the back of her head. She uttered a
shrill cry, and fell on the ground in a death-like swoon.

Radonic, seeing Milena fall, thought he had killed her. He felt at
that moment such a terrible fright that it seemed to him as if a
thunderbolt had come down upon him.

He grew deathly pale, his jaw fell, he began to tremble from head to
foot, just as when he had a fit of the ague. His teeth chattered, his
knees were broken, his joints relaxed. He had never in his whole life
felt such a fright. In a moment his drunkenness seemed to vanish, and
he was again in his senses.

"Milena," said he, in a faint, quivering, moaning tone. "Milena, my
love!"

She did not answer, she did not move; to all appearance she was dead.

The muscles of his throat were twitching in such a way that he almost
fancied someone had stabbed him through the neck.

Was she now worth her salt to him? he asked himself bitterly; aye, he
would give all his money to bring her back to life if he only could.

He wanted to go up to her, but his feet seemed rooted to the spot
where he stood; with widely opened eyes he stared at the figure lying
motionless on the floor. Was the blood trickling from her head? A
moment afterwards he was kneeling down by her side, lifting her up
tenderly; for, brute as he was, he loved her.

She was not dead, for her heart was beating still. Her head was
bleeding; but the cut was very slight, hardly skin deep. He began to
bathe her face with water, and tried to recall her to her senses.
Still her fainting-fit, owing, perhaps, to the state of her health,
lasted for some time; and those moments of torture seemed for him
everlasting.

At last Milena opened her eyes; and seeing her husband's face bent
close upon hers, she shuddered, and tried to free herself from his
arms.

"_Ljuba_," said Radonic, "forgive me. I was a brute; but I didn't
mean to harm you."

"It's a pity you didn't kill me; then there would have been an end to
this wretched life of mine."

"Do you hate me so very much?"

"Have I any reason to love you?"

"Forgive me, my love. I've been drinking to-night; and when the wine
gets to my head, then I know I'm nasty."

"No, you hate me, and I know why."

"Why?"

"Vranic sets you against me; and when your anger is roused, and your
brain muddled, you come and want to kill me."

Radonic did not reply.

"But rather than torture me as you do, kill me at once, to please
your friend."

Milena stopped for an instant; then she began again, in a lower tone:

"And that man is doubtless there, behind that door, listening to all
that has happened."

Radonic ground his teeth, clenched his fists, snorted like a
high-mettled horse, started up, and would have rushed to the door had
Milena not prevented him.

"No," said she, "do not be so rash. Abide your time; catch him on the
hip."

"Why does he hate you?"

"Can't you guess? Did he not want to marry me?"

Radonic groaned.

"Oh! it would not be a difficult matter to turn Vranic into a friend;
but I prefer being beaten by you than touched by that fiend."

Radonic started like a mad bull; and, not knowing what to do, he gave
the table such a mighty thump that he nearly shivered it.

"Listen! Yesterday, when you had rolled on the floor, and were
sleeping away your drunken rage----"

"Then?"

"I went to sit on the doorstep----"

"Well, go on."

"A moment afterwards Vranic was standing in front of me."

The husband's eyes flashed with rage.

"Knowing that you would not wake, he begged me to let him come in. He
saw me wretched and forlorn; he would comfort me."

"You lie!" He hissed these words out through his set teeth, and
caught hold of her neck to throttle her. Then, all at once, he turned
his mad rage against himself, and thumped his head with all his
strength, exclaiming:

"Fool, fool, fool that I am!" Then, after a short silence, and with a
sullen look: "And you, what did you do?"

"I got up, came in, and slammed the door in his face."

Radonic caught his wife in his arms, and kissed her.

"Tell me one thing more. Where were you yesterday evening?"

She smiled.

"Where do you think I was? Well, I'll tell you, because you'll never
guess. I was at the witch's, who lives down there by the sea shore."

"What for?"

"Because I'm tired of this life. I went to ask her for a charm
against your bosom friend."

"And what can a foolish old woman do for you?" said the husband,
trying to put on a sceptical look.

"I have not been all over the world as you have; still, I know that
our blood also is red."

"And what did the _baornitza_ tell you?"

"That a flowing beard is but a vain ornament when the head is light."

Radonic shrugged his shoulders and tried not to wince.

"Besides, she gave me this charm;" and showing him her amulet, she
begged him to wear it for a few days. "It will not do you any harm;
wear it for my sake, even if you don't believe in it," she pleaded
softly.

Radonic yielded, and allowed Milena to fasten the little bag round
his neck, looking deep into her beautiful eyes uplifted towards his.
She blushed, feeling the fire of his glances.

"And now," added she, with a sigh of relief, "he'll break his viper's
fangs against that bone, if our proverbs are true."

Radonic tried to keep up his character of an _esprit-fort_, and said:
"Humbug!" but there was a catch in his voice as he uttered this word.

"Now, I feel sure that as long as you have this talisman you'll not
open your mouth or reveal a single word of what I've told you."

"Whom do you take me for?"

"Yes, but at times our very eyes deceive us; moreover, Vranic is a
man to whom everybody is like glass. He reads your innermost
thoughts."

"He is sharp; nothing more, I tell you."

"Anyhow, that is a powerful charm, and if you'll only dissimulate----"

"Oh! I can be a match for him if I like."

"You must promise me one thing more."

"What is it?"

"No knives; no bloodshed."

Radonic did not answer for a moment, but cast on Milena an angry
look, his hand seeking the handle of his knife.

"Will you promise?"

"Are you so fond of him that you are frightened I'll kill him?"

"I hate him."

"Then----"

"Still, it is no reason to murder him."

Radonic seemed lost in his own thoughts.

"Moreover, he is weak and puny, whilst you are made of iron." She
laid her hand on his shoulder. "No knives, then; it's understood?"

"I promise to use no knife."

The morrow was a beautiful day; winter seemed already to be waking
from its short sleep. The sun was shining brightly, and as the breeze
was fresh and bracing, his cheerful warmth was pleasant, especially
for people who have to depend upon his rays for their only heat.
Spring seemed already to be at hand, and, in fact, the first violets
and primroses might have been seen glinting in sunny spots.

Milena was returning from market, and her eyes were wandering far on
the wide expanse of glittering blue waters, but her thoughts, like
fleet halcyons, dived far away into the hazy distance, unfathomable
to the sight itself, and she hummed to herself the following song:

  "A crystal rill I fain would be,
    And down the deep dell then I'd go;
    Close to his cottage I would flow.
  Thus every morn my love I'd see,
  Oft to his lips I might be pressed,
  And nestle close unto his breast."

Then she sighed and tried not to think, for hers, indeed, was forlorn
hope.

All at once she heard someone walking behind her, coming nearer and
nearer. She hastened her steps; still, the person who followed her
walked on quicker.

"What a hurry you are in, Milena," said Vranic, coming up to her.

"Oh! is it you?" she replied, with feigned surprise; then she
shuddered, thinking that she had not her amulet, and was at the mercy
of this artful man. "You frightened me."

"Dear me, I'm afraid I'm always frightening you! Still, believe me,
I'd give my soul to the devil for one of your smiles, for a good word
from you, Milena."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Children are deceived with cakes, women with sweet words, they say."

He cast a sidelong glance at her.

"You don't look well, to-day; you are pale."

"Am I?"

"Yes; what's the matter?"

"How can I look well, with that brute of a husband of mine?"

"Ah, yes! he got home rather the worse for drink yesterday evening,
didn't he?"

"You ought to know; you were with him."

"Well, yes, I was; at least, part of the evening."

"And when he was as mad as a wild bull, you sent him home to me,
didn't you?"

"I?"

"Vranic, when will you finish persecuting me? What have I done to
you?"

"Milena, it is true I am bad; but is it my fault? has not the world
made me what I am? Why have I not a right to my share of happiness as
other men?"

"I am sorry for you, Vranic, but what can I do for you?"

"You can do whatever you like with me, make me as good as a lamb."

"How?"

"Have pity on me; I love you!"

"How can you say you love me, when you have tried to harm me in every
possible way?"

"I was jealous; besides, I saw that you hated me, therefore you know
it was my only chance of success. In love and in war all means are
good."

She shuddered; still, she managed to master herself and hide the
loathing she felt for him.

"So you thought that, after having driven me to distraction----"

"I should be your friend in need."

"Fine friend." Then after a pause: "Anyhow, my present life is such
that, rather than bear it any longer, I'll go and drown myself some
day or other."

"You'd never do that, Milena."

"Why not? Therefore, if you care for me ever so little, use your
influence over Radonic, undo your work, get him to be a little less
of a brute than he has been of late."

"And then you'll laugh at me?"

"Who does good can expect better," and she tried to look at him less
harshly than she was wont to do, and did not turn her eyes away from
him.

"No, Milena, first----"

"What! first the pay, then the work? It would be against the
proverb."

"Then promise me at least that you will try to love me a little?"

"No," said she, with a toss of her pretty head, and a smile in her
mischievous, sparkling eyes; "I promise nothing."

He thereupon took her hand and kissed it, saying:

"I am making a poor bargain, for I am sure that your heart is empty."

"If you cannot manage to awaken love in an empty heart, it will be
your fault; besides, you can always be in time to undo your work."

"How so?"

"You have me in your power, for Radonic, in your hands, is as pliable
as putty, is he not?"

"Perhaps!" and the wrinkles of his cheeks deepened into a grim smile.

"Then let my husband come home a little less cross than he has been
of late, will you?" she said, in a coaxing tone, and her voice had
for him all the sweetness of the nightingale's trill.

"I'll try," and his blinking, grey-green eyes gloated upon her,
whilst that horrible cast in them made her shiver and feel sick; but
then she thought of Uros, and the idea that his life might be in
danger by the power this man wielded over her husband made her
conceal her real state of feelings and smile upon him pleasantly.

He put his arm round her waist, and whispered words of love into her
ear, words that seemed to sink deep into her flesh and blister her;
and she felt like a bird, covered over with slime by a snake, before
being swallowed up.

He, at that moment--withal he was a seer--fancied Milena falling in
his arms; his persevering love had conquered at last. Radonic would
now be sent away to sea again, perhaps never to come back, and he
would remain the undisputed master of Milena's heart.

"Well, love me a little and I'll change your life from a hell into a
heaven. I'll read your slightest wish in your eyes to satisfy it."

"Thank you," she said, shuddering, disengaging herself from his
grasp, but feeling herself growing pale.

"What is the matter, my love?" he asked.

"Nothing, only I told you I was not feeling well; my husband almost
killed me yesterday."

"Well, I promise that it'll be the last time he touches you."

They had now reached the door of her house, and Vranic, after having
renewed his protestations, went off, whilst Milena entered the house
and locked herself in.

That evening Radonic came home rather earlier than usual. He was
sober, but in a sullen mood, and looked at Milena sheepishly. She set
the supper on the table and waited upon him; when he had finished,
she took the dish and sat down on the hearth to have her meal.

"Well," quoth Radonic, puffing at his pipe, "have you seen Vranic
to-day?"

"Yes, I met him when I was coming home from market."

"Henceforth," said he, "I forbid you going to market again."

"Very well," said she, meekly.

"And?"

"He accompanied me home."

"And what did he say?"

"That you were pulpy, therefore he could do with you whatever he
liked."

"Ah! he said that, did he?" and in his rage Radonic broke his pipe.
"Then?"

"He would first undo his work, make you as gentle as a lamb, then he
would send you off to sea, and----"

Radonic muttered a fearful oath between his teeth.

"Can't you understand? Has he not spoken well of me?"

"He has, the villain, and it wanted all my patience not to clutch him
by the neck and pluck his vile tongue out of his mouth--but I'll bide
my time."




CHAPTER VIII

MURDER


A few days afterwards Milena heard a low whistle outside, just as if
someone were calling her; the whistling was repeated again and again.
She went to the open door, and she saw Vranic at a distance,
apparently on the watch for her. As soon as he saw her, he beckoned
to her to come out. She stepped on the threshold, and he came up to
her.

"Good news, eh?" said he.

"What news?"

"Has Radonic not opened his mouth to you?"

"He has hardly said a single word all these days."

"Impossible!"

"May I be struck blind if he has!"

"Strange."

"Well, but what is it all about?"

"He told me it was a great secret; still, I did not believe him."

"But what is this great secret?"

"He is going off to Montenegro for a day or two, as he has to buy a
cargo of _castradina_. Of course, he'll stay a week; and as soon as
he comes back, he'll start at once on a long voyage."

"I don't believe it!"

"Yes, he is; and it's all my own doing. Now you can't say that I
don't love you, Milena, can you?"

She did not give him any answer.

"You don't seem glad. Once you'd have been delighted to have a
reprieve from his ill-treatment."

"Yes, but now he's only moody. He hasn't beaten me for some days."

"I told you he was as manageable as putty. Like all bullies, you can
shave him without a razor, if you only know how to go about it."

"Yes; only beware. Such men never keep shape--at least, not for any
length of time."

"He'll keep shape till he goes, for that's to-morrow; then----" and he
winked at her as he said this.

"Come, Vranic, be kind for once in your life."

"Has anybody ever been kind to me?"

"'Do good, and don't repent having done it; do evil, and expect
evil,' says the proverb."

"I never do anything for nothing; so to-morrow night I'll come for my
reward."

"Leave me alone, Vranic; if not for my sake, do it for your own good.
Fancy, if Radonic were to return. Surely you wouldn't shave him quite
as easily as you think."

"I'll take the risk upon myself. I have lulled all his suspicions, so
that he has now implicit trust in you. Besides, I'll first see him
well out of the town with my own eyes; Vranic is not a seer for
nothing," and he winked knowingly with his blinking eyes.

"You don't know Radonic: if you are a fox, he is no goose. He is
capable of coming back just to see what I am doing."

"I think I know him a little better than you do, and a longer time.
We have been friends from childhood; in fact, all but _pobratim_."

"That's the reason why you are ready to deceive him, then?"

"What business had he to marry you? What would I not do for your
love, Milena? Why, I'd give my soul to Satan, if he wanted it."

"I'm afraid it's no longer yours to give away. But come, Vranic, if
you really are as fond of me as you pretend to be, have some pity on
me, be kind; think how wretched my whole life has hitherto been,
leave me alone, forget me."

"Ask me anything else but that. How can I forget you? How can I
cease loving you, when I live only for you? I only see through your
eyes."

"Then I'll ask Radonic to take me to Montenegro with him, and I'll
remain with my family."

"And I'll follow you there. You don't understand all the strength of
my love for you."

Thereupon, forgetting his usual prudence, he stepped up to her, and
passing his arm round her waist, he strained her to his breast, and
wanted to kiss her. She wriggled and struggled, and tried to push him
away.

"Unhand me," she said, alarmed; "unhand me at once, or I'll scream."

"Lot of good it'll do you. Come," he replied, "remember your promise.
I've kept my part, try and keep yours with good grace or----"

"What?" she asked, alarmed.

"Or by the holy Virgin, it'll be so much the worse for you! I know----"
he stopped, and then he added: "In fact, I know what I know.
Remember, therefore, it is much better to have Vranic for your friend
than for your foe."

"Mind, you think me a dove."

"I only know that women have long hair and little brains. Try and not
be like most of them."

"Mind, I might for once have more brains than you; therefore, I
entreat you, nay, I command you, not to try and see me to-morrow."

"As for that, I'll use my own discretion."

Saying these words, he went off, and left Milena alone. As soon as he
had disappeared, she went in, and sank down on the hearth; there,
leaning her elbows on her knees, she hid her face between her palms;
then she began nursing her grief.

"They say I am happy," she muttered to herself, "because I am rich
--though I have not a penny that I can call my own--because I can eat
white bread every day. Yet would it not be better by far to be an
animal and graze in the fields, than eat bread moistened with my own
tears? Oh! why was I not born a man? Then, at least, I might have
gone where I liked--done what I pleased.

"They think I am happy, because no one knows what my life has been;
though, it is true, what is a woman's life amongst us?

"She toils in the field the whole of the live-long day, whilst her
husband smokes his pipe. She is laden like a beast of burden; she is
yoked to the plough with an ox or an ass, and when they go to pasture
she trudges home with the harness, to nurse the children or attend to
household work. Meanwhile, her master leisurely chats with his
friends at the inns, or listens to the _guzlar_.

"What is her food? The husks that dogs cannot eat, the bones which
have already been picked. If Turkish women have no souls, they, at
least, are not treated like beasts during their lifetime.

"Oh! holy Virgin, why was I not born a man?"

That evening Radonic came home more sullen and peevish than usual;
still, he was sober. He sat down to supper, and Milena waited upon
him. As soon as he had pushed his plate away:

"Have you seen Vranic to-day?" he asked, gruffly.

"I have," answered the wife, meekly.

"Ah, you have!" and he uttered a fearful oath.

Milena crossed herself.

"And where have you seen him?"

"He came here at the door."

"May he have a fit to-night," he grunted. Then, after a puff at his
pipe: "And what did he say?"

"That you intended starting to-morrow morning for Montenegro, to buy
_castradina_, and----"

Radonic gave such a mighty thump on the table that the _bukara_ was
upset. It rolled and fell to the ground before it could be caught.
Milena hastened to pick it up, but the wine was spilt. The husband
thereupon, not knowing how to vent his spite, gave a kick to the poor
woman just as she stooped to pick it up. She slipped and fell
sprawling to the ground, uttering a stifled groan. Then she got up,
deathly pale, and went to sit down in a corner of the room, and began
to cry unperceived.

"And what did you answer when he told you that I was starting?"

"I begged him to leave me in peace, and above all not to come
to-morrow evening, if his life was dear to him."

"Ah! you begged him, did you? Well, if ever man was blessed with a
foolish wife, I am."

A moment's silence followed, after which he added:

"What a fool a man is who gets married--above all, a sailor who takes
as his wife a feather-brained creature, as you are. May God hurl a
thunderbolt at me if I'd marry again were I but free."

Poor Milena did not reply, for she was inured to such taunts, Radonic
being one of those men who pride themselves on speaking out their own
minds. She kept crying quietly--not for the pain she felt, but
because she dreaded the fatal consequences of the kick she had just
received.

"Will you stop whimpering, or I'll come and give you something to cry
for. It's really beyond all powers of endurance to hear a woman whine
and a pig squeak; if there is a thing that drives me mad, it's that."

Thereupon Radonic began to puff at his pipe savagely, snarling and
snorting as he smoked.

"And may I ask why you begged that double-faced, white-livered friend
of yours not to come to-morrow evening?" he asked, after some
minutes.

"Vranic was never a friend of mine," said Milena, proudly.

"Admitting he wasn't, still you haven't answered my question; but I
suppose it doesn't suit you to answer, does it?"

"Why not? I begged him not to come because I was afraid some mischief
might ensue, withal you promised me not to be rash."

"I promised you, did I? Anyhow, I find that you take a great interest
in this friend of mine, far more than it becomes an honest woman."
Then, with a scowl and a sneer: "If you _are_ honest."

Milena winced, and grew deathly pale. She did not give her husband
any answer, so he, after grunting and grumbling and smoking for some
time, got up and went to bed. She, however, remained where she was
seated--or rather crouched--for she knew that she could not sleep.

How could she sleep?

First, she was not feeling well. The kick she had received in her
side had produced a slight, dull, gnawing soreness; moreover, she
felt--or at least she fancied she could feel--a gnawing pain; it was
not much of a pain, only it seemed as if a watch were ticking there
within her. She shuddered and felt sick, a cold sweat gathered on her
brow, and she trembled from head to foot.

Some women in her state--she had heard--never got over the
consequences of a blow; perhaps the kick might produce mortification,
and then in a few days she would die. Yes, she felt as if she had
received an inward incurable bruise. Well, after all, it was but
right; she had deceived her husband; he had revenged himself. Now
they were quits.

Still tears started to her eyes, and sobs rose to her throat.

Well, after all, she thought, what did it matter if she died? This
wretched life would be over.

Only----

Only what?

Yes, she avowed it to herself; she longed to see Uros' fond face once
more before dying. With her hand locked in his, her eyes gazing upon
him, death would have almost been bliss.

With a repressed and painful yearning, her lover's name at last
escaped her lips.

Radonic, who had been snoring as if he was about to suffocate,
uttered a kind of snorting sound, then he started and woke with a
fearful curse on his lips.

Milena, shuddering, uttered a half-stifled cry.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"Nothing, I was only dreaming. I thought that a young sailor, whom I
once crippled with a kick, had gripped me by my neck, and was choking
me."

"It must have been the _morina_" (the nightmare) "sitting on you,"
and Milena crossed herself.

"How is it you are not in bed?" he asked, scowling.

She did not speak for an instant.

He started up to look at her.

"Perhaps that villain is sneaking about the house, and you wish to
warn him?"

"Your jealousy really drives you mad."

"Well, then, will you speak? Why are you not yet in bed?"

"I--I don't feel exactly well."

"Why, what's the matter?"

"The kick you gave me," she retorted, falteringly.

"Why, I hardly touched you! well, you are getting mighty delicate;
you ought to have had the kick I gave that sailor lad, then you would
have known the strength of my foot!"

"Yes, but----" She checked herself, and then added: "Women are
delicate."

"Oh! so you are going to be a grand lady, and be delicate, are you?
Who ever heard of a Montenegrin being delicate?" Then he added: "If
you don't feel well, go to bed and try to sleep."

Thereupon he turned on the other side, and began to snore very soon
afterwards.

Milena began to think of what had been and might have been.

She had sinned, foolishly, thoughtlessly; but since that fatal night
she had never known a single moment's happiness. As time passed, the
heinousness of her sin rose up before her, more dreadful, more
appalling.

Still, was it the sin itself, or its dire consequences, that rendered
her so moody, so timorous?

She never asked herself such a question; she only knew that she now
started, like a guilty thing, at the slightest noise, and she
shivered if anybody spoke to her abruptly. At times she fancied
everybody could read her guilt in her face.

She had been more than once tempted, of late, to tell her husband
that, in some months, she would be a mother. Still, the words had
ever stuck in her throat; she could never nerve herself enough to
speak.

Though he might probably never have got to know the real truth, could
she tell him that _he_ was the father of her child, or, at least,
allow him to think so? No, she could never do that, for it was
impossible to act that lie the whole of her life. Could she see her
husband, returning from a long voyage, take in his arms and fondle
the child that was not his, the child that he would strangle if he
knew whose it was?

Although an infant is the real, nay, the only bond of married life,
still, the child of sin is a spectre ever rising 'twixt husband and
wife, estranging them from one another for ever.

Then she had better confess her guilt at once. And bring about three
deaths? Aye, surely; Radonic was not a man to forgive. He had
crippled a sailor lad for some trifle.

She must keep her secret a little longer--and then?

Thereupon she fell on her knees before the silver-clad image of the
Virgin.

"Oh, holy Virgin, help me! for to whom can I turn for help but to
thee? Help me, and I promise thee never to sin again, either by word
or action, all my life." And she kissed the icon devoutly. "Oh, holy
Virgin, help me! for thou canst do any miracle thou likest. Show
mercy upon me, and draw me from this sorrowful plight. I shall work
hard, and get thee, with my earnings, as huge a taper as money can
buy.

"And thou, great St. George, who didst kill a dragon to save a maid,
save me from Vranic; and every year, upon thy holy day, I shall burn
incense and light a candle before thy picture, if thou wilt listen to
my prayer."

After that, feeling somewhat comforted, she went to bed, and at last
managed to fall asleep, notwithstanding the pain she felt in her
side.

On the morrow Radonic went away as usual, and Milena was left alone.
The day passed away slowly, gloomily. The weather was dull, sultry,
oppressive. The sirocco that blew every now and then in fitful,
silent gusts, was damp, stifling, heavy. A storm was brewing in the
air overhead, and all around there was a lull, as if anxious Nature
were waiting in sullen expectation for its outburst. The earth was
fretful; the sky as peevish as a human being crossed in his designs.
The hollow, rumbling noise in the clouds seemed the low grumbling of
contained anger.

Everybody was more or less unsettled by the weather--Milena more than
anyone else. As the day passed her nervousness increased, and
solitude grew to be oppressive.

Her husband, before leaving the house, had told her to go and spend
the evening at her kinswoman's, as a bee was to be held there; the
women spun, and the men prepared stakes for the vines. Bellacic was
fond of company, and he liked to have people with merry faces around
him, helping him to while away the long evening hours; nor did he
grudge a helping hand to others, whenever his neighbours had any kind
of work for him to do.

"I'll come there and fetch you as soon as I've settled my business
with Vranic," said Radonic, going off.

Milena, understanding that her husband wanted her out of the way,
decided upon remaining at home, and, possibly, preventing further
mischief.

The day had been dark and gloomy from morning; the clouds heaped
overhead grew always blacker, and kept coming down lower and ever
lower. Early in the afternoon the light began to wane. Her uneasiness
increased at approaching night. With the gloaming her thoughts grew
dreary and dismal. She was afraid to remain at home; she was loth to
go away. Unable to work any longer, she went outside to sit on the
doorstep and spin. Now, at last, the rain began, and lurid flashes
were seen through the several heaps and masses of clouds.

The lightning showed to her excited imagination not only numberless
witches, morine and goblins, chasing and racing after each other like
withered leaves in a storm, but in that horrid landscape she
perceived murderous battles, hurtling onslaughts, fearful frays and
bloodshed, followed by spaces that looked like fields of fire and
gory hills of trodden snow. It was too dreadful to look at, so she
turned round to go in. She would light the lamp and kindle the fire.
At a few steps from the threshold she heard, or, at least, she
fancied she heard, someone whistle outside. She stopped to listen.
Perhaps it was only the shrill sound of the wind through the leafless
bushes; for the wind has at times the knack of whistling like a
human being.

She again advanced a step or two towards the hearth; and as she did
so, she stumbled on something. She uttered a low, muffled cry as she
almost fell. On what had her foot caught? She bent down, and felt
with her hand. It seemed like the corpse of a man stretched out at
full length--a human creature wallowing in his own blood. A sickening
sense of fear, a feeling of faintness, came over her. She hardly
dared to move. Her teeth were chattering; all her limbs were
trembling. Still, she managed to recover her self-possession, so as
to grope and put her hand on the steel and flint. Still, such was her
terror, that everything she touched assumed an uncouth, ungainly,
weird shape. Having found the steel, she managed to strike a light.
That faint glimmer dispelled her terror, and she asked herself how
she could have been so foolish as to take a coat lying on the floor
for a murdered man.

The thing that puzzled her was how that coat came to be lying there
on the floor. It was her husband's old _kabanica_, and it must have
been left on some stool.

As all these thoughts flitted through her mind, a loud crack was
heard--a jarring sound amidst the hushed stillness of the house.
Milena shuddered; a hand seemed to grip her throat. Her heart stopped
for a moment; then it began to throb and beat as if it were going to
burst. She gasped for breath.

What was that ominous noise? The hoop of a tub had broken!

To the uninitiated this might seem a trifle, but to those versed in
occult lore it was a fearful omen. Someone was to die in that house,
and this death was to happen soon, very soon; perhaps before
daybreak.

She was so scared that she could not remain a moment longer in that
house; so, wrapping herself up in her husband's old coat, she
hastened out of the house. Just then Uros' last words sounded in her
ears:

"If you are alone and in trouble, go to my mother; she will not only
be a friend to you, but love you as a daughter for my sake."

Her husband that morning had sent her to Mara's; she could not remain
alone any longer; it was _Kismet_ that she should go. Besides, Vranic
might be coming now at any moment, and even if she swore to him that
her husband had not started, he would not believe her; then she would
only excite her husband to greater wrath if he came and found him
alone with her. No, on the whole, it was better by far to obey her
husband's behest; therefore, she started off. She ran quickly through
the pouring rain, and never stopped till she was at Bellacic's door.

"Oh! Milena, is it you?" said Mara, her motherly eyes twinkling with
a bright smile of welcome; "though, to tell you the real truth, I
almost expected you."

"Why?"

"Because a big fly has been buzzing round me, telling me that some
person who is fond of me would come and see me. Oracles are always
true; besides," added she, with a smile and a sly look, "just guess
of what I've been dreaming?"

"Of black grapes, that bring good luck, I suppose."

"No, of doves; so I'll surely get a letter from Uros to-morrow or the
day after."

Milena looked down demurely; she blushed; then, to turn away the
conversation, she added:

"To-day, for a wonder, Radonic has sent me to pass the evening with
you; he'll come to fetch me later on--at least, he said he would."

"It is a wonder, indeed--why, what's come over him? He must have put
on his coat inside out when he got up."

Milena thereupon told her friend why her husband did not want her at
home.

"Anyhow, I'm very glad you've come, for I'm embroidering two
waistcoats--one for Uros, the other for Milenko--and my poor eyes are
getting rather weak, so you can help me a little with the fine
stitching."

"Radonic told me that some of your neighbours are coming to make
stakes."

"Are they? My husband did not say anything about it."

After some time, Markovic and his wife, and several other neighbours,
made their appearance.

As every man came in, he greeted Milena, and, seeing her alone, asked
her where Radonic was. She, like a true Montenegrin, warded off the
question by answering with a shrug of her shoulders and in an
off-hand way:

"May the devil take him, if I know where he is. I daresay he'll pop
up by-and-bye."

Etiquette not only requires a wife to avoid speaking of her husband,
but also to eschew him completely when present, just as more northern
people ignore entirely the name of certain indispensable articles of
clothing.

When all the guests were assembled, and such dainties as roasted
Indian-corn, melon, pumpkin and sun-flower seeds were handed round,
together with filberts and walnuts, then the bard (the honoured
guest) was begged to sing them a song. The improvisatore, stroking
his long moustache and twisting its ends upwards that they might not
be too much in his way as he spoke, took down his _guzla_ and began
to scrape it by way of prelude. This was not, as amongst us, a sign
to begin whispered conversation in out of the way corners, or to
strike an attitude of bored sentimentality, for everybody listened
now with rapt attention.


THE FAITHLESS WIFE.

   When Gjuro was about to start for war,
   And leave his wife alone within his hall,
   He fondly said: "Dear Jeljena, farewell,
   My faithful wife; I now hie to the camp,
   From whence I hope to come back soon; so for
   Thine own sweet sake and mine be true to me."
   In haste the wanton woman answered back:
  "Go, my loved lord, and God watch over thee."
   He had but gone beyond the gate, when she
   Took up a jug and went across the field
   To fetch fresh water from the fountain there;
   And having got unto the grassy glen, she saw
   A handsome youth, who had adorned his cap
   With flowers freshly culled from terebinth.
   And unto him the sprightly wife thus spoke:
  "Good day to thee, brave Petar; tell me, pray,
   Where hast thou bought those blossoms fresh and fair?"
   And he: "God grant thee health, O Gjuro's wife;
   They were not got for gold, they are a gift."
   Then Jelka hastened back to her own house,
   And to her room she called her trusted maid.
  "Now list," said she. "Go quick beyond the field
   And try to meet young Petar Latkovin;
   With terebinth you'll see his cap adorned.
   Say unto him: 'Fair youth, to thee I bear
   The greetings of good Gjuro's wife, and she
   Doth kindly beg that thou wilt sup with her,
   And spend the night in dalliance and delight--
   And give her one fair flower from thy cap.
   The castle hath nine gates; the postern door
   Will ope for thee, now Gjuro is far off."
   The handmaid forthwith to the fountain sped,
   And found the youth. "Good day, my lord," said she.
  "Great Gjuro's winsome wife her greetings sends;
   She begs that thou will sup with her this night,
   And grant her those sweet sprays of terebinth.
   Nine gates our manor has; the small side door
   Will be left ope for thee, my handsome youth,
   As Gjuro is away." Then Petar thanked
   And longed that night might come. At dusk, with joy
   He to the castle sped. He put his steed
   In Gjuro's stall, and then his sword he hung
   Just in the place where Gjuro hung his own,
   And set his cap where Gjuro placed his casque.
   In mirth they supped, and sleep soon closed their eyes;
   But, lo! when midnight came, the wife did hear
   Her husband's voice that called: "My Jelka dear,
   Come, my loved wife, and open quick thy doors."
   Distracted with great fear, she from her bed
   Sprang down, scarce knowing what to do; but soon
   She hid the youth, then let her husband in.
   With feigning love she to his arms would fly,
   But he arrested her with frowning mien.
  "Why didst thou not call quick thy maiden up
   To come and ope at once these doors of thine?"
  "Sweet lord, believe a fond and faithful wife:
   Last night this maid of mine went off in pain
   To bed; she suffers from the ague, my lord;
   So I was loth, indeed, to call her up."
  "If this be true, you were quite right," quoth he;
  "Yet I do fear that all thy words are lies."
  "May God now strike me dumb, if all I spake
   Be aught than truth," said Jeljena at once.
   But frowning, Gjuro stood with folded arms:
  "Whose is that horse within my stall? and whose
   That cap adorned with flowers gay? And there
   I see a stranger's sword upon the wall."
  "Now listen to thy loving wife, my lord.
   Last night a warrior came within thy walls,
   And wanted wine, in pledge whereof he left
   His prancing steed, his sword, and that smart cap,"
   Said Yelka, smiling sweetly to her lord.
   And he with lowering looks, then said: "'Tis well,
   Provided thou canst swear thou speakest true."
  "The Lord may strike me blind," she then replied.
  "Why is thy hair dishevelled, and thy cheeks
   Of such a pallid hue? now, tell me why?"
   And she: "Believe thine honest wife. Last night
   As I did walk beneath our orchard trees,
   The apple boughs dishevelled thus my hair,
   And then I breathed the orange blossom scent,
   Until their fragrance almost made me faint."
   Now Gjuro's face was fearful to behold,
   Still as he frowned he only said: "'Tis well,
   But on the holy Cross now take an oath."
  "My lord, upon the holy Cross I swear."
  "Now give me up the key of mine own room."
   Then Jeljena grew ghastly pale with fear,
   Still she replied in husky tones: "Last night
   As I came from your room the key did break
   Within the lock, so now the door is shut."
   But he cried out in wrath: "Give me my key,
   Or from thy shoulders I shall smite thy head!"
   She stood aghast and speechless with affright,
   So with his foot he burst at once the door.
   There in the room he found young Latkovin.
  "Now, answer quick: Didst thou come here by strength,
   Or by her will?" The youth a while stood mute,
   Not knowing what to say. But looking up:
  "Were it by mine own strength," he then replied,
  "Beyond the hills she now would be with me;
   If I am here, 'tis by her own free will."
   Then standing straight, with stern and stately mien,
   Unto the youth he said, in scornful tones:
  "Hence, get thee gone!" Now, when they were alone,
   He glanced askance upon his guilty wife
   With loathsomeness and hatred in his eyes:
  "Now, tell me of what death thou'lt rather die--
   By having all thy bones crushed in a mill?
   Or being trodden down 'neath horses' hoofs?
   Or flaring as a torch to light a feast?"
   She, for a trice, nor spake, nor moved, nor breathed,
   But stood as if amazed and lost in thought;
   Then, waking up as from some frightful dream:
  "I am no corn to be crushed in a mill,
   Or stubble grass for steeds to tread upon;
   If I must die, then, like unto a torch,
   Let me burn brightly in thy banquet hall."
   In freezing tones the husband spake and said:
  "Be it, then, as you list," and thereupon
   He made her wear a long white waxen gown.
   Then, in his hall, he bound her to a pyre,
   And underneath he piled up glowing coals,
   So that the flame soon rose and reached her knees.
   With tearful eyes and a heartrending cry:
  "Oh! Gjuro mine, take pity on my youth;
   Look at my feet, as white as winter snow;
   Think of the times they tripped about this hall
   In mazy dance; let not my feet be scorched."
   To all her prayers he turned a ruthless ear,
   And only heaped more wood on the pile.
   The lambent flames now leapt up to her hands,
   And she in anguish and in dreadful dole
   Cried out: "Oh! show some mercy on my youth;
   Just see my hands--so soft, so small, so smooth--
   Let not these scathful flames now scorch my hands.
   Have pity on these dainty hands of mine,
   That often lifted up thy babe to thee."
   Her words awoke no pity in his heart,
   That seemed to have become as cold as clay;
   He only heaped up coals upon the pile,
   Like some fell demon who had fled from hell.
   The forked lurid tongues rose up on high,
   Like slender fiery snakes that sting the flesh,
   And, leaping up, they reached her snowy breast.
  "Oh! Gjuro," she cried out, "for pity's sake
   Have mercy on my youth; torment me not.
   Though I was false to thee, let me not die.
   See how these fearful flames deflower these breasts--
   The fountain that hath fed thine infant's life--
   See, they are oozing o'er with drops of milk."
   But Gjuro's eyes were blind, his ears were deaf;
   A viper now was coiled around his heart,
   That urged him to heap up the pile with wood.
   The rising flames began to blind her eyes;
   Still, ere the fearful smoke had choked her breath,
   She cast on Gjuro one long loving glance,
   And craved, in anguish, mercy on her youth:
  "Have pity on my burning eyes, and let
   Me look once more upon my little child."
   To all her cries his cruel soul was shut;
   He only fanned and fed the fatal flame,
   Until the faithless wife was burnt to death.


A moment of deep silence followed; the men twisted their moustaches
silently, the women stealthily wiped away their tears with the back
of their hands.

"Gjuro was a brute!" at last broke out a youth, impetuously.

Nobody answered at once; then an elderly man said, slowly:

"Perhaps he was, but you are not a husband yet, Tripko; you are only
in love. Adultery, amongst us, is no trifle, as it is in Venice, for
instance; we Slavs never forgive."

"I don't say he ought to have forgiven; in his place I might have
strangled her, but as for burning a woman alive, as a torch, I find
it heinous!"

Milena, who had fancied herself in Jeljena's place, could not refrain
her sobs any longer; moreover, it seemed to her as if her guilt had
been found out, and she wished the earth would open and swallow her
alive.

"Oh, my poor Milena!" said Mara, soothingly, "you are too
tender-hearted; it is only a _pisma_, after all." Then, turning to
her neighbour, she added: "She has not been well for some days, and
then----" she lowered her voice to a whisper.

"I am sorry," said the bard, "that I upset you in this way but----"

"Oh! it is nothing, only I fancied I could see the poor woman
burning; it was so dreadful!"

"Here," said Bellacic, "have a glass of _slivovitz_; it'll set you
all right. Moreover, listen; I'll tell you a much finer story, only
pay great attention, for I'm not very clever at story-telling. Are
you all ears?"

"Yes," said Milena, smiling.

"Well, once upon a time, there was a man who had three dogs: the
first was called Catch-it-quick; the second, Bring-it-back; and the
third, I-know-better. Now, one morning this man got up very early to
go out hunting, so he called Catch-it-quick, Bring-it-back, and
--and--how stupid I am! now I've forgotten the name of the other dog.
Well, I said I wasn't good in telling stories; what was it?"

"I-know-better," interrupted Milena.

"No doubt you do, my dear, so perhaps you'll continue the story
yourself, as you know better."

Everybody laughed, and the gloom that had come over the company after
the bard's story was now dispelled.

"Radonic is late; I'm afraid, Milena, if you went back home, you'd
have to prepare a stake for him," said Markovic. Then, turning to the
bard: "Come, Stoyan, give us another _pisma_."

"Yes, but something merry," interrupted Tripko; "tell us some verses
about the great _Kraglievic_."

The bard, contrary to his wont, was sipping his glass of _slivovitz_
very slowly; he now finished it and said:

"I'll try, though, to tell you the truth, I'm rather out of sorts
this evening; I really don't know why. There is an echo, as if of a
crime, in the slightest noise, a smell of blood in every gust of
wind. Do you not hear anything? Well, perhaps, I am mistaken."

Everyone looked at one another wistfully, for they all knew that old
Stoyan was something of a prophet.

"There! listen," said he, staring vacantly; "did you not hear?"

"No," said Bellacic; "what was it?"

"Only the heavy thud of a man falling like a corpse on the ground,"
and as he said these words he crossed himself devoutly and muttered
to himself: "May the Lord forgive him, whoever he is." Thereupon
everybody present crossed himself, saying: "_Bog nas ovari._"

Milena shuddered and grew deathly pale; though she was not gifted
with second sight, she saw in her mind's eye something so dreadful
that it almost made her faint with terror. Mara, seeing her ghastly
pale, said:

"Come, give us this song, but let it be something brisk and merry,
for the howling of the wind outside is like a funeral wail, and it is
that lament which makes us all so moody to-night."

"You are right, _gospodina_; besides, one man more or less--provided
he is no relation of ours--is really no great matter. How many
thousands fell treacherously at Kossoro." Then, taking up his bow, he
began to scrape the chord of his _guzla_, in a swift, jerking,
sprightly way.

"What is it?" asked Bellacic.

And Stoyan replied, as he began to sing:


MARKO KRAGLIEVIC'S FALCON.

  A falcon flies o'er Budua town;
  It bears a gleaming golden crest,
  Its wings are gilt, so is its breast;
  Of clear bright yellow is each claw,
  And with its sheen it lights the wold.

  Then all the maids of Budua town
  Ask this fair sparkling bird of prey
  Why it is yellow and not grey?
  Who gilded it without a flaw?
  Who gave it that bright crest of gold?

  And to the maids of Budua town
  That falcon shy did thus reply:
  Listen, ye maids, and know that I
  Belong to Mark the warrior brave,
  Who is as fair as he is bold.

  His sisters dwell in Budua town
  The first, the fairest of the two,
  Painted my claws a yellow hue,
  And gilt my wings; great Marko gave
  To me this sparkling crest of gold.


He finished, and then, as it was getting late, everyone began to wish
Bellacic and Mara good-night and to go off. Several of the guests
offered to see Milena home, but the _domacica_ insisted that her
kinswoman should remain and spend the night with her, and Milena
consented full willingly, for she dreaded going back home.

When all the guests had gone, Mara took Milena in bed with her; but
she, poor thing, could not find rest, for the words of the bard kept
ever ringing in her ears. Then she saw again the great-coat lying on
the floor, looking like a corpse; and, in the howling wind, she
thought she heard a voice calling for help. Who was it? Radonic or
Vranic?

It was only the wind howling outside through the trees, creeping
slily along the whitewashed walls of the houses, stealthily trying to
find some small cranny wherein to creep, then shrieking with a shrill
cry of exultation when it had come to an open window, or when,
discovering some huge keyhole, it could whistle undisturbed.

At last, just as Milena began to get drowsy, and her heavy eyelids
were almost closed, she again saw the _kabanica_, which had--some
hours ago--been lying on the floor, rise and twist itself into the
most grotesque and fantastic attitudes, then--almost hidden under the
hood--Vranic's face making mouths at her. She opened her eyes widely,
and although consciousness had now returned, and she knew that the
great-coat had been left in the other room, still she saw it plainly
dancing and capering like a monkey. She shivered and shuddered; she
closed her eyes not to see it; still, it became ever more distinct.
Then she buried her face in the pillow, and covered up her head in
the sheet; then by degrees a feeling of drowsiness came over her, and
just as she was going off to sleep the _kabanica_, which was standing
erect, fell all at once to the ground with a mighty thud that almost
shook the whole house, and even seemed to precipitate her down some
bottomless hole. In her terror she clutched at Mara, who was fast
asleep, and woke her.

"What's the matter?" asked the elderly woman.

"I heard a loud voice; didn't you hear it?"

"No, I had just dropped off to sleep."

Thereupon both the women listened, but the house was perfectly quiet.

"What kind of a noise was it?"

"Like a man falling heavily on the ground."

"You must have been dreaming; Stoyan's words frightened you, that's
all, unless the cat or the dog knocked something down. You know, at
night every noise sounds strange, uncouth, whilst in the day-time
we'd never notice them. Now, the best thing you can do is to try and
go off to sleep."

Alas! why are we not like the bird that puts its head under its wing
and banishes at once the outer world from its view. Every endeavour
she made to bring about oblivion seemed, on the contrary, to
stimulate her to wakefulness, and thereby frustrate her efforts.
Sleepiness only brought on mental irritation, instead of soft, drowsy
rest. The most gloomy thoughts came into her mind. Why had her
husband not come to fetch her? Perhaps Vranic, seeing himself
discovered, had stabbed him to death. Then she thought that, in this
case, all her trouble would be at an end. Thereupon she crossed
herself devoutly, and uttered a prayer that her husband might not be
murdered, even if he had been cruel to her. Still, she was quite sure
that, if Radonic ever discovered her guilt, he would surely murder
her--burn her, perhaps, like Gjuro had done.

Thereupon she heard the elderly man's slow and grave voice ringing in
her ears:

"Slavs never forgive. Adultery amongst us is no trifle, as it is in
Venice."

She shuddered with terror. Every single word as it had been uttered
had sunk deep into her breast, like drops of burning wax falling from
Jeljena's gown. Each one was like the stab of a sharp knife cutting
her to the quick.

Then again she fancied that Stoyan had sung that _pisma_ only to
taunt her.

She had once heard the _pop_ read in the Bible about an adulteress in
Jerusolim who was to be stoned to death.

Had not every word that evening been a stone thrust at her? What was
she to do? What was to become of her? Once entangled in the net of
sin, every effort we make to get out of it seems to make us flounder
deeper in its fatal meshes.

All these thoughts tortured and harassed her, burning tears were ever
trickling down her cheeks, her weary head was aching as she tossed
about, unable to go off to sleep, unable to find rest; nay, a
creepiness had come over all her limbs, as if a million ants were
going up and down her legs.

How glad she was at last to see through the curtainless window the
first glimmer of dawn dispel the darkness of the night--the long,
dreary, unending night.

"You have had a bad night," said Mara. "I heard you turning and
tossing about, but I thought it better not to speak to you. I suppose
it was the bed. I'm like you, I always lose my sleep in a new bed."

"Oh, no!" said Milena. "I was anxious."

"About your husband? Perhaps he got drunk and went off to sleep."

As soon as Milena was dressed she wanted to go off, but Mara would
not allow her.

"First, your husband said he'd come and fetch you, so you must stay
with us till he comes; then, remember you promised to help me with my
embroidery, so I can't let you go."

"No, I'm too anxious about Radonic. You know, he's so hasty."

"Yes, he's a brute, I know."

"Besides, I can't get the bard's words out of my head."

"In fact, poor thing, you are looking quite ill. Anyhow, I'll not
allow you to go alone, so you must wait till I've put the house in
order, and then I'll go with you."

As soon as breakfast was over, and Bellacic was out of the house,
Mara got ready. She little knew that, though Milena was anxious to
find out the dreadful truth of that night's mystery, she was in her
heart very loth to return home.

Just as Mara was near the door, she, like all women, forgot something
and had to go in, for--what she called--a minute. Milena stepped out
alone. First, as she pushed the door open, the hinges gave a most
unpleasant grating sound. She shivered, for this was a very bad omen.
Then a cat mewed. Milena crossed herself. And, as if all this were
not enough, round the corner came an old lame hag whom she knew. The
old woman stopped.

"What, _gospa_! is it you? and where are you going so early in the
morning?"

Milena shuddered, and her teeth chattered in such a way that she
could hardly answer her. It was very bad to meet an old woman in the
morning; worse still, a lame old woman; worst of all, to be asked
where you are going.

The best thing on such a day would be to go back in-doors, and do
nothing at all; for everything undertaken would go all wrong.

The old woman's curiosity having been satisfied, she hobbled away,
and soon disappeared, leaving Milena more dejected and forlorn even
than she had been before.

Mara came out, and found her ghastly pale; she tried to laugh the
matter over, though she, too, felt that it was really no laughing
matter. Weary and worn, poor Milena dragged herself homewards, but
her knees seemed as if they were broken, and her limbs almost refused
to carry her.

Soon they came in sight of the house; all the windows and the doors
were shut--evidently Radonic was not at home.

"I wonder where he is," said Milena to her friend.

"Probably he has gone to our house to look for you. If you had only
waited a little! Now he'll say that we wanted to get rid of you."

At last they were at the door.

"And now," said Mara, "probably the house is locked, and you'll have
to come back with me." Then, all at once interrupting herself: "Oh!
how my left ear is ringing, someone is speaking about me; can you
guess who it is, Milena? Yes, I think I can hear my son's voice," and
the fond mother's handsome face beamed with pleasure.

She had hardly uttered these words, when they heard someone call out:

"Gospa Mara! gospa Mara!"

Then turning round, they saw a youth running up to them.

"What! is it you, Todor Teodorovic? and when did you come back?"
quoth Mara.

"We came back last evening."

"Perhaps you met the _Spera in Dio_ on your voyage?"

"Yes, we met the brig at Zara, but as she had somewhat suffered from
the storm, she was obliged to go to Nona for repairs, as all the
building yards of Zara were busy."

Thereupon, he began to expatiate very learnedly about the nature of
the damage the ship had suffered, but Mara interrupted him--

"And how was Uros? did you see him?"

"Oh, yes! he was quite well."

Then he began to tell Mara all about the lives Uros and Milenko had
saved, and how gallantly they had endangered their own. "But," added
he, "our captain has a letter for you, _gospa_."

"There, I told you I'd have a letter to-day; I had dreamt of doves,
and when I see doves or horses in my sleep, I always get some news
the day afterwards," said Mara, turning to her friend, but Milena had
disappeared.

Todor Teodorovic having found a willing listener, an occurrence which
happened but very seldom with him, began to tell Mara all about the
repairs the _Spera in Dio_ would have to undergo, and also how long
they would stay at Nona, their approximate cost, and so forth, and
Mara listened because anything that related to her son was
interesting to her.

Milena had stood for a few moments on the doorstep, but when she
heard that Uros was quite well, she slipped unperceived into the
house. She felt so oppressed as she went in that she almost fancied
she was going to meet her death.

Was it for the last time she went into that house? Would she ever
come out of it again?

Her hand was on the latch, she pressed it down; it yielded, the door
opened. Perhaps Radonic had come home late, drunk, and he was there
now sleeping himself sober. If this were the case, she would have a
bad day of it; he was always so fretful and peevish on the day that
followed a drinking bout.

How dark the room was; all the shutters were tightly shut, and
dazzled as she was by the broad daylight, she could not see the
slightest thing in that dark room.

Her heart was beating so loud that she fancied it was going to burst;
she panted for breath, she shrank within herself, appalled as she was
by that overpowering darkness. She dreaded to stretch out her hand
and grope about, for it seemed to her as if she would be seized by
some invisible foe, lying there in wait for her.

Just then, as she was staring in front of her, with widely-opened
eyes, the _kabanica_, as she had seen it the evening before, rose
slowly, gravely, silently, from the floor, and stood upright before
her.

That gloomy ghost of a garment detached itself from the surrounding
darkness and glided up to her, bending forward with outstretched
arms. No face was to be seen, for the head was quite concealed by the
hood. And yet she fancied Vranic's livid face must be there, near
her.

She almost crouched down, oppressed by that ghostly garment; she
shrank back with terror, and yet she knew that the phantom in front
of her only existed in her morbid imagination.

To nerve herself to courage, she turned round to cast a glance at
Uros' mother, and convince herself that she was still there, within
reach at a few steps; then, with averted head, she went in.

She turned round; the phantom of the _kabanica_ had disappeared. She
was by the hearth. What was she to do now? First, open the shutters
and have some light. She turned towards the right.

All at once she stumbled on the very spot where, the evening before,
she had caught and entangled her foot in the great-coat. A man was
lying there now, apparently dead. She uttered a piercing cry as she
fell on a cold, lifeless body. Then, as she fell, she fainted.

Mara and Todor, hearing the cry, rushed into the house. They opened
the shutters, and then they saw Milena lying on the floor, all of a
heap, upon an outstretched body. They lifted her up and laid her on
the bed; then they went to examine the man, who was extended at full
length by the hearth, wrapped up in his huge great-coat.

"There is no blood about him," said Todor; "he, therefore, must be
drunk, and asleep."

Still, when they touched his limbs, they found that they were stiff
and stark, anchylosed by the rigid sleep of death.

Mara pushed back the hood of the _kabanica_, and then she saw a sight
which she never forgot the whole of her life.

She saw Vranic's face staring at her in the most horrible contortions
of overpowering pain. His distorted mouth was widely open, like a
huge black hole; out of it, his slimy, bloody, dark tongue
protruded--dreadful to behold. His nostrils were fiercely dilated.
Still, worst of all, his eyes, with their ugly cast, started
--squinting, glazed and bloodshot--out of their sockets. The hair of
his face and of his head was bristling frightfully; his ghastly
complexion was blotched with livid spots. It was, indeed, a gruesome
sight, especially seen so unexpectedly.

All around his neck he bore the traces of strangulation, for Radonic,
who had promised not to use a knife, had been true to his word.

Mara, shuddering, made the sign of the Cross. She pulled the hood of
the coat over the corpse's face, and then went to nurse Milena;
whilst Todor Teodorovic, who had, at last, found a topic of
conversation worth being listened to, went out to call for help.




CHAPTER IX

THE HAYDUK


On the morning of the murder Vranic accompanied Radonic out of the
town. He had told Milena he would do so. On reaching the gate
fronting the open country and the dark mountains, Radonic stopped,
and wished his friend Good-bye. The seer insisted upon walking a
little way out of town with him.

"No, thank you; go back. The weather is threatening, and we'll soon
have rain."

"Well, what does it matter? If you don't melt, no more shall I," and
he laughed at his would-be witticism.

"The roads are bad, and you are no great walker."

Vranic, however, insisted.

Thus they went on together, through vineyards and olive-groves, until
they got in sight of the white-walled convent. There Radonic tried
once more to get rid of his friend. At last they reached the foot of
the rocky mountain, usually fragrant with sage and thyme. Having got
to the flinty, winding path leading to the fort of Kosmac:

"Now," said Radonic, "you must positively come no farther."

The road was uneven and very steep. Vranic yielded.

"Go back, and take care of Milena."

"Well, I do not say it as a boast, but you could not leave her in
better hands."

"She is young, and, like all women--well, she has long hair and short
brains. Look after her."

"Vranic has his eyes open, and will keep good watch."

"I know I can rely on you. Have we not always been friends, we two?
That is why, whenever I left my home, I did so with a light heart."

"Your honour is as dear to me as if it were my own."

"It is only in times of need that we really appreciate the advantage
of having a friend. The proverb is right: 'Let thy trusted friend be
as a brother to you'; and a friend to whom we can entrust our wife,
is even more than a brother. I therefore hope to be able to repay you
soon for your kindness."

"Don't mention it. It has been a pleasure for me to be of use to you;
for, as honey attracts flies, a handsome young woman collects men
around her. So there must always be someone to ward off indiscreet
admirers. Moreover, as you know, they say I am a seer, and they are
afraid of me."

At last they kissed and parted; the one walking quickly townwards,
almost light-hearted, especially after the load of his friend's
company, the other trudging heavily upwards.

After a few steps, Radonic climbed a high rock, and sat down to watch
Vranic retracing his steps townwards. When he had seen him disappear,
he at last rose and quietly followed him for a while. A quarter of an
hour afterwards he was knocking at the gate of the white-walled
convent. The monks, who are always fond of any break in their
monotonous life, received him almost with deference--a sea captain,
who had been all over the world, was always a welcome guest. After
taking snuff with all of them, and chatting about politics, the crops
and the scandal of the town, Radonic asked to be confessed; then he
gave alms, was absolved of his peccadilloes, and finally took the
Eucharist--a spoonful of bread soaked in wine--although he prided
himself on being something of a sceptic. Still, he felt comforted
thereby; he had blotted out all past sins and could now begin a new
score. Religion, they say, in all its forms always tends to make man
happy--aye, and better!

In this merry frame of mind he sat down to dinner with the jolly
brotherhood, and after a copious but plain meal, he, according to the
custom of this holy house, retired to one of the cells appointed to
strangers, to have a nap. No sooner was he alone than he undid his
bundle, took out a razor and shaved off all the hair of his cheeks
and chin, leaving only a long pair of thick moustaches, which he
curled upwards according to the fierce fashion of the Kotor. This
done, he took off his soiled, ugly, badly-fitting European clothes
and put on the dress of the country--one of the finest and manliest
devised by man; so that, although not good-looking, he was handsome
to what he had just been.

The monks, on seeing him come out, did not recognise him, and could
not understand from whence he had sprung. Then they were more than
astonished when they found out the reason for this transformation,
for he told them that it was to surprise his wife, or rather, the
moths attracted by her sparkling eyes.

"I thought I should never put on again the clothes of my youth, but
fate, it appears, has decreed otherwise."

"Man is made of dust, and to dust he returneth. Sooner or later we
have to become again what we once were. You know the story of the
mouse, don't you?"

"No; or at least I don't think I do."

"Then listen, and I'll tell it you."


A great many years ago, in the times of Christ and His disciples,
there lived somewhere in Asia a very good man, who had left off
worshipping idols and had become a Christian.

Finding soon afterwards that it was impossible for him to dwell any
more with his own people--who scoffed at his new creed, rated him for
wishing to be better than they were, mocked him when he prayed, and
played all kinds of tricks on him when he fasted--he sold his
birthright and divided all his money amongst the poor, the blind and
the cripples of his native town. Then he bade farewell to all his
friends and relations, and with the Holy Scriptures in one hand, and
a staff in the other, he went out of the town gate and walked into
the wilderness.

He wandered for many days until he arrived on top of a steep,
treeless, wind-blown hill, and, almost on the summit, he found a
small cave, the ground of which was strewn with fine white sand, as
soft to the feet as a velvet carpet. On one side of this grotto there
was a fountain of icy cold water, and on the other, hewn in the rock
as if by the hand of man, a kind of long niche, which looked as if it
had been made on purpose for a bed. The Christian, who had decided to
become a hermit, saw in this cave a sign of God's will and favour;
therefore, he stopped there. For some time he lived on the roots of
plants, berries and wild fruit, that grew at the foot of the hill;
then he cultivated a patch of ground, and so he passed his time,
praying, reading his holy Book, meditating over it, or tilling his
bit of glebe.

Years and years passed--who knows how many?--and he had become an old
man, with a long white beard reaching down to his knees, a brown,
sun-burnt skin, and a face furrowed with wrinkles. Since the day he
had left his country, he had never again seen a man, a woman or a
child, nor, indeed, any other animal, except a few birds that flew
over his head, or some small snakes that glided amongst the stones.
So one evening, after he had said his lengthy prayers and committed
his soul to God, he went to lie down on his couch of leaves and moss;
but he could not sleep. He, for the first time, felt lonely, and, as
it were, home-sick. He knew he would never behold again the face of
any man, so he almost wished he had, at least, some tiny living
creature to cherish. Sleep at last closed his eyes. In the morning,
on awaking, he saw a little mouse frisking in the sand of his cave.
The old hermit looked astonished at the pretty little thing, and he
durst not move, but remained as quiet as a mouse, for fear the mouse
would run away.

The animal, however, caught sight of him, and stood stock-still on
its hind legs, looking at him. Thus they both remained for some
seconds, staring at each other. Then the hermit understood at last
that God, in His goodness, had heard his wish, and had sent him this
little mouse to comfort him, and be a companion to him in his old
age. And so it was.

Days, months, years passed, and the mouse never left the hermit, not
even for a single instant; and the godly man grew always fonder of
this friendly little beast. He played with it, patted it, and called
it pet names; and at night, when he crept into his niche to sleep, he
took the mouse with him.

One night, as he pressed the little animal to his breast, he felt his
heart overflow with love for it, and in his unutterable fondness he
begged the Almighty to change this dear little mouse into a girl; and
lo, and behold! God granted his prayer, for, of course, he was a
saintly man. The hermit pressed the girl to his heart, and then fell
upon his knees and thanked the All-Merciful for His great goodness.

The girl grew up a beautiful maiden--tall, slender, and most graceful
in her movements, with a soft skin, and twinkling, almost mischievous
eyes.

Years passed. The hermit now had grown to be a very old man; and in
his last years his spirit was troubled, and his heart was full of
care. He knew that he had passed the time allotted to man here below,
and he was loth to think that he would have to die and leave his
daughter alone in the wilderness. Besides, she had reached
marriageable age; and if it is no easy matter for a match-making
mother to marry her daughter in a populous town, it was a difficult
task to find a husband for her in that desert. Moreover, he did not
exactly know how to broach the subject of matrimony to a girl who was
so very ingenuous, and who thought that all the world was limited to
the cave and the hill on which she lived. Still, he did not shrink
from this duty; and, therefore, he told her what he had read in
scientific books about the conjunctions of planets in the sky. Then
he quoted the Scriptures, and said that it was not good for man to be
alone, nor for woman either; that even widows should marry, if they
cannot live in the holy state of celibacy.

The poor girl did not quite fathom all the depths of his speech, but
said she would be guided by his wisdom.

"Very well," said the anchorite, "I shall soon find you a husband
worthy of you."

"But," said the girl, ingenuously, "why do you not marry me
yourself?"

"_I_ marry you? First, my dear, I am a hermit, and hermits never
marry, for if they did, they might have a family, then--you
understand--they wouldn't be hermits any more, would they?"

"But they needn't have a family, need they?"

"Well, perhaps not; besides, I can't marry you, because----"

"Because?"

"I," stammered the anchorite, blushing, "I'm too old."

"Ah, yes!" echoed the maid, sighing; "it's a fact, you are _very_
old."

That night, after the hermit and his adopted daughter had said their
prayers, she, who was very sleepy, went off to bed, whilst he, who
was as perplexed as any father having a dowerless daughter, went out
of his cavern to meditate.

The full moon had just risen above the verge of the horizon, and her
soft light silvered the sand of the desert, and made it look like
newly fallen snow.

The old man stood on top of the hill, and stretching forth his arms
to the Moon:

"Oh! thou mightiest of God's works, lovely Moon, take pity upon a
perplexed father, and listen to my prayer. I have one fair daughter
that has now reached marriageable age; she is of radiant beauty, and
well versed in all the mysteries of our holy religion. Marry my
daughter, O Moon!"

"Now," said Radonic, interrupting, "that's foolish; how could the old
hermit expect the Moon to marry his daughter?"

"First, this is a parable, like one of those our blessed Saviour used
to tell the people; therefore, being a parable, it's Gospel, and you
must believe it as a true story, for it is the life of one of the
holy Fathers of the Church."

"I see," quoth Radonic, although he did not see quite clearly.

Then the Moon replied:

"You are mistaken, old man; I am not the mightiest of God's creation.
The Sun, whose light I reflect, is the greatest of the Omnipotent's
works; ask the Sun to be a husband to thy daughter."

The hermit sank on his knees and uttered lengthy prayers, till the
light of the Moon grew pale and vanished, and the sky got to be of a
saffron tint; soon afterwards, the first rays of the Sun flooded the
desert, and transmuted the sandy plain into one mass of glittering
gold. When the old man saw the effulgent disc of the Sun, he
stretched out his arms and apostrophised this planet as he had done
the Moon. Then he rubbed his hands and thought:

"Well, if I only get the Sun for my son-in-law I'm a lucky man."

But the Morning Sun told the hermit that he was mistaken:

"I'm not the mightiest of the Creator's works," quoth the Sun. "You
see yon cloudlet yonder. Well, soon that little weasel will get to be
as big as a camel, then as a whale, then it'll spread all over the
sky and will hide my face from the earth I love so well. That Cloud
is mightier than I am."

Then the hermit waited on top of the hill until he saw the Cloud
expand itself in the most fantastic shapes, and when it had covered
up the face of the Morning Sun, the hermit stretched out his hands
and offered to it his daughter in marriage. The Cloud, however,
answered just as the Moon and the Sun had done, and it proposed the
Simoon as a suitor to his daughter.

"Wait a bit," said the Cloud, "and you will see the might of the
Simoon, that, howling, rises and not only drives us whithersoever he
will, but scatters us in the four corners of the Earth."

No sooner had the Cloud done speaking than the Wind arose, lifting up
clouds of dust from the earth. It seemed to cast the sand upwards in
the face of the sky, and against the clouds; and the waters above
dropped down in big tears, or fled from the wrath of the Wind.

Then the hermit stretched his hands towards the Simoon, and begged
him, as the mightiest of the Creator's works, to marry his daughter.

But the Wind, howling, told him to turn his eyes towards a high
mountain, the snowy summit of which was faintly seen far off in the
distance. "That Mountain," said he, "is mightier by far than myself."

The hermit then went into the cavern and told his daughter that, as
it was impossible to find a suitor for her in the desert, he was
going on a journey, from which he would only return on the morrow.

"And will you bring me a husband when you come back?" she asked,
merrily.

"I trust so, with God's grace," quoth the Hermit, "and one well
worthy of you, my beloved daughter."

Then the hermit girded his loins, took up his staff, and journeyed in
the direction of the setting sun. Having reached the foot of the
Mountain when the gloaming tinged its flanks in blood, he stretched
out his arms up to the summit of the Mount and begged it to marry his
daughter.

"Alas," answered the Mountain, mournfully, "you are much mistaken. I
am by no means the mightiest of God's works. A Rat that has burrowed
a big hole at my feet is mightier by far than I am, for he nibbles
and bites me and burrows in my bowels, and I can do nothing against
it. Ask the Rat to marry thy daughter, for he is mightier by far than
I am."

The hermit, after much ado, found out the Rat's hole, and likewise
the Rat, who--like himself--was a hermit.

"Oh, mightiest of God's mighty works! I have one daughter, passing
fair, highly accomplished, and well versed in sacred lore; wilt
thou--unless thou art already married--take this rare maiden as thy
lawful wedded wife?"

"Hitherto, I have never contemplated marriage," retorted the Rat,
"for 'sufficient to the day are the evils thereof'; still, where is
your daughter?"

"She is at home, in the wilderness."

"Well, you can't expect me to marry a cat in a bag, can you?" he
answered, squeaking snappishly.

"Oh, certainly not!" replied the anchorite, humbly; "still, that she
is fair, you have my word on it; and I was a judge of beauty in past
times"--thereupon he stopped, and humbly crossed himself--"that she
is wise--well, she is my daughter."

"Pooh!" said the Rat; "every father thinks his child the fairest one
on earth; you know the story of the owl, don't you?"

"I do," retorted the hermit, hastily.

"Then you wouldn't like me to tell it you, would you?"

"No, not I."

"Well, then, what about your daughter?"

"I'll take you to see her, if you like."

"Is it far?"

"A good day's walk."

"H'm, I don't think it's worth while going so far. Could you not
bring her here for me to see her?"

"Oh! it's against etiquette. But if you like, I'll carry you to her."

"All right, it's a bargain."

At nightfall they set out on their journey, and they got to the cave
early on the following day.

The young girl, seeing the hermit, ran down the hill to meet him.

"Well, father," said she, with glistening eyes, flushed cheeks,
parted lips, and panting breast, "and my husband, where is my
husband?"

"Here," said the anchorite; and he took the Rat out of his wallet.
"Here he is; allow me to introduce to you a husband mightier than the
Moon, more powerful than the Sun, stronger than the Clouds, more
valiant than the Simoon, greater than the high Mountain; in fact, a
husband well worthy of you, my daughter."

The eyes of the young girl opened wider and wider in mute
astonishment.

"He's a fine specimen of his kind, isn't he?"

"I daresay he is," said she, surveying him with the eye of a
connoisseur; "and cooked in honey, he'd be a dainty bit."

"And he's a hermit, into the bargain."

"But," added the girl, ruefully, "if you intended me to marry a rat,
was it not quite useless to have turned me into a woman?"

The hermit stroked his beard, pensively, for a while, and was
apparently lost in deep meditation.

"My daughter," replied he, after a lengthy pause, "your words are
Gospel; I have never thought of all this till now; you see clearly
that 'the ways of Providence are not our ways.'"

Thereupon, the old man fell on his knees, for he felt himself
rebuked; he prayed long and earnestly that his daughter might once
more be changed into a mouse. And, lo and behold! his prayer was
granted; nay, before he had got up from his knees and looked around,
the girl had dwindled into her former shape, evidently well pleased
with the change.

Anyhow, the anchorite was comforted in his loneliness, for he had
always meant well towards her; moreover, he felt sure that if the
newly-married couple ever had children, the little mice would be so
well brought up, that they would scrupulously refrain from eating
lard on fast days.

Then the hermit, tired with his journey, went and lay down on his bed
of moss, dropped off to sleep, and never woke again on earth.


At dusk, Radonic took leave of the learned and hospitable
_kaludgeri_, and went back to town. He reached the gate when the
shadows of the night had already fallen upon the earth. Although he
fancied that everyone he met stared at him, still many of his
acquaintances passed close by him without recognising him.

At last he crossed the whole of the town and got to his house. The
door being slightly ajar, he thought Milena must be at home. He
glided in on tiptoe, his _opanke_ hardly making the slightest noise
on the stone floor. There was no fire on the hearth, no light to be
seen anywhere. Milena was not in the front room, nor in any of the
others. Where could she have gone, and left the front door open?
Surely she would be back in a few moments? He crouched in a corner
and waited, but Milena did not make her appearance.

As it was quite dark, he groped to the cupboard, found the loaf, cut
himself a slice, then managed to lay his hand on the cheese. As he
ate, he almost felt like a burglar in his own house. The darkness
really unnerved him, and yet he was inured to watch in the night on
board his ship; now, however, the hand of Time seemed to have
stopped.

The bread was more than tough, the cheese was dry; so he could hardly
manage to gulp the morsels down. Unable to find the _bukara_, he went
into the cellar and took a long draught of heady wine.

Returning upstairs, he again crouched in a corner. Milena had not
come back; evidently, she had gone to Mara's, as he had told her to.
Sitting there in the darkness, watching and waiting, with the purpose
of blood on his mind, time hung wearily upon him. The wine had
somewhat cheered him, but now drowsiness overpowered him. To keep
himself from falling asleep, he tried to think. Though he was not
gifted with a glowing imagination, still his mind was full of
fancies, and one vision succeeded another in his overheated brain.
His past life now began to flit before his eyes like scenes in a
peep-show. A succession of ghosts arose from amidst the darkness and
threatened him. One amongst them made him shudder. It was that of a
beautiful young woman of eighteen summers standing on the seashore,
waiting for a sail.

Many years ago, when he was only a simple sailor, he had been wrecked
on the coasts of Sicily. A poor widow had given him shelter, and in
return for her kindness, what had he done? This woman had three
daughters; the eldest was a beautiful girl of eighteen, the other two
were mere children. For months these poor creatures toiled for him
and fed him. Then he married the girl under a false name with the
papers belonging to one of the drowned sailors. Although he had
married her against his will--for she was a Catholic and did not
belong to the Orthodox faith--still he intended doing what was
right--bring her to his country, and re-marry her according to the
rites of his own Church. But time passed; so he confessed, gave alms
to the convent, obtained the absolution, and was almost at peace with
himself. Probably, she had come to the conclusion that he had been
swallowed up by the hungry waves, and she had married a man of her
own country; so his child had a father. Still, since his marriage,
the vision of that woman often haunted him.

Anyhow, he added bitterly to himself, although a Catholic, she had
loved him. Milena, a true believer, had never cared for him. And now
he remembered the first time he had seen Milena; how smitten he had
been by her beauty, how her large eyes had flashed upon him with a
dark and haughty look. She had disliked him from the first, but what
had he cared when he had got her father into his hands? for when the
proud Montenegrin owed him a sum which he could not pay at once, he
had asked him for the hand of his daughter.

Instead of trying to win her love, he had ill-treated her from the
very beginning; then, seeing that nothing could daunt her, he had
often feared lest he should find his house empty on returning home.

All at once the thought struck him that now she had run away with
Vranic. She had, perhaps, confided the whole truth to him, and they
had escaped together. He ground his teeth with rage at that thought.

No, such a thing could not be, for she hated Vranic.

"Aye, it is true she hates him, but does she not hate me as much?" he
said to himself; "fool that I was not to have thought of this before.
Vranic is not handsome; no one can abide him. Still, he clings to
women in a way that it is almost impossible to get rid of him.
Anyhow, if they have gone away together, I swear by the blessed
Virgin, by St. Nicholas, and by St. Cyril and Method that I shall
overtake them; nay," said he, with a fearful oath, "even if they have
taken refuge in God's own stomach, I shall go and drag them out and
take vengeance on them, as a true Slav that I am. Still, in the
meantime, they have, perhaps, fooled me, and I am here waiting for
them." And, in his rage, he struck his head against the wall.

"Trust a woman!" thought Radonic; "they are as skittish as cats,
slippery as eels, as false as sleeping waters. Why, my own mother
cheated me of many a penny, only for the pleasure of hoarding them,
and then leaving them to me after her death. Trust a woman as far as
you can see her, but no farther," and then he added: "Yes, and trust
thy friend, which is like going to pat a rabid dog.--What o'clock is
it?" he asked himself.

He was always accustomed to tell the time of the day to a minute,
without needing a watch, but now he had lost his reckoning.

It was about six o'clock when he came back home; was it nine or ten
now?

He durst not strike a light, for fear of being seen from without and
spoiling his little game. He waited a little more.

The threatening shadows of the past gathered once more around him.

All at once he heard some words whispered audibly. It was the curse
of the boy he had crippled for life. He shuddered with fear. In his
auto-suggestion he, for a moment, actually fancied he had heard those
words. Then he shrugged his shoulders, and tried to think of
pleasanter subjects.

A curse is but a few idle words; still, since that time, not a decent
seaman had ever sailed with him.

He could not bear the oppressive darkness any longer; peopled as it
was with shadows, it weighed upon him. He went into the inner room,
lit a match, looked at his watch.

It was not yet nine o'clock. Time that evening was creeping on at a
sluggish pace.

"Surely," he soliloquised, "if Vranic is coming he cannot delay much
longer." After a few seconds he put out the light and returned to the
front room.

Soon afterwards, he heard a bell strike slowly nine o'clock in the
distance; then all was silence. The house was perfectly still and
quiet, and yet, every now and then, in the room in which he was
sitting, he could hear slight, unexplainable noises, like the soft
trailing of garments, or the shuffling of naked feet upon the stone
floor; stools sometimes would creak, just as if someone had sat upon
them; then small objects seemed stealthily handled by invisible
fingers.

He tried to think of his business, always an engrossing subject, not
to be overcome by his superstitious fears. He had been a shrewd man,
he had mortgaged his house for its full value to Vranic himself to
buy the mythical cargo. Now that all his wealth was in bank-notes, or
in bright and big Maria Theresa dollars, he was free to go
whithersoever he chose.

Still, it was vexing to think that if he killed that viper of a
Vranic, as he was in duty bound to do, he would have to flee from his
native town, and escape to the mountains, at least till affairs were
settled. It was a pity, for now the insurance society would make a
rich man of him, so he might have remained comfortably smoking his
pipe at home, and enjoying the fruits of many years' hard labour.

A quarter-past nine!

He began to wonder whether Milena--not seeing him come to fetch her
--would return home. Surely more than one young man would offer to
see her to her house. This thought made him gnash his teeth with rage.

When once the venom of jealousy has found its way within the heart of
man, it rankles there, and, little by little, poisons his whole
blood.

And again he thought: "That affair of Uros and Milenko has never been
quite clear; Vranic was false, there was no doubt about it; still, it
was not he who had invented the whole story. Had he not been the
laughing-stock of all his friends?"

Half-past nine!

How very slowly the hours passed! If he could only do something to
while away the time--pace up and down the room, as he used to do on
board, and smoke a cigarette; but that was out of the question.

Hush! was there not a noise somewhere? It must have been outside; and
still it seemed to him as if it were in the house itself. Was it a
mouse, or some stray cat that had come in unperceived? No; it was a
continuous noise, like the trailing of some huge snake on the dry
grass.

A quarter to ten!

Silence once more. Now, almost all the town is fast asleep. He would
wait a little longer, and then? Well, if Vranic did not come soon, he
would not come at all, so it would be useless waiting. He wrapped
himself up in his great-coat, for the night was chilly, and had it
not been for the thought that Milena had fled with Vranic, sleepiness
would have overcome him.

He thoughtlessly began making a cigarette, out of mere habit, just to
do something. It was provoking not to smoke just when a few puffs
would be such a comfort.

Now he again hears the chimes at a distance; the deep-toned bell
rings the four quarters slowly; the vibrations of one stroke have
hardly passed away when the quiet air is startled by another stroke.
How much louder and graver those musical notes sound in the hushed
stillness of the night!

Ten o'clock!

Some towns--Venice, for instance--were all life and bustle at that
hour of the night; the streets and squares all thronged with masks
and merry revellers; the theatres, coffee-houses, dancing-rooms, were
blazing with light, teeming with life, echoing with music and
merriment. Budua is, instead, as dark, as lonesome, and as silent as
a city of the dead. The whole town is now fast asleep.

"It is useless to wait any longer," mutters Radonic to himself;
"nobody is coming."

The thought that his wife had fled with Vranic has almost become a
certainty. Jealousy is torturing him. He feels like gripping his
throat and choking himself, or dashing his head to pieces against the
stone wall. If his house had been in town, near the others, Vranic
might have waited till after ten o'clock; but, situated where it was,
no prying neighbours were to be feared. Something had, perhaps,
detained him. Still, what can detain a man when he has such an object
in view?

Muttering an oath between his teeth, Radonic stood up.

"Hush! What was that?" He listened.

Nothing, or only one of the many unexplainable noises heard in the
stillness of the night.

Perhaps, after all, Vranic had been on the watch the whole day, and
then he had seen him return. Perhaps--though he had never believed in
his friend's gift of second sight--Vranic was indeed a seer, and
could read within the minds of men. Perhaps, having still some
doubts, he would only come on the morrow. Anyhow, he would go to bed
and abide his time. He stretched his anchylosed limbs and yawned.

Now he was certain he heard a noise outside.

He stood still. It was like the sound of steps at a distance. He
listened again. This time he was not mistaken, though, indeed, it was
a very low sound. Stealthy steps on the shingle. He went on tiptoe to
the door. The sound of the steps was more distinct at every pace.
Moreover, every now and then, a stone would turn, or creak, or strike
against another, and thus betray the muffled sound of the person who
walked.

Radonic listened breathlessly.

Perhaps, after all, it was only Milena coming back home. He peeped
out, but he could not see anything. Was his hearing quicker than his
sight?

He strained his eyes and then he saw a dark shadow moving among the
bushes, but even then he could only distinguish it because his eyes
were rendered keener by following the direction pointed out by his
ears.

Was it Vranic, he asked himself.

Aye, surely; who else could it be but Vranic?

Still, what was he afraid of? No human eye could see him, no ear
detect his steps.

Are we not all afraid of the crime we are about to commit? There is
in felony a ghastly shadow that either precedes or follows us. It
frightens even the most fearless man.

Slowly the shadow emerged from within the darkness of the bushes and
came up towards the house. It was Vranic's figure, his shuffling
gait.

Radonic's breast was like unto a glowing furnace, the blood within
his heart was bubbling like molten metal within a crucible.

In a moment, that man--who was coming to seduce his wife and
dishonour him--would be within his clutches.

Then he would break every bone within his body. He seemed to hear the
shivering they made as he shattered them into splinters, and he
shuddered.

For a moment, the atrocity of the crime he was about to commit,
daunted him.

Still, almost at the same time, he asked himself whether he were
going to turn coward at the last moment.

Was he not doing an act of equity? How heinously had not this fiend
dealt by him! He had put him up against his wife, until, baited, she
was almost driven to adultery. No, the justice of God and man would
absolve him; if not--well, he had rather be hanged, and put his soul
in jeopardy, than forego his vengeance. He was a Slav.

All these thoughts flitted through his brain in an instant, like
flashes of lightning following one another on a stormy night.

Radonic watched the approaching shadow, from the cranny of the door
ajar, with a beating heart.

Before Vranic came to the doorstep, he stopped. He looked round on
one side, then on the other; after that he cast a glance all around.
He bent his head forward to try and pierce the darkness that
surrounded him. Was he seeing ghosts? Then he seemed to be listening.
At last, convinced that he was alone, he again walked on. Now he was
by the door, almost on the sill, within reach of Radonic's grasp. He
stopped again.

Radonic clasped his knife; he might have flung the door open, and
despatched him with a single blow. No, that would have been stupid.
It was better by far to let him come in, like a mouse into a trap,
and there be caught with his own bait. Yes, he would make the most of
his revenge, spit upon him, torture him.

Slowly and noiselessly he glided back into a corner behind the door.
Some everlasting seconds passed. He waited breathlessly, for his
heart was beating so loud that he could only gasp.

Had Vranic repented at the last instant? Had he gone back? Was he
still standing on the doorstep, waiting and watching? At last he
moved--he came up to the door--he slowly pushed it open; then again
he stopped. The darkness within was blacker than the darkness
without.

"_Sst, pst!_" he hissed, like a snake. Then he waited.

He came a step onward; then, in an undertone: "Milena, Milena, where
are you?"

Again he waited.

"Milena," he whispered; and again, louder: "Milena, are you here?"

He stretched forth his hands, and groped his way in. Radonic could
just distinguish him.

"Milena, my love, it is I, Vranic."

Those few words were like a sharp stab to Radonic. He made a
superhuman effort not to move; for he wanted to see what the rascal
would do next.

"Perhaps she has fallen asleep, or else has gone to bed," he muttered
to himself.

He again advanced a few steps, always feeling his way. Evidently, he
was going towards the next room; for he knew the house well. All at
once, he stumbled against a stool. He was frightened; he thought
someone had clutched him by the legs. He recovered, and shut the door
behind him. It was a fatal step; for otherwise he might, perhaps,
have managed to escape.

How easy it would now have been for Radonic to pounce upon him and
dash his brains out; but he wanted to follow the drama out to its
end, and now the last scene was at hand.

Vranic, having shut the door, remained quiet for some time. He
fumbled in his pockets, took out his steel and flint, then struck a
light. At the first spark he might have seen Radonic crouching a few
steps from him, but he was too busy lighting the bit of candle he had
brought with him. When his taper shed its faint glimmer, then he
looked round, and, to his horror, he saw the figure of a man, with
glistening eyes, and a dagger in his hand, standing not far from him.
At first he did not recognise his friend, with shaven beard and in
his new attire; still, he did not require more than a second glance
to know who it was.

Terror at once overpowered him; he uttered a low, stifled cry.
Retreat was now out of the question; he therefore tried to master his
emotion.

"Oh! Radonic, is it you? How you frightened me! I did not recognise
you. But how is it that you have come back? and this change in----"

"How is it that you are in my house at this hour of the night?" said
he, laying his hands on him.

"I--I," quoth Vranic, gasping, "I came to see if everything was
quiet, as I promised, and seeing your door open----"

"That is why you call Milena your love."

"Did I? You are mistaken, Radonic--though perhaps I did; but then it
was only to see if she were expecting someone; you know women are
light----"

"You liar, you villain, you devil!" And Radonic, clutching him by his
shoulders, shook him.

"Believe me! I swear by my soul! I swear by the holy Virgin, whose
medals--blessed by the Church--I wear round my neck. May I be struck
down dead if what I say is not true!"

"Liar, forswearer, wretch!" hissed out Radonic, as he spat in
Vranic's face.

"I never meant to wrong you," replied Vranic, blubbering. "I came
here as a friend--I told you I would; may all the saints together
blind me if what I say be not true."

But the husband, ever more exasperated, clutched his false friend by
the throat, and as he spouted out all his wrath, he kept gripping him
tighter and ever tighter. In his passion his convulsively clenched
fingers were like the claws of a bird of prey.

Vranic now struggled in vain; the candle, which had been blown out,
had fallen from his fingers; he tried to speak, he gasped for breath,
he was choking.

Radonic's grasp now was as that of an iron vice, and the more the
false friend struggled to get free, the stronger he squeezed.

Vranic at last emitted a stifled, raucous, gurgling sound; then his
arms lost their strength, and when, a moment afterwards, the furious
husband relinquished his hold, his antagonist fell on the floor with
a mighty thud.

The bells of the church were chiming in the distance.

Radonic, shivering, shuddering, stood stock-still in the darkness
that surrounded him; he only heaved a noiseless sigh--the deep breath
of a man who has accomplished an arduous task.

Vranic did not get up; he did not move. Was he dead?

"Dead!" whispered Radonic to himself.

Just then the body, prostrate at his feet, uttered a low, hoarse,
hollow sound. Was it the soul escaping from the body?

He looked down, he looked round; black clouds seemed to be whirling
all around him like wreaths of smoke. He durst not move from where he
stood for fear of stumbling against the corpse.

At last he took out his steel and began to strike a light, but in his
trepidation, he struck his fingers far oftener than his flint. At
last he managed to light a lantern on the table close by, and then
came to look at the man stretched on the floor.

Oh, what a terrible sight he saw! He had till now seen murdered men
and drowned men, but never had he witnessed such a terrifying sight
before; it was so horrible that, like Gorgon's hideous head, it
fascinated him.

After a few minutes' dumb contemplation, Radonic heaved again a deep
sigh, and whispered to himself: "It is a pity I did not leave him
time to utter a prayer, to confess his sins, to kiss the holy Cross
or the image of the saints. After all, I did not mean to kill the
soul and body together." Then, prompted by religious superstitions, or
by a Christian feeling--for he was of the Orthodox faith--he went to
a fount of holy water, dipped in it a withered olive twig, and came
to sprinkle the corpse, and made several signs of the holy Cross;
then he knelt down and muttered devoutly several prayers for the rest
of the soul of the man whom he had just murdered; then he sprinkled
and crossed him again.

Had he opened the gates of paradise to the soul that had taken its
flight? Evidently he felt much comforted after having performed his
religious duties; so, rolling a cigarette, and lighting it at the
lantern, he went to sit on the doorstep outside and smoke. That
cigarette finished, he made another, and then another. At last, after
having puffed and mused for about an hour, he again went into the
house and made a bundle of all the things he wanted to take away with
him. Everything being ready, and feeling hungry, he went to the
cupboard, cut himself a huge slice of bread and a piece of cheese,
which he ate as slowly as if he were keeping watch on board; then he
took a long draught of wine, and, as midnight was striking, he left
the house.

"I wonder," he thought, "where Milena is; anyhow, it is much better
she is away, for, had she been in the house, she might have given me
no end of useless trouble. Women are so fussy, so unpractical at
times."

Thereupon he lighted his pipe.

"Still," he soliloquised, "I should have liked to see her before
starting, to bid her good-bye. Who knows when I'll see her again, if
I ever do see her? And how I hope this affair will be settled soon,
and satisfactorily, too; he has no very near relations, and those he
has will be, in their hearts, most grateful to me."

He trudged on wearily. When he passed Mara's house, he stopped,
sighed, and muttered to himself:

"Good-bye! Milena. I loved you in my own churlish way; I loved you,
and if I've been unkind to you, it was all Vranic's fault, for he
drove me on to madness. Anyhow, he has paid for it, and dearly, too;
so may his soul rest in peace!"

"And now," thought he, "it is useless fooling about; it is better to
be off and free in Montenegro before the murder is discovered and the
Austrian police are after me, for there is no trifling with this
new-fangled government that will not allow people to arrange their
little private affairs--it even belies our own proverb: 'Every one is
free in his own house.'"

As he left the town, he bethought himself of what he was to do. First
he would see his father-in-law, and ask him to go down to town and
fetch his daughter, for it was useless to leave Milena alone in
Budua; life would not be pleasant there till the business of the
_karvarina_ was settled. Then, as Montenegro was always at war with
Turkey, he supposed that he would, as almost all _hayduk_, have to
take to fighting as an occupation, though, thank God, he said to
himself, not as a means of subsistence.

It was, however, only at dawn that he managed to get out of the town
gate, together with some peasants going to their early work, and so
he crossed the frontier long before Vranic's murder was known in
town.

On the morrow, when Milena fainted on the murdered man's corpse, she
was taken up and placed on her bed; she was sprinkled with water and
vinegar; she was chafed and fanned; a burning quill was placed under
her nose, but, as none of these little remedies could recall her to
life, medical help had to be sent for. Even when she came back to her
senses, another fainting-fit soon followed, so that she was almost
the whole day in a comatose state.

Meanwhile (Tripko having summoned help), the house was filled with
people, who all bustled about, talked very loud, asked and answered
their own questions. Those gifted with more imagination explained to
the others all the incidents of the murder. Last of all came the
guards. Then they, with much ado and self-importance, managed to
clear the house.

Though Mara would have liked to take Milena back home with her, still
the doctors declared that it was impossible to remove her from her
bed, where for many weeks she lay unconscious and between life and
death, for a strong brain-fever followed the fainting-fits. Her
father and mother (who had come to take her away) tended her, and
love and care succeeded where medical science had failed.




CHAPTER X

PRINCE MATHIAS


Sailing from Trieste to Ragusa, the _Spera in Dio_ was becalmed just
in front of Lissa; for days and days she lay there on that rippleless
sea, looking like "a painted ship upon a painted ocean."

It was towards the middle of spring, in that season of the year
called by the Dalmatians the _venturini_, or fortunate months, on
account of the shoals of sardines, anchovies, and mackerel, which
swim up the Adriatic, and towards that eastern part of its shores,
affording the people--whose barren land affords them but scanty
food--the main source of their sustenance.

At last a faint breeze began to blow; it brought with it the sweet
scent of thyme and sage from the rocky coast only a few miles off,
and made the flabby sails flap gently against the masts, still,
without swelling them at all. Everyone on board the _Spera in Dio_
was in hopes that the wind would increase when the moon rose, but the
sun went down far away in the offing, all shorn of its rays, and like
a huge ball of fire; then a slight haze arose, dimming the brightness
of the stars, casting over nature a faint, phosphorescent glimmer;
then they knew that the wind would not rise, for "the mist leaves the
weather as it finds it;" at least, the proverb says so.

Already that afternoon the crew of the _Spera in Dio_ had seen the
waters of the sea--as far as eye could reach--bickering and
simmering; still, they knew that the slight shivering of the waters
was not produced by any ruffling wind, but by the glittering silver
scales of myriads of fish swimming on the surface of the smooth
waters. In fact, a flock of gulls was soon hovering and wheeling over
the main, uttering shrill cries of delight every time they dipped
within the brine and snatched an easy prey; then a number of dolphins
appeared from underneath, and began to plunge and gambol amidst the
shoal, feasting upon the fry. The fish, in a body, made for the
shore, hoping to find protection in shallower waters. Alas! a far
more powerful enemy was waiting for them there.

Night came on; the fishermen lighted their resinous torches on the
prows of the boats, and the fish, attracted by the sheen, which
reflected itself down in the deep, dark water, were lured within the
double net spread out to catch them.

When the shoal began to follow the deceptive light, the quiet waters
were struck with mighty, resounding thuds, and the terror-stricken
sardines swam hither and thither, helter-skelter, entangling
themselves within the meshes of that wall of netting spread out to
capture them.

Thus the whole of that balmy summer night was passed in decoying and
frightening the shoal, in gathering it together, then in driving it
into the inlet where the nets were spread.

At last, at early dawn, the long-awaited moment came. Every
fisherman, dumb with expectation, grasped the ropes of the net and
tugged with lusty sinews and a rare good-will. For the father, the
sustenance of his children at home lay in those nets; for the lover,
the produce of that first night's fishery would enable him to say
whether he could wed the girl he loves that year, or if the marriage
would have to be postponed till more propitious times.

The strong men groaned under the weight they were heaving, but not a
word was spoken. Finally, the dripping nets were uplifted out of the
water. It was a rare sight to see the fish glistening like a mass of
molten silver within the brown meshes, just when the first
hyacinthine beams of the dawning sun fell upon their glossy, nacreous
scales.

The captain and his two mates, the _pobratim_, rowed on shore and
took part in the general rejoicings, for nothing gladdens the heart
of man as abundance; moreover, they made a very good stroke of
business, for, having ready-money, they bought up, and thus secured,
part of their cargo for their return voyage.

On the morrow, a fresh and steady breeze having begun to blow, the
lazy sails swelled out, the ship flew on the rippling waters, like a
white swan, and that very evening they dropped the anchor at Gravosa,
the port of Ragusa.

How often the letter we have been so anxiously expecting only comes
to disappoint us, making us feel our sorrow more deeply.

As soon as the post-office was opened, the _pobratim_ hurried there
to ask for letters. They both received several from their parents.
Uros read, with a sinking heart, what we already know, that Radonic
had killed Vranic, and that Milena was dangerously ill. Milenko
received a letter in a handwriting new to him. With a trembling hand
he tore open the envelope, unfolded the sheet of pale blue Bath
paper, containing an ounce of gold dust in it, and read the following
lines:--


"Honoured Sir,--I take up my pen to keep the promise I so imprudently
made of writing to you, but this, which is the first, must also be
the last letter I ever pen.

"Perhaps you will be angry with me, and think me inconstant, but
alas! this is not the case. Henceforth, I must never think of you, or
at least, only as a friend. It is not fated that we be man and wife,
and, as marriages are made in heaven, we must submit to what has been
decreed.

"You must not think me heartless if I write to you in this way, but
the fact is, my father had--even before my birth--promised me in
marriage to the son of one of his friends, and this young man happens
to be your own friend and brother Uros. My only hope now is, that he,
as you hinted, being in love with someone else, will not insist upon
marrying me, or else I shall be the most wretched woman that ever
lived in this world.

"My father, who is delighted with the marriage, for he has always
mistaken you for Uros, has already written to his old friend Bellacic
to remind him of his plighted word. Perhaps your friend will get his
father to write to mine, and explain the real state of things to him;
if not, I shall dearly regret the day you saved me from certain
death.

"But why do I write all this to you. Perhaps, as the saying is: 'Far
from the eyes, far from the heart.' You have already forgotten the
wretched girl who owes her life to you, and must therefore love,
cherish, and ever be your most obedient servant,           "IVANKA."


As poor Milenko read this letter, his cheeks grew pale, his heart
seemed to stop, he almost gasped for breath. He looked around; the
sky seemed to have grown dark, the world dreary, life a burden. Could
it be possible that, when the cup of happiness had touched his lips,
it would be snatched away from him and dashed down?

The letter which he had read seemed to have muddled his brain. Was it
possible that the girl he loved so dearly was to marry his friend,
who did not care about her? and if she loved him, would she yield
tamely to her father's wish? Alas! what proper girl ever rebelled
against her father's decree?

Milenko felt as if a hand of steel had been thrust within his breast,
gripped his heart and crushed it.

All at once he was seized by a dreadful doubt. Did Uros know nothing
about all this, or was he conniving with his father to rob him of his
bride? He looked up at his friend, who was reading the letters he had
just received. The tidings they contained must have been far worse
than his own, for Uros' face was the very picture of despair.

"What is the matter?" said Milenko; "bad news from home?"

For all answer Uros handed the letter he had just been reading to his
friend; it was as follows:--


"My dear Son,--The present lines are to inform you that we are both
well, your mother and myself, though, indeed, I have been suffering
with rheumatic pains in my right shoulder and in my left leg, as well
as occasional cramps in my stomach, for which the barber has cupped
me several times. As for your mother, she always suffers with sore
eyes, and though she tries to cure herself with vine-water and the
dew which the flowers distil on St. John's Eve, which is a specific,
as you know, still, it has not afforded her great relief. She is also
often ailing with a pain in her side; but these are only trifles.
Therefore, I hope that this letter will find you, Milenko and the
captain in as good health as that which we at present enjoy, and that
you have had a good and prosperous voyage. Here, at Budua, things are
always about the same. The weather has hitherto been very favourable
to the crops, and, with God's help, we must hope for a good harvest,
though the wind having blown down almost all the blossoms of the
almond-trees, there will be but little fruit. As for the vines,
little can be said as yet; whilst having had a good crop of olives
last year, we cannot expect much this autumn.

"Our town is always very quiet. A fire only broke out here not long
ago, and it burnt down a few houses. As it was believed to have been
caused on account of a _karvarina_, bloodshed, as usual, ensued.
Another fact, which somewhat upset our town, was the death of Vranic,
who was found murdered in Radonic's house whilst Milena was spending
the evening with us. You may well understand how astonished every one
was, for Radonic and Vranic had been friends from their youth.
Although no one was ever very fond of Radonic, still nobody regretted
Vranic, who, as you know, was gifted with the evil eye; and although
I myself, not being superstitious, do not believe that persons can
harm you simply by looking at you, still it is useless to go against
facts. Poor Milena, who was the first to enter the house after the
murder--although your mother had accompanied her thither--was seized
by such a terrible fright that she remained soulless for many hours,
and has been ill ever since, though with care and good food we hope
to bring her round.

"I was marvelled to hear how you fell in with the Giulianics, and
that your ship saved them from death. It is certainly a dispensation
of Providence, and--not being an infidel Turk--I do not see _Kismet_
in everything that happens; still, the hand of the Almighty God is
clearly visible in all this.

"Giulianic and I were friends when he, Markovic and myself were poor
folk, struggling hard to live and to put by a penny for a rainy day.
All three of us have, thank Heaven, succeeded beyond our
expectations, for I am glad to hear, by your account as well as his
own, that he is in such good circumstances.

"One day--long before you were born--talking together and joking, we
made each other a kind of promise, more for the fun of the thing than
for anything else, that if we should have, the one a son, and the
other a daughter, we should marry them to each other. Not to forget
our promises, we exchanged tobacco-pouches. To tell you the truth,
not having heard of the Giulianics for so many years, I had all but
forgotten my promise, and I daresay he looked at his own pledge as a
kind of joke. On receiving your letter, however, I at once wrote to
this old friend, sending him back his gold-embroidered pouch and
redeeming mine. He at once wrote back a most affectionate letter,
saying that he was but too happy to give his daughter to the young
man who had saved Ivanka's life, but, apparently, had stolen away her
heart. Therefore, my dear son, you may henceforth consider yourself
engaged to the girl of your choice; and may the blessing of God and
of the holy Virgin rest on you both for ever.

"Your mother wishes me to tell you not to forget your prayers morning
and evening, to try and keep all the fasts, and to light a candle to
St. Nicholas whenever you go on shore, so that he may keep you from
storms and shipwrecks. Besides, she bids me tell you, that if you
want more underclothing, to write to her in time, so that she may
prepare everything you need.

                          "Your loving father,

                                             "Milos Bellacic."


Whilst Milenko was reading this letter, doubt returned several times
within his heart, and began to gnaw at it. As soon as he had
finished, he handed it back to Uros, and seeing his honest eyes fixed
upon him, as if asking for consolation, all doubts were at once
dispelled.

"Well," said Uros, "it isn't enough to think that Milena is ill, but
all this complication must arise."

"As for Milena," replied Milenko, "she is much better; here is a
letter from my mother, written after yours, in which she says that
she is quite out of danger."

Comforted with the idea that the woman he loved was better, Uros
could not help smiling, then almost laughing.

Milenko looked at him, astonished.

"After all, this is your fault," said Uros.

"Mine?"

"Of course; you would insist in allowing old Giulianic to believe you
were myself; now there is only one thing left for you."

"What?"

"To act your part out."

"I don't quite understand."

"Go to Nona, and marry Ivanka at once; when married, Giulianic will
have to give you his blessing."

"Oh! but----"

"But what?"

"I don't think Ivanka will consent."

"If she loves you she will. I wish it was as easy for me to marry
Milena as it is for you to wed Ivanka."

"But wouldn't it be better to get the father's consent?"

"Old people are stubborn; once they get a thing into their heads,
it's difficult to get it out again."

"Yes, but if----"

"With 'buts' and 'ifs' you'll never marry."

"What are you discussing?" said the captain, coming up.

"Oh! I was simply saying that only a daring man deserves to wed the
girl he loves," said Uros.

"Of course; don't you know the story of Prince Mathias?"

"No," replied the young man.

"Well, then, as we have nothing to do just now, listen, and I'll tell
it to you."


Once, in those long bygone times when rats fought with frogs,
tortoises ran races with hares and won them, pussies went about in
boots, and--I was going to add--women wore breeches, but, then, that
would not be such an extraordinary occurrence even now-a-days; well,
in those remote times, there lived a King who had a beautiful
daughter, as fair as the dawning sun, and as wise as an old rabbi
versed in the Kabala. In fact, she was so handsome and so learned
that her reputation had spread far and wide, and many a Prince had
come from far away beyond the sea to offer his hand and heart to this
wonderful Princess. She, however, would have none of them, for she
found that, although they--as a rule--rode like jockeys, drove like
cabmen and swore like carters, they were, on the whole, slow-coaches;
none of them, for instance, were good at repartee, none could discuss
German pessimism, and all--on the contrary--found that life was worth
living; so she would have nothing to do with them.

She, therefore, send heralds to all the Courts of Chivalry to
proclaim that she would only wed the Prince who, for three successive
nights, could sit up and watch in her room, without falling asleep
and allowing her to escape.

Every Prince who heard of the proclamation thought it a good joke,
and the candidates for the Princess's hand greatly increased. A host
of _Durchlauchten_ from the most sacred Protestant empire of Germany,
flocked--_Armen-reisender_ fashion--and offered to sit up in the
Princess's room for three nights, or even more if she desired it.

Alas, for the poor Highnesses! every one paid the trial with his
life. The Princess--who knew a thing or two--provided for their
entertainment an unlimited supply of _Lager Bier_, and, moreover--it
was a cruel joke--she had a few pages read to them of the very book
each one had written, for, in those literary times, every Prince was
bound to write a book. At the end of the first chapter every Prince
snored.

It happened that Prince Mathias--the only son and heir of a queen who
reigned in an out-of-the-way island, which was believed by its
inhabitants to be the centre of the world--heard of this strange
proclamation. He was the very flower of chivalry in those days,
strong as a bull, handsome as a stag--though rather inclined to be
corpulent--brave as a falcon, and as amorous as a cat in spring-time.
He at once resolved to risk his head, and go and spend the three
nights in the Princess's bedroom.

His mother--a pious old lady, an excellent housekeeper, much attached
to her domestics, and known throughout the world as an elegant writer
of diaries--did her utmost to dissuade her son from his foolish
project; but all her wise remonstrances were in vain. Prince Mathias,
who was not the most dutiful of sons, allowed his mother to jaw away
till she was purple in the face, but her words went in by one ear and
out by the other; he remained steadfast to his purpose. Seeing at
last that praying and preaching were of no avail, Her Gracious
Majesty consented to her son's departure with royal grace. She doled
out to him a few ducats, stamped with her own effigy, and, knowing
his unthrifty ways, she said to herself: "He'll not go very far with
that." Then she presented him with a shawl to keep him warm at
nights, and she blessed him with her chubby hands, begging him to try
and keep out of mischief now that he had reached the years of
discretion.

Mathias, wrapped up in his shawl, went off to seek his fortune. As he
was tramping along the high-road, he happened to meet a stout,
sleek-headed man who was lounging on the roadside.

The Prince--who was very off-handed in his ways, and not very
particular as to the company he kept, or to the number of his
attachments, as the Opposition papers said--hailed the stout,
sleek-headed man.

"Whither wanderest thou, my friend?" said Mathias to the loafer.

"I tramp about the world in search of happiness," quoth he.

"You're not a German philosopher, I hope?" asked the Prince,
terror-stricken.

"I'm a true-born Dutchman, sir," retorted the loafer, with much
dignity.

"Give us your paw," said His Highness.

The friends shook hands.

"What's your trade, my man?"

"Well, I'm a kind of Jack-of-all-trades, without any trade in
particular--and yours?"

"I'll be a kind of general overseer some day or other."

"Good job?"

"Used to be much better--too many strikes nowadays."

"I see; it ruins the trade, does it?"

"Our trade especially."

"So?"

"But what's your name?" asked the Prince.

"Well, I'm generally known as 'The Big One.' You see, I can stretch
out my stomach to such a pitch that I can shelter a whole regiment of
soldiers in it. Shouldn't you like to see me do the trick?"

"Swell away!" ejaculated the Prince.

The Big One thereupon puffed and puffed himself out, and swelled
himself to such a pitch that he blocked up the highway from one side
to the other.

"Bravo!" cried the Prince; "you're a swell!"

"I'm a sell," said The Big One, smiling modestly.

"A cell, indeed! But, I say, where did you learn that trick?"

"Up in Thibet."

"You're an adept, are you?"

"I am," said the loafer.

Mathias crossed himself devoutly.

"I say, don't you want to accompany me in my wanderings, in a _sans
façon_ way?"

"And take pot-luck with you?" said the adept, with a wink.

Mathias took the hint. He jingled the few dollars he had in his
pocket, counted the six gold ducats his mamma had given him, and
reckoned the enormous amount of food his new friend might consume. On
the other hand, he bethought himself how useful a man who could
swallow a whole regiment might be in case of an insurrection; so he
shrugged his shoulders, and muttered to himself:

"There'll be a row at the next meeting of the Witena-gemote, when my
debts 'll have to be paid; but if they want me to keep up appearances,
they must fork out the tin." Thereupon, turning to The Big One, he
added, magnificently: "It's a bargain."

"You're a brick," said The Big One.

On the morrow they met another tramp, so tall and so thin that he
looked like a huge asparagus, or like a walking minaret. His name was
The Long One; and he could, even without standing on tiptoe, lengthen
himself in such a way as to reach the clouds. Moreover, every step he
made was the distance of a mile.

As he, too, was seeking his fortune, the Prince took him on in his
suite.

The day after that, as the three were going through a wood, they came
across a man with such flashing eyes that he could light a
conflagration with only one of his glances. Of course, they took him
on with them.

After tramping about for three days, they got to the castle where the
wonderful Princess lived. Mathias held a council with his friends,
and told them of his intentions. Then he changed his gold ducats,
pawned his mother's shawl, bought decent clothes for the tramps, and
made his entrance into the town with all the pomp and splendour due
to his rank.

As he was travelling _incog._, he sent his card--a plain one without
crown or coat-of-arms--to the King of the place, announcing that he
had come with his followers to spend three nights in his daughter's
bedroom.

"Followers not admitted," replied the King.

"All right!" retorted the Prince, ruefully.

"You know the terms, I suppose?"

"Death or victory!"

The King made him a long speech, terse and pithy, as royal speeches
usually are. The Prince, who listened with all attention, tried to
yawn without opening his mouth.

"Yawn like a man!" said the King; "I don't mind it, do you?" said he
to the prime minister, who had written the speech.

"I'm used to it," said the premier.

"Well! do you persist in your intention?" asked the King at the end
of the speech.

"I do!" quoth the Prince.

"Then I'll light you up to my daughter's door."

Having reached the landing of the second floor, the King shook hands
with the Prince and his followers; he wished them good-night; still,
he lingered for a while on the threshold.

Mathias was dazzled with the superhuman beauty of the royal maiden,
who was quite a garden in herself, for she was as lithe as a lily, as
graceful as a waving bough, with a complexion like jasmines and
roses, eyes like forget-me-nots, a mouth like a cherry, breasts like
pomegranates, and as sweet a breath as mignonette.

She could not hide the admiration she felt for Mathias, and
congratulated him especially on never having written a book.

When the old King heard that Mathias was not an author, he was so
sorely troubled that he took up his candle and went off to bed.

No sooner had His Majesty taken himself off than The Big One went and
crouched on the threshold of the door; The Long One made himself
comfortable on one of the window-sills; The Man with the Flashing
Eyes on the other. All three pretended to go off to sleep, but in
reality they were all watching the Princess, who was carrying on a
lively conversation with Mathias.

"Do you like Schopenhauer?" asked the royal maiden, with a smile like
a peach blossom opening its petals to the breeze.

"I like you," said Mathias, looking deep in the eyes of the young
girl, who at once blushed demurely.

"But you don't answer my question," she said.

"Well, no," quoth Mathias; "I don't like Schopenhauer."

"Why not?"

"Because we differ in tastes."

"How so?"

"You see, I'm rather fond of the girls; he isn't."

"Of all girls?" asked the Princess, alarmed.

"All girls in general, but you in particular," added Mathias with a
wink.

The young girl thought it advisable to change the conversation.

After a while the Princess began to yawn.

"Sleepy, eh?" said Mathias, with a smile.

"I feel as if a rain of poppies was weighing down my eyelids."

"Have a snooze, then."

"I'm afraid you'll feel rather lonely, sitting up by yourself all
night."

"Oh! don't mind me," said Mathias; "I never turn in very early;
besides, I'll have a game of _patience_."

"But I've got no cards to offer you," said the Princess.

"I have; I never travel without a pack in my pocket."

"You're sharp."

"Sharper than many who think themselves sharp."

Mathias settled himself comfortably at a table and began to play. The
Princess undressed, said her prayers, then went off to bed.

The Prince played one, two, three games; then he felt his throat
rather dry, and would have given half of his kingdom for a glass of
grog; than he began to wonder if there was any whisky in the house.

Just then, he heard the three men snoring, and the little Princess
purring away like a wee kitten. He stretched his arms and his legs,
for he felt himself getting stiff. He then tried to play another
game, but he could not go on with it; for he kept mistaking the
hearts for the diamonds, and then could no more distinguish the clubs
from the spades. He also began to feel chilly, and was sorry not to
have his mammy's shawl to wrap himself up in. He, therefore, laid his
elbows on the table, and his head between the palms of his hands, and
stared at the Princess, whom he fancied looked very much like the
sleeping beauty at the waxworks.

Little by little his eyelids waxed heavy, his pupils got to be
smaller and smaller, his sight grew blurred, and then everything in
front of him disappeared. Prince Mathias was snoring majestically.

"It took him a long time to drop off, but he's asleep at last," said
the Princess, with a sigh.

She thereupon changed herself into the likeness of a dove, and flew
out of the window where The Long One was asleep. Only, on making her
escape, she happened to graze the sleeping man's hair. He forthwith
started up, and, seeing that the Princess's bed was empty, he at once
gave the alarm, and woke The Man with the Flashing Eyes, who cast a
long look in the darkness outside. That burning glance falling upon
the dove's wings singed them in such a way that she was obliged to
take shelter in a neighbouring tree. The Man with the Flashing Eyes
kept a sharp watch, and the splendour of his pupils, shining on the
bird, were like the revolving rays of a lighthouse. The Long One
thereupon put his head out of the window, stretched out his hand a
mile off, grasped the dove, and quietly handed her to Mathias.

No sooner had Mathias pressed the dove to his heart than, lo and
behold! he found that he was clasping in his arms, not a bird, but
the Princess herself.

Mathias could not help uttering a loud exclamation of surprise; the
three men uttered the selfsame exclamation. All at once the door of
the Princess's bedroom flew open with a bang. The old King appeared
on the threshold, with a dip in his hand. His Majesty looked very
much put out.

"I say, what's all this row about?" said he; "billing and cooing at
this time of the night, eh?" Thereupon His Majesty frowned.

The Princess nestled in Mathias's arms, blushing like a peony, for
she saw that the flowing sleeves of her nightgown were dreadfully
singed, and she knew that the colour would never go off in the wash.

The King, casting a stealthy look round the room, saw the cards on
the little table by the Princess's bed, and pointing them out to
Mathias with a jerk of his thumb:

"I see your little tricks, sir, and with your own cards, too;
gambling again, eh?"

Mathis looked as sheepish as a child caught with his finger in a
jam-pot. The King thereupon snuffed the wick of his candle with his
own royal fingers, picked up the ermine-bordered train of his
night-gown and stalked off to bed, without even saying good-night
again.

"Your father's put out," said Mathias to the Princess.

"He's thinking of the expense you'll be putting him to, you and your
suite."

"What! is he going to ask us to dinner?"

"Can't help it, can he?" and the Princess chuckled.

On the second night the Princess flew away in the likeness of a fly;
but she was soon brought back. On the third night she transformed
herself into a little fish, and gave the three men no end of trouble
to fish her out of the pond in which she had plunged.

At last the Princess confessed herself vanquished. Mathias had been
the only one of all her suitors who had managed to get her back every
time she had escaped; moreover, she had been quite smitten by his
jovial character and convivial ways.

The old King, however, strenuously disapproved of his daughter's
choice. Mathias was not a _Durchlaucht_, he had never written a book,
and, moreover, he played _patience_ with his own pack of cards. He,
therefore, resolved to oppose his daughter's marriage, and, being an
autocrat, his will was law in his own country.

Mathias, however, presented the King with a packet of photographs
that he happened to have about him; they were all respectable ladies
of his acquaintance, belonging to different _corps de ballet_. So
while the King was trying to find out, with a magnifying-glass, what
Miss Mome Fromage had done with her other leg--like the tin soldier
in Andersen's tale--Mathias ran off with the Princess.

Then the King got dreadfully angry and ordered his guards to run
after the fugitives.

The Princess, hearing the tramp of horses' feet, asked The Man with
the Flashing Eyes to look round and see who was pursuing them.

"I see a squadron of cavalry riding full speed," said The Man with
the Flashing Eyes.

"It's my father's body-guard."

"Hadn't we better hide in a bush, and leave them to ride on?" asked
Mathias.

"No," replied the Princess.

Seeing the horsemen approach, she took off the long veil she wore at
the back of her head, and threw it at them.

"As many threads as there are in this veil, may as many trees arise
between us."

In a twinkling, a dense forest arose, like a drop-scene, between the
fugitives and the guards.

Mathias and his bride had not gone very far, when they heard again
the sound of horses.

The Man with the Flashing Eyes looked round and saw again the King's
body-guard galloping after them.

"Can you dodge them again?" asked Mathias.

The Princess, for an answer, dropped a tear, and then bade it swell
into a deep river between them and their pursuers.

The river rolled its massy waters through the plain, while Mathias
and his bride strolled away unmolested.

Again they heard the sound of horses' hoofs; again the guards were
about to seize the runaways; again the Princess, drawing herself up
in all the majesty of her little person, stretched out her arm
threateningly, and ordered the darkness of the night to wrap them up
as with a deep shroud.

At these words, The Long One grew longer and ever longer, until he
reached the clouds; then, taking off his cap, he deftly clapped it on
half of the sun's disc, leaving the royal guards quite in the shade.

When Mathias and his bride were about ten miles off, The Long One
strode away and caught up with them after ten steps.

Mathias was already in sight of his own castellated towers, when the
clatter of horses was again heard close behind them.

"There'll be bloodshed soon," said the Prince to his bride.

"Oh! now leave them all to me," said The Big One; "it's my turn now."

The lovers, followed by The Long One and The Man with the Flashing
Eyes, entered the city by a postern, whilst The Big One squatted
himself down at the principal gate and puffed himself out; then he
opened his mouth as wide as the gate itself, so that it looked like a
barbican. Thus he waited for the dauntless life-guards, who, in fact,
came riding within his mouth as wildly as the noble six hundred had
ridden within the jaws of death.

When the last one had disappeared, The Big One rose quietly, but at
the same time with some difficulty, and tottered right through the
town. It was an amusing sight to see his huge bloated paunch flap
hither and thither at every step he made. Having reached the opposite
gate, he again crouched down, opened his capacious mouth and spouted
out all the life-guards, horses and all; and it was funny to see them
ride off in a contrary direction, evidently hoping to overtake the
fugitives soon, whilst the Prince, his bride and his suite were on
the battlements, splitting with laughter at the trick played on their
pursuers.

The old Queen was rejoiced to see her truant son come back so soon,
and, moreover, not looking at all as seedy as he usually did after his
little escapades. Still, she could not help showing her
dissatisfaction about two things. The first was that Mathias had
pawned her parting gift; the second that the Princess had come
without a veil.

This last circumstance was, however, easily explained; and then Her
Most Gracious Majesty allowed the light of her countenance to shine
on her future daughter-in-law.

The Long One was forthwith sent back to the old King, asking him, by
means of a parchment letter, to come and assist at his daughter's
wedding. His Majesty, hearing who Mathias really was, hastened to
accept the invitation. He donned his crown, took a few valuables with
him in a carpet-bag, fuming and fretting all the time at having to
start--like a tailless fox--without his body-guard. Just as he was
setting out, The Long One, stretching his neck a few miles above the
watch tower and looking round, saw the horsemen riding back full
speed towards the castle. The old King hearing this news, shook his
head, very much puzzled, for he could not understand how the
horsemen, who had ridden out by one gate, could be coming back by the
other. The Long One explained to the King (what they never would have
been able to explain themselves) that they had simply ridden round
the world and come back the other side. His Majesty, who would
otherwise have had all his guards put to death, forgave them right
graciously, and to show Mathias that he bore him no ill-will, he
presented him, as a wedding gift, with a valuable shawl he had just
got second-hand at a pawnbroker's. That gift quite mollified the old
Queen, and forthwith, as by enchantment, all the clouds looming on
the political horizon disappeared, and the nuptials of Mathias and
the Princess took place with unusual splendour.

The Princess gave up her freaks of disappearing in the middle of the
night, Mathias never played _patience_ with his own cards any more,
and both set their people an example of conjugal virtue.

High posts at Court were created for the Prince's three friends, and
they, indeed, often showed themselves remarkably useful. For
instance, if a Prime Minister ever showed himself obstreperous, The
Long One would stretch out his arm, catch him by the collar of his
coat, and put him for a few days on some dark cloud under which the
thunder was rumbling. If a meddling editor ever wrote an article
against the prevailing state of things, The Man with the Flashing
Eyes cast a look at his papers, and the fire brigade had a great ado
to put out the conflagration that ensued. If the people, dissatisfied
with peace and plenty, met in the parks to sing the Marseillaise, The
Big One had only to open his mouth and they at once all went off as
quietly as Sunday-school children, and all fell to singing the
National Anthem. Anarchy, therefore, was unknown in a land so well
governed, and flowing with milk and honey.




CHAPTER XI

MANSLAUGHTER


The _Spera in Dio_ having reached Gravosa, it discharged the timber
it had taken for Ragusa, and loaded a valuable cargo of tobacco from
Trebigne in its stead. The ship was now lying at anchor, ready to set
sail with the fresh morning breeze.

It was in the evening. The captain was in hopes to start on the
morrow; for at night it is a difficult task to steer a ship through
that maze of sunken rocks and jagged reefs met with all along the
entrance of the Val d'Ombla.

The _pobratim_ had been talking together for some time. Uros had
tried to persuade his friend to go and marry Ivanka before the
mistake under which her father was labouring had been cleared up; but
the more the plan was discussed, the less was Milenko convinced
of its feasibility.

Uros at last, feeling rather sleepy, threw himself into his hammock,
and soon afterwards closed his eyes. Milenko, instead, stood for some
time with his arms resting on the main-yard, smoking and thinking,
his eyes fixed on the moon, in its wane, now rising beyond the rocky
coast, from which the cypresses uplifted their dark spires, and the
flowering aloes reared their huge stalks.

The warm breeze blew towards him a smell of orange blossoms from the
delightful Val d'Ombla, and the fragrancy of the Agnus castus, the
Cretan sage, and other balmy herbs and shrubs from that little Garden
of Eden--the Island of La Croma. Feeling that he could not go to
sleep, even if he tried, and finding the earth so fair, bathed as it
was now by the silvery light of the moon, he made up his mind to go
on shore and have a stroll along the strand.

What made him leave the ship at that late hour, and go to roam on the
deserted shore? Surely one of those secret impulses of fate, of which
we are not masters.

He had walked listlessly for some time on the road leading to Ragusa,
when he heard the loud, discordant sounds of two men, apparently
drunk, wrangling with each other. The men went on, then stopped
again, then once more resumed their walk; but, at every step they
made, their voices grew louder, their tones angrier. Both spoke Slav;
but, evidently, one of the two must have been a foreigner. Milenko
followed them, simply for the sake of doing something. When he got
nearer, he understood that the cause of the quarrel was not a woman,
as he had believed at first, but a sum of money which the Slav had
lent to the foreigner.

As they kept repeating the selfsame things over and over, Milenko got
tired of their discussion and was about to turn back. Just then,
however, the two men stopped again. The Slav called the stranger a
thief, who in return apostrophised him as a dog of a Turk. From words
they now proceeded to blows; but, drunk as they apparently were, they
did not seem to hurt each other very much. Milenko hastened on to see
the struggle, for there is a latent instinct, even in the most
peaceable man's nature, that makes him enjoy seeing a fight.

By the time Milenko came in sight of the two men, they had begun to
fight in real earnest; blows followed blows, kicks kicks; the Slav
--or rather, Turk--roused by the stranger's taunts, seemed to be
getting over his drunkenness. He was a tall, powerful man, and
Milenko saw him grip his adversary by his neck. Then the two men
grappled with each other, reeled in their struggle, then rolled down
on the ground. He heard the thud of their fall. Milenko hastened to
try and separate them. As he got nearer he could see them clearly,
for the light of the moon fell upon them. The stronger man was
holding his adversary pinned down, and was muttering the same curses
over and over again; but he did not seem to be ill-using him very
much.

"Leave me alone," muttered the other, "or, by my faith, it'll be so
much the worse for you!"

"Your faith! you have no faith, you dog of a giaour!" growled the
other.

"I have no faith, have I? Well, then, here, if I have no faith!"

Milenko, for a moment, saw a knife glitter in the moonlight, then it
disappeared. He heard at the same time a loud groan. He ran up to
help the man from being murdered, regardless of his own safety.

The powerful man was trying to snatch the knife from his adversary's
hand, but, as he was unable to do so, he rose, holding his side, from
which the blood was rushing.

"Now you'll have your money!" said the little man, with a hideous
laugh, and he lifted up his hand and stabbed his adversary
repeatedly.

Milenko pulled out his own knife as he reached the spot, but he only
got in time to catch the dying man in his arms and to be covered with
his blood.

The murderer simply looked at his adversary, and hearing him breathe
his last, "He's done for," he added; then he turned on his heels and
disappeared.

Poor Milenko was stunned for a moment, as he heard the expiring man's
death-rattle.

What could he do to help him? Was life ebbing? had it ebbed all away?
he asked himself. Was he dead, or only fainting? could he do nothing
to recall him to life?

As he was lost in these thoughts he heard the heavy tramp of
approaching feet, and before he could realise the predicament in
which he had placed himself, the night-watch had come up to the spot
and had arrested him as the murderer.

"Why do you arrest me?" said he. "I have only come here by chance to
help this poor man."

"I daresay you have," said the sergeant, taking the blood-stained
dagger from his hand.

"But I tell you I do not even know this poor man."

"Come, it's useless arguing with us; you'll have to do that with your
judges. March on."

"But when I tell you that I only heard a scuffle and ran up----"

"Then where's the murderer?" asked one of the guards.

"He's just run off."

"What kind of a man was he?"

"I hardly saw him."

"And where do you come from?" asked the sergeant.

"From on board my boat, the _Spera in Dio_, now lying at Gravosa."

"And where were you going to?"

"Nowhere."

"Oh! you were taking a little stroll at this time of the night?"

The men laughed.

"Come, we're only wasting time----"

"But----"

"Stop talking; you'll have enough of that at Ragusa."

"But I tell you I'm innocent of that man's death."

"You are always innocent till you are about to be hanged, and even
then sometimes."

Milenko shuddered.

Thereupon the guards, taking out a piece of rope, began tying the
young man's hands behind his back.

"Leave me free; I'll follow you. I've nothing on my conscience to
frighten me."

Still, they would not listen to him, but led him away like a
murderer. They walked on for a little more than half-an-hour on the
dark road, and at last they arrived at Porta Pilla, one of the gates
of Ragusa. They crossed the principal street, called the Stradone,
and soon reached the Piazza dei Signori. The quiet town was quieter
than ever at these early dawning hours. The heavy steps of the guards
resounded on the large stone flags with which the town is paved, and
re-echoed from the granite walls of the churches and palaces.

Poor Milenko was conducted to the guard-house, and when the sergeant
stated how he had been found clasping the dead man, holding,
moreover, the blood-stained dagger in his hand, he, without more ado,
was thrust into the narrow cell of the prison.

Alone, in utter darkness, a terrible fear came over him. How could he
ever prove that he had not murdered the unknown man with whose blood
his clothes were soaked?

The assassin was surely far away now, and, even if he were not, he
doubtless knew that another man had been caught in his stead, and he,
therefore, would either keep quiet or stealthily leave the town. If
he had at least caught a glimpse of the murderer's face, then he
might recognise him again; but he had seen little more than two dark
forms struggling together. Nothing else than that.

Then he asked himself if God--if the good Virgin--would allow them to
condemn him to death innocently? He fell on his knees, crossed
himself, and uttered many prayers; but, during the whole time, he saw
his body hanging on the gallows, and, with that frightful sight
before his eyes, his prayers did not comfort him much.

Then he began to fancy that he must have been guilty of some sin for
which he was now being punished. Though he recalled to mind all his
past life, though he magnified every little misdemeanour, still he
could not find anything worthy of such a punishment. He had kept all
the fasts; he had gone to church whenever he had been able to do so;
he had lighted a sufficient number of candles to the saints to secure
their protection. If, at times, he had been guilty of cursing, of
calling the blessed Virgin Mary opprobrious names, he only had done
so as a mere habit, as everybody else does, quite unintentionally.
The priest--at confession--had always admonished him against this bad
habit; but he had duly done penance for these trifling sins, and he
had got the absolution.

He asked himself why he was so unlucky. He had not fallen in love
with his neighbour's wife, nor asked for impossible things. Why could
not life run on smoothly for him, as it did for everybody else? What
devil had prompted him to leave his ship at a time when he might have
been quietly asleep? Then the thought struck him that, after all,
this was only a bewildering dream, from which he would awake and
laugh at on the morrow.

He got up, walked about his narrow cell, feeling his way in the
darkness. Alas! this was no dream.

Then he thought of his parents; he pictured to himself the grief they
would feel at hearing of his misfortune. His mother's heart would
surely burst should he be found guilty and be condemned to be hanged.
And his father--would he, too, believe him to be a murderer?

He again sank on his knees, and uttered a prayer; not the usual
litanies which he had been taught, but a _Kyrie Eleison_, a cry for
help rising from the innermost depths of his breast.

The darkness of the prison was so oppressive that it seemed to him as
if his prayer could never go through those massive stone walls;
therefore, instead of being comforted, doubt and dread weighed
heavily upon him. In that mood he recalled to his mind all the
incidents of a gloomy story which had once been related to him about
a little Venetian baker-boy, who, like himself, had been found guilty
of manslaughter. This unfortunate youth had been imprisoned, cruelly
tortured, and then put to death. When it was too late, the real
murderer confessed his guilt; but then the poor boy was festering in
his grave.

Still, he would not despair, for surely Uros must, on the morrow,
hear of his dreadful plight, and then he would use every possible and
impossible means to save him.

But what if the ship started on the morrow, leaving him behind, a
stranger in an unknown town?

The tears which had been gathering in his eyes began to roll down his
cheeks in big, burning drops, and now that they began to flow he
could not stop them any more. He crouched in a corner, and, as the
cold, grey gloaming light of early dawn crept through the grated
window of his cell, his heavy eyelids closed themselves at last;
sleep shed its soothing balm on his aching brain.

Not long after Milenko had gone on shore, Uros woke suddenly from his
sleep. He had dreamt that a short, dark-haired, swarthy, one-eyed
man, with a face horribly pitted by small-pox, was murdering his
friend; and yet it was not Milenko either, but some one very much
like him.

He jumped up, groped his way to his mate's hammock and was very much
astonished not to find him there. Having lost his sleep, he lit a
cigarette and went to look down into the waters below. The sea on
that side of the ship was as smooth and as dark as a black mirror. He
had not been gazing long when, as usual, he began to see sparks, then
fiery rods whirling about and chasing each other. The rods soon
changed into snakes of all sizes and colours, especially
greenish-blue and purple. They twirled and twisted into the most
fantastic shapes; then they all sank down in the waters and
disappeared. All this was nothing new; but, when they vanished, he
was startled to behold, in their stead, the face of the pitted man he
had just seen in his sleep stare at him viciously with his single
eye. He drew back, frightened, and the face vanished. After an
instant, he looked again; he saw nothing more, but the inky waters
seemed thick with blood.

The next morning Milenko was looked for everywhere uselessly. Uros,
who was the last person that had seen him, related how he had gone
off to sleep and had left him leaning on the main-yard. At first,
every one thought that he had gone on shore for something, and that
he would be back presently; but time passed and Milenko did not make
his appearance. The wind was favourable, the sails were spread, they
had only to heave the anchor to start; everybody began to fear that
some accident had happened to him to detain him on shore. Uros was
continually haunted by his dream, especially by the face of the
single-eyed man. He offered to go in search of his friend.

"Well," replied the captain, "I think I'll come with you; two'll find
him quicker than one alone, for now we have no time to lose."

They went on shore and enquired at a coffee-house, but the sleepy
waiters could not give them any information. They asked some boatmen
lounging about the wharf, still with no better success. A porter from
Ragusa finally said that he had heard of a murder committed that
night on the road, but all the particulars were, as yet, unknown.
Doubtless it was a skirmish between some smugglers and the watch.

Anyhow, when Uros heard of bloodshed, his heart sank within him, and
the image of the swarthy man appeared before the eyes of his mind,
and he fancied his friend weltering in a pool of dark blood.

"Had we not better go at once to Ragusa? we might hear something
about him there?" said the captain to Uros.

"But do you think he can have been murdered?"

"Murdered? No; what a foolish idea! He had no money about him; he was
dressed like a common sailor; he could not have been flirting with
somebody's sweetheart. Why should he have been murdered?"

The two men hired a gig and drove off at once. When they reached
Ragusa, they found the quiet town in a bustle on account of a murder
that had taken place on the roadside. The old counts and marquises of
the republic forgot their wonted dignity--forgot even their drawling
way of speaking--and questioned the barber, the apothecary, or the
watch at the town gate with unusual fluency.

A murder on the road to Gravosa! A most unheard-of thing. Soon people
would be murdered within the very walls of the town! Such things had
never happened in the good olden times!

"And who was the murdered man?" asked one.

"A stranger."

"And the murderer?"

"A stranger, too; a mere boy, they say."

"Oh! that explains matters," added a grave personage; "but if
strangers will murder each other, why do they not stay at home and
slaughter themselves?"

Such were the snatches of conversation Uros and the captain heard on
alighting at Porta Pilla; and as they asked their way to the police
station, everybody stared at them, and felt sure that in some way or
other they were connected with the murder.

At the police station, the captain stated how his mate had
disappeared from on board, and asked permission to see the murdered
man. They were forthwith led to the mortuary-chapel, and they were
glad to see that the corpse was a perfect stranger.

"What kind of a person is the young man you are looking for?" asked
the guard who had accompanied them.

"Rather above the middle height, slim but muscular, with greyish-blue
eyes, a straight nose, a square chin, curly hair, and a small dark
moustache."

"And dressed like a sailor?"

"Yes."

"Exactly as you are?" said he to Uros.

"Yes; have you seen him?"

"Why, yes; he is the murderer."

Uros shuddered; the captain laughed.

"There must be some mistake," said the latter. "You have arrested the
wrong person; such things do happen occasionally."

"He was arrested while struggling with the man he killed. He was not
only all dripping with blood, but he still held his dagger in his
hand."

"With all that, it's some mistake; for he didn't know this man," said
the captain, pointing to the corpse stretched out before them. "If he
did kill him, then it was done in self-defence."

"But where is he now?" asked Uros.

"Why, in prison, of course."

Uros shuddered again.

"We can see him, can't we?" said the captain.

"You must apply to the authorities."

The departure of the _Spera in Dio_ had to be put off for some days.
Uros went on board the ship, whilst the captain remained at Ragusa to
look after his lost mate. There he soon found out that, in fact, it
was Milenko who had been arrested; and after a good deal of trouble
he succeeded in seeing him.

Although he did his best to comfort him and assure him that in a few
days the real murderer would be found, he could not help thinking
that the evidence was dead against him. Anyhow, he had him
transferred to a better cell, and, by dint of _backseesh_, saw that
his bodily comforts were duly attended to.

On the following day, the captain, Uros and the crew were examined;
and all were of opinion that Milenko could not possibly ever have
been acquainted with the unknown man, and, therefore, had no possible
reason for taking away his life. The great difficulty, meanwhile, was
to find out who the murdered man really was, from where he had come,
whither he was going in the middle of the night.

After that, the captain went to a lawyer's; and having put the whole
affair in his hands, found out that he could do nothing more for
Milenko than he had already done; so he went and lit a candle for his
sake, recommended him to the mercy of the Virgin and good St.
Nicholas, and decided to start on the following morning, without any
further and unprofitable delay. Had the young man been his own son,
he would not have acted otherwise. Uros, however, decided to remain
behind, and join the ship at Trieste after a few days.

On the morrow Uros, after having seen the _Spera in Dio_ disappear,
went to spend a few hours with his friend. A week passed in this way;
then, not knowing in what way to help Milenko, he bethought himself
to seek the aid of some old woman versed in occult lore, in whose
wisdom he had much more faith than in the wordy learning of gossiping
lawyers.

Having succeeded in hearing of such a one from the inn-keeper's wife,
he went to her at once and explained what he wanted of her.

She looked at him steadily for a while; then she went to an old chest
and took out a quaint little mirror of dark, burnished metal, and
making him sit in a corner, bade him look steadily within it. As soon
as he was seated, she took a piece of black cloth, like a pall, and
stretched it around him, screening him from every eye. Having done
this, she threw some powder on the fire, which, burning, filled the
room with fragrant smoke, or rather, with white vapour, which had a
heady smell of roses. After a few moments of silence, she took the
_guzla_ and played, as a kind of prelude, a pathetic, dirge-like
melody; then she began to sing in a low, lamentable tone, Vuk
Stefanovic Karadzic's song, entitled--


GOD'S JUSTICE.

  Upon a lonely mead two pine-trees grew,
  And 'twixt the two a lowly willow-tree;
  No pines were those upon the lonely mead,
  Where nightly winds e'er whistle words of woe.
  The one was Radislav--a warrior brave;
  Whilst Janko was the other stately tree.
  They were two brothers, fond of heart and true;
  The weeping willow-tree that rose between
  Had whilom been their sister Jelina.
  Both brothers loved the maid so fair and good,
  Fair as a snow-white lily fresh with dew,
  And good, I ween, as a white turtle-dove.
  Once Janko to his sister gave a gift;
  It was a dagger with a blade of gold.
  That day Marija, who was Janko's wife
  (A wanton woman with a wicked heart),
  Grew grey and green with envy and with grudge,
  And to Zorizza, Radislavo's wife,
  She said: "Pray tell me in what way must I
  Get these two men to hate that Jelina,
  Whom they love more, indeed, than you or me."
  "I know not," said Zorizza, who was good--
  Aye, good indeed, and sweet as home-made bread;
  "And if I knew, I should pray day and night
  For God to keep me from so foul a deed."
  Marija wended then her way alone,
  And as her head was full of fiendish thoughts,
  She saw upon the mead her husband's foal,
  The fleetest-footed filly of the place.
  Whilst with one hand she fondled the young foal,
  The other plunged a dagger in her breast;
  Then, taking God as witness, swore aloud
  That Jelina had done that deed of blood.
  With doleful voice the brother asked the girl
  What made her mar the foal he loved so well.
  Upon her soul the maiden took an oath
  That she nowise had done that noxious deed.
  A few days later, on a dreary night,
  Marija went and killed the falcon grey--
  The swiftest bird, well worth its weight in gold.
  Then creeping back to bed, with loud outcry
  She woke the house; she said that, in a dream,
  She saw her Janko's sister, as a witch,
  Kill that grey falcon Janko loved so well.
  Behold! at early morn the bird was dead.
  "This cruel deed shall rest upon thy head,"
  Said Janko to the girl, who stood amazed.
  E'en after this Marija found no peace,
  But hated Jelina far more than death,
  So evermore she pondered how she could
  Bring dire destruction down upon the maid.
  One night, with stealthy steps, she went and stole
  The golden-bladed knife from Jelka's room;
  And with the knife she stabbed her only babe.
  The foul deed done, she put the knife beneath
  The pillow white whereon lay Jelka's head.
  At early twilight, when the husband woke,
  He found his rosy babe stabbed through the breast,
  All livid pale within a pool of blood.
  Marija tore her hair and scratched her cheeks
  With feigned despair; she vowed to kill the witch
  Who wantonly had stabbed her precious babe.
  "But who has done this cruel, craven crime?
  Who killed my child?" cried Janko, mad with rage.
  "Go seek thy sister's knife, with golden blade;
  Forsooth, 'tis stained with blood." And Janko went,
  And found that Jelka still was fast asleep,
  But 'neath her pillow, peeping out, he saw--
  All stained with blood--the knife with golden blade.
  He grasped his sleeping sister by her throat,
  Accusing her of having killed his child.
  And she--now startled in her morning sleep--
  Midst sighs and sobs disowned the dreadful deed;
  Still, when she saw the knife all stained with gore,
  She grew all grey with fear and looked aghast,
  And guilty-like, before that gruesome sight.
  "An I have done this horrid, heinous deed,
  Then I deserve to die a dreadful death.
  If thou canst think that I have killed thy child,
  Then take and tie me to thy horses' tails,
  So that they tread me down beneath their hoofs."
  The maid was led within the lonely mead,
  Her limbs were bound unto the stallions' tails;
  They lashed the horses, that soon reared and ran
  Apart, and thus they tore her limbs in twain.
  But lo! where'er her blood fell down in drops,
  Sweet sage grew forth, and marjoram and thyme,
  And fragrant basil, sweetest of all herbs;
  But on the spot where dropped her mangled corse,
  A bruised and shapeless mass of bleeding flesh,
  A stately church arose from out the earth,
  Of dazzling marbles gemmed with precious stones--
  A wondrous chapel built by hallowed hands.
  Marija, then, upon that day fell ill,
  And nine long years she languished on her bed,
  A death in life, still far more dead than quick;
  And as she lay there 'twixt her skin and bones
  The coarse and rank weeds grew, and 'midst the weeds
  There nestled scorpions, snakes, and loathsome worms,
  Which crept and sucked the tears from out her eyes.
  In those last throes of death she wailed aloud,
  And bade for mercy's sake that they might take
  And lay her in that church which had sprung out
  Where Jelka's body dropped a mangled corpse.
  In fact, her only hope was to atone
  For all those dreadful deeds which she had done.
  But when they reached the threshold of the church,
  A low and hollow voice came from the shrine,
  And all who heard the sound were sore amazed.
  "Avaunt from here! Till God forgive thy crimes,
  This sacred ground is sure no place for thee."
  Appalled to death, unable yet to die,
  She begged them as a boon that they would tie
  Her to the horses' tails, for dying thus she hoped
  That God might then have mercy on her soul.
  They bound her wasted limbs to stallions' tails;
  Her bones were broke, her limbs were wrenched in twain,
  And where the sods sucked up her blood impure,
  The earth did yawn, and out of that wide gulf
  Dark waters slowly rose and spread around;
  Still, lifeless waters, like a lake of hell.
  Within the mere the murdered foal was seen,
  Just as we see a vision in a dream.
  The falcon grey then flew with fluttering wing,
  And panting, fell within that inky pool.
  Then from the eddy rose a tiny cot.
  Within that cot a rosy infant slept,
  And smiled as if it saw its mother's breast.
  But lo! its mother's claw-like hand arose
  Out of the stagnant waters of the lake,
  And plunged a dagger in the infant's breast.


The old woman, having finished her song, waited for a while till the
young man looked up.

Presently, Uros, with a deep sigh, lifted his eyes towards her.

"Always the same man, with that fiendish face of his," quoth he,
shaking his head.

"But tell me what you have seen now, that I might help you--if I
can."

"That man, who has been haunting me all these days."

"Explain yourself better; did you only see his face, now?"

Uros first explained to the _baornitza_ what he had witnessed in the
sea the night when Milenko was arrested for murder.

"Have you often seen such things in the sea before?"

"From my earliest childhood, and almost every time I looked; very
often Milenko and I saw the very same things."

"But are you sure you never saw the face before?"

"Oh! quite sure."

"Now, tell me minutely what you have seen in the glass."

"First the mirror grew hazy, just as if clouds were flitting over it;
then, little by little, it got to be more transparent, and of a
silvery, glassy grey. After that it grew greenish, and I could
distinguish down within its depths a beautiful landscape. It was a
country road seen by night; the moon was rising behind the hills at a
distance, and presently the trees, the rocks, the road, were clearer.
All at once two men were seen walking on the way. I could not see
their faces, for I was behind them; still, I was sure who the shorter
man was. They walked on and disappeared, but then I saw one of them
come running back. I was not mistaken; it was the man with the single
eye. His was, indeed, the face of a fiend.

"He must have been running for some time, for he was panting, nay,
gasping for breath. He stopped, looked over his shoulder, then threw
the knife he was holding within a bush. It was a bush with silvery
leaves, and all covered with flowers. He then wiped his wet hands on
the leaves of the shrub, on the scanty grass, then rubbed them with
the sandy earth to remove all the traces of the blood. This done, he
again took to his heels and disappeared."

"And that is all you saw?"

"No! the mirror resumed again its real, dark colour, but, as I
continued looking within it, hoping to see something more, I saw it
turn again milky-white; then of a strong grass green, and, in the
midst of that glaring green paint, I had a glimpse of a Turkish flag;
then, as the red flag vanished, I beheld two words cut out and
painted in white in that garish green background. Those mysterious
words remained for some time; then they vanished, and I saw nothing
more."

"Those words were in Turkish characters, were they not?"

"No; some of them were like ours, but not all."

"Then they must have been either Cyrillic or Greek; but, tell me, are
you quite sure you never saw those words before?"

"Oh! quite, they were so strange."

"You know, we happen sometimes to see things without noticing them,
even strange things. Then these objects, of which we seem to have no
knowledge, come back to us in our dreams, or when we gaze within a
mirror; so it may be that you have seen that face and those words
absently, with your eyes only, whilst your mind took no notice of
them."

"I don't think so."

"You may think otherwise in a few days. But let's see; you know where
the murder took place, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, the two men were, apparently, coming from Gravosa and going up
to Ragusa. Now, the spot where the shorter one stopped must have been
five, ten or fifteen minutes from the spot."

"I daresay a quarter of an hour. Sailors are not accustomed to run;
besides, that man is not very young."

"How do you know he is a sailor?"

"By his dress; and a Greek sailor, besides. He wore a dark blue
flannel shirt, a white belt or sash, and those rough, yellow
home-spun trowsers which they alone wear."

"Then probably the two words you saw were Greek. Now, the first thing
to be found is the knife; the second, and far more important fact, is
the meaning of those words. Are you sure not to forget them? Can you,
perhaps, write them down?"

"I'll never forget them as long as I live; they are engraven in my
mind."

"Then go and look for the knife. Come back to me to-morrow; perhaps I
may be of further help to you, that is, if you need more help."

Uros thanked the old woman, and then asked her where she had learnt
all the wonderful things she knew.

"From my own mother. Once a trade was in one family for ages; every
generation transmitted its secrets with its implements to the other.
It is true, people only knew one thing; but they knew it thoroughly.
Nowadays, young people are expected to have a smattering of
everything; but the sum of all their knowledge often amounts to
nothing."

Uros, taking leave of the wise old woman, went down the road leading
from Porta Pilla to the sea. Soon he came to the spot where Milenko
had been found clasping the murdered man in his arms. Then he looked
at every tree, at every stone he passed on his way. After a while, he
got to the corner where he had seen--in the mirror--the two men
disappear. From there he crawled on, rather than walked, so that not
a pebble of the road escaped his notice. After about a quarter of an
hour, he came to a shrub of a dusty, greyish green--it was an _Agnus
castus_ in full bloom. He recognised it at once; it was the bush that
had looked so silvery by the light of the moon within the magic
mirror. His heart began to beat violently. As he looked round, he
fancied he would see the murderer start from behind some tree and
pounce upon him. He looked at the shrub carefully; some of its lower
branches and the tops of many twigs were broken. He pushed the leaves
aside, and searched within it. The knife was there. He did not see it
at first; for its haft was almost the same colour as the roots of the
tree, and the point of the knife was sticking in the earth. He took
it up and examined it. All the part of the blade that had not been
plunged in the earth was stained with blood. It was a common knife,
one of those that all sailors wear in their belts. He put it in the
breast pocket of his coat, and walked down with long strides. He was
but a few steps from the shore.

Reason prompted him now to go to the police and give them the knife;
for it might lead to the discovery of the culprit. Still, this was
only a second thought--and Uros seldom yielded to practical
after-thoughts; and whenever he did so, he always regretted it.

He had not a great idea of the police. They were only good to write
things down on paper, making what they called protocols, which
complicated everything.

No; it was far better to act for himself, and only apply for help to
the police when he could have the murderer arrested.

As he got down to the shore the sun was sinking below the horizon;
the silvery waters of the main were now being transmuted into
vaporous gold. As he was looking at the sea and sky, from a
meteorological, sailor-like point of view, and wondering whereabouts
the _Spera in Dio_ was just then, his eyes fell upon a little skiff,
which had arrived a few days after they had. It was a Turkish caique,
painted in bright prasine green. He had seen it for days when his own
ship was loading and unloading, but then it had had nothing
particular to attract his attention; he had seen hundreds of these
barques in the East. Now, however, he could not help being struck by
its vivid green colour. He looked up; the red flag with the half-moon
met his eyes. He had but time to see it, when it disappeared, for the
sun had set.

How his heart began to beat! Surely the murderer was on board. He
strained his eyes to see the name of the ship, painted on either
side, but he could not distinguish it so far. Not a man was seen on
deck; the skiff seemed deserted.

A boy was fishing in a boat near there; he called him and asked him
to lend him the boat for an instant.

"What! do you want to fish, too?" asked the boy, pulling up.

"No; I'd like to see the name of that caique."

After two or three good strokes with the oars, Uros could see the
name plainly; it was _Παναγια_, exactly the name he had read in the
mirror.

"Is that the ship you are looking for?"

"The very same one."

"Do you want to go on board?"

"Yes; I'd like to see the captain."

As soon as he was by the side of the caique he called out "_Patria!_"
for this is the name by which Greek sailors are usually addressed.

Some one got up at the summons. It was not the single-eyed man that
Uros was expecting to see, but a handsome, dark-eyed, shock-headed
young fellow.

"Is the captain on board?"

The youth tossed up his head negatively and said some words, but the
only one that Uros understood was _Caffene_.

As soon as Uros jumped on shore he went off to the coffee-house by
the pier, the only one at Gravosa. There were only a few seamen
smoking and sipping black coffee, but the person he wanted was not
amongst them.

"Do you wish to be taken on board his craft?" asked a kind of
ship-broker, hearing that Uros was asking about the Greek captain.

A few hours before he would simply have answered negatively. Now, as
he wanted to hear more of the ship and its crew, he asked:

"Is it the Greek captain whose caique is lying just outside?"

"Yes; the one painted in green."

"Where is he?"

"Just gone up to town. Are you going to Ragusa?"

"Yes."

"Well, as I'm going up too, I'll come with you."

An hour afterwards Uros was duly introduced to the man he had been
looking for.

The captain's first question was why Uros had remained behind, and as
the young man was anxious to lead the conversation about the murder,
he gave all the details about Milenko's arrest, and the reason why he
himself had not started with his ship.

"What!" asked Uros, "you haven't heard of the murder?"

"No," replied Captain Panajotti; "you see, I only speak Greek and a
little of the _lingua Franca_, so it is difficult to understand the
people here."

"But how is it you happen to be wanting hands? You Greeks only have
sailors of your own country."

"I've been very unfortunate this trip. One of my men has a whitlow in
the palm of his hand; another, a Slav, came with me this trip, but
only on condition of being allowed to go to his country while the
ship was loading and unloading----"

"Well?" asked Uros, eagerly.

"He went off and never came back."

"Are you sure he was a Slav, and not a Turk?"

"We, on board, spoke to him in Turkish, because he knew the language
like a Turk, but he was a Christian for all that; his country is
somewhere in the interior, not far from here. Now another of my men
has fallen ill----"

"The man with the one eye?"

"What! you know Vassili?" asked the captain, with a smile. "Yes, he's
ill."

"What's the matter with him?"

"I really don't know; he's lying down, skulking in a hole; the devil
take him."

"Since when?"

"Ten days, I think."

"But is he really ill?"

"He says he is; but why do you ask--do you know him?"

"I'll be straightforward with you," said Uros, looking the captain
full in the eyes. "I think the murdered man is the Slav who left your
ship ten days ago."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed the captain, astonished and grieved.

"I believe so."

"The one for whose murder your friend was arrested?"

"Exactly."

"Strange--very strange," said the captain, who had taken off his
shoe and was rubbing his stockinged foot, "and the murderer?"

"The man who has been ill ever since."

"Vassili?"

"You've said it."

"But have you any proofs?"

"I have."

"Then why did you not get him arrested?"

"I'll do so to-morrow."

"And if you can prove your friend's innocence----"

"We'll sail with you to Zara, my friend and I, if you'll have us, and
find you two other able-bodied seamen to take our place."

"But, remember, I'll not help you in any way to have a man on board
my ship arrested."

"No, I don't ask you to do so."

"I believe he's a fiend; still, he's a fellow-countryman of mine."

The two men thereupon shook hands and separated.

Uros went to the police, and, after a great ado, he managed to find
one of the directors.

"What do you want?" said the officer, cross at being disturbed out of
office hours.

"I've found the murderer at last," replied Uros.

"And what murderer, pray? Do you think there's only one murderer in
the world?"

Uros explained himself.

"And who is he?"

"A certain Vassili, a Greek, on board a caique now lying at Gravosa."

"And how have you found out that he is the murderer, when we know
nothing about it?"

"By intuition."

"Well, but you don't expect us to go about arresting people on
intuition, do you?" asked the officer, huffishly.

Uros proceeded to relate all he knew; then he produced the knife
which he had found.

"Well, there is some ground to your intuition; and if the murdered
man happens to be the Slav sailor who disappeared from on board the
ship you speak of, well, then, there is some probability that this
one-eyed man is the murderer."

"Anyhow, could you give orders for the ship to be watched to-night?"

"Yes, I can do that."

"At once?"

"You are rather exacting, young man."

"Think of my friend, who has been in prison ten days----"

"I'll give orders at once. There, are you satisfied now?"

"Thank you."

Uros, frightened lest the murderer might escape, hastened down to
Gravosa to keep watch on the caique. On his way thither he stopped at
a baker's shop and bought some bread, as he had been fasting for many
hours. Having got down to the shore, he eat his bread, had a glass of
water and a cup of black coffee at the coffee-house, lit a cigarette,
and then went to stretch himself down on a boat drawn up on the sand,
from where he could see anyone who came out of the Greek ship.

Although there was no moon, still the air was so clear, and the stars
shone so brightly, that the sky was of a deep transparent blue, and
the night was anything but black. A number of little noises were
heard, especially the many insects that awake and begin to chirp when
all the birds are hushed. One of them near him was breathing in a
see-saw, drilling tone, whilst another kept syncopating this song
with a sharp and shrill _tsit, tsit_. In some farmyard, far off, the
growl of an old dog was occasionally heard in the distance, like a
bass-viol; but the pleasantest of all these noises was the plap-plap
of the wavelets lapping the soft sand.

Presently, a custom-house guard came and sat down near Uros, and they
began talking together; and then time passed a little quicker.

It must have been about half-past one when Uros saw a man quietly
lower himself down from the caique into the sea, and make for the
shore. He must have swum with one hand, for his other was holding a
bundle of clothes on his head. Uros pointed out the swimming figure
to the guard, who at once sprang up and ran to the edge of the shore.
The man, startled, veered and swam farther off. The watchman
whistled, and another guard appeared at fifty paces from there. The
man jerked himself round, evidently intending to go back to his ship;
but Uros, who was on the alert, had already pushed into the sea the
boat on which he had been stretched, and began paddling with a board
which was lying within it.

The man, evidently thinking that Uros was a custom-house officer,
seeing now that he could not get back on board, put on a bold face
and swam once more towards the shore, whither Uros followed him. Three
custom-house guards had come up together, and were waiting for him to
step out of the water. Uros landed almost at once, and pushing the
boat on the sand, turned round and found himself face to face with
the dripping, naked figure. It was the fiendish, pitted, single-eyed
man he had seen in his visions. He was by no means startled at seeing
him; for he would have been astonished, indeed, if it had been
someone else.

Uros, grasping him by one of his arms and holding him fast for fear
he might escape, exclaimed: "That's the man!--that's the murderer!"

"Leave him," said the watchman; "if he tries to escape he's dead."

"Oh! but I don't want him dead; do what you like with him, but don't
kill him; tie him up, cut off his legs and his arms, but spare his
life until he has confessed."

The guards gave another shrill whistle, and presently the policemen
came running up.

The naked man, who did not know a word of Slav, and only very little
Italian, was taking his oath in Greek that he was no smuggler. He at
once opened his bundle, wrapped up in an oil-cloth jacket, and showed
the guards that there was nothing in it but a few clothes. The Greek
sailor was ordered to dress himself; then the policemen handcuffed
him and led him off to the station, where Uros followed him.

On the morrow the Greek captain was sent for, and he stated that,
having accused Vassili--who, for ten days, had been shamming
illness--of having murdered the Slav, this sailor had threatened him
to go to the Greek consulate on the morrow. The guilty man, however,
had, on second thoughts, deemed it more advisable to seek his safety
in flight, little thinking to what danger he was exposing himself.
The knife was produced and identified as having belonged to the
prisoner; then, being confronted with Milenko, who at once recognised
him as the murderer, he--overwhelmed by so many damning proofs
--confessed his guilt and pleaded for mercy, saying that he had only
killed his antagonist in self-defence.

Milenko's innocence being thus proclaimed, he was at once set free,
whilst Uros was heartily congratulated on his intuition, and the
officer who had snubbed him the evening before, strongly advised him
to leave the sea and become a detective, for if he had the same skill
in finding the traces of criminals as he had displayed in this case,
he would soon became a most valuable officer, whilst Milenko was told
that he ought to think himself fortunate in having such a friend.




CHAPTER XII

MARGARET OF LOPUD


Though the _pobratim_ would have sailed with any ship rather than
with the ill-fated green caique, still Uros had pledged his word to
the Greek captain to go with him as far as Zara or Trieste, and,
moreover, there was no other vessel sailing just then for either of
these ports, and they were both anxious to catch up with the _Spera
in Dio_ without further delay. The Greek captain, likewise--out of a
kind of superstitious dread--would have preferred any other sailors
to these two young men; still, as Dalmatians only sail with their own
fellow-countrymen and never on Greek crafts, it was no easy matter to
find two able-bodied men to go only for a short trip, for those were
times when sailors were not as plentiful, nor ships so scarce, as
they are now.

On the day after the one on which Milenko was set free, the
_pobratim_ set sail with the little caique, and they, as well as the
captain, were thoroughly glad to shake the dust off their shoes on
leaving Gravosa; Milenko especially hoped never to set his foot in
Ragusa again.

The fresh breeze swelled out the broad white sails of the graceful
little ship, which flew as fleetly as a halcyon, steered, as it was,
with utmost care, in and out the narrow channels and through that
archipelago of volcanic rocks which surround the Elaphite Islands, so
dangerous to seamen. It soon left far behind the graceful mimosas,
the dark cypress-trees and the feathery palms of the Ragusean coast.

After all the anxiety of the last days it was pleasant to be again on
those blue waters, so limpid that the red fretted weeds could be seen
growing on the grey rocks several fathoms below. It was a delight to
breathe the balmy air, wafted across that little scented garden of La
Croma. The world looked once more so beautiful, and life was again a
pleasure. The sufferings the _pobratim_ had undergone only served to
render them fonder of each other, so that if they had been twins--not
only brothers--they could not have loved each other more than they
did.

The sun went down, and soon afterwards the golden bow of the new moon
was seen floating in the hyacinthine sky. At the sight of that
slender aureate crescent--which always awakens in the mind of man a
vision of a chaste and graceful maiden--all the crew crossed
themselves and were happy to think that the past was dead and gone,
for the new moon brings new fortune to mortals.

A frugal supper of salted cheese, fruit and olives gathered all the
men together, and then those who were not keeping watch were about to
retire, when a small fishing-boat with a lighted torch at its prow
was seen not very far off. As it came nearer to them the light went
out, and the dark boat, with two gaunt figures at the oars, was seen
for an instant wrapped in a funereal darkness, and then all vanished.
The _pobratim_ crossed themselves, shuddering, and Milenko whispered
something to Uros in Slav, who nodded without speaking.

"What is it?" asked the captain, astonished.

"It is the phantom fishing-boat," replied Uros, almost below his
breath, apparently unwilling to utter these words, and Milenko added:

"It is seen on the first days of the new moon, as soon as darkness
comes over the waters."

For a few moments everybody was silent. All looked towards the spot
where the boat had disappeared, and then the captain asked Milenko
who those two men were, and why they were condemned to ply their
oars, and thereupon Milenko began to relate the story of


MARGARET OF LOPUD.

Some centuries ago, during the great days of the Republic, there
lived a young patrician whose name was Theodor. He belonged to one of
the wealthiest and oldest families of Ragusa, his father having been
rector of the Commonwealth. Theodor was of a most serious
disposition, possessing uncommon talents, and, therefore, taking no
delight in the frivolities of his age. His learning was such that he
was expected to become one of the glories of his native town.

Theodor, to flee from the bustle and mirth of the capital and to give
himself entirely up to his studies, had taken up his abode in the
Benedictine convent on the little island of St. Andrea.

Once he went to visit the island of Lopud--the middle one of the
Elaphite group--and there passed the day; but in the evening, wishing
to return to the brotherhood, he could not find his boat on the
shore. Wandering on the beach, he happened to meet a young girl
carrying home some baskets of fish. Theodor, stopping her, asked her,
shyly, if she knew of anyone who would take him in his boat across to
the island of St. Andrea. No, the young girl knew nobody, for the
fishermen who had come back home were all very tired with their hard
day's work; they were now smoking their pipes. Seeing Theodor's
disappointed look, the young girl proffered her services, which the
bashful patrician reluctantly accepted.

The sail was unfurled and managed with a strong and skilful hand; the
boat went scudding over the waves like an albatross; the breeze was
steady, and the sea quiet. The girl steered through the reefs like a
pilot.

Those two human beings in the fishing-smack formed a strong contrast
to one another. He, the aristocratic scion of a highly cultured race,
pale with long study and nightly vigils, looked like a tenderly
reared hot-house plant. She, belonging to a sturdy race of fishermen,
tanned by the rays of the scorching sun and the exhilarating surf,
was the very picture of a wild flower in full bloom.

Theodor, having got over the diffidence with which women usually
inspired him, began to talk to the young girl; he questioned her
about her house, her family, her way of living. She told him simply,
artlessly, that she was an orphan; the hungry waves--that yearly
devour so many fishermen's lives--had swallowed up her father; not
long after this misfortune her mother died. Since that time she had
lived with her three brothers, who, she said, took great care of her.
She kept house for them, she cooked, she baked bread, she also helped
them to repair their nets, which were always tearing. Sometimes she
cleaned the boat, and she always carried the fish to market. Besides,
she tilled the little field, and in the evening she spun the thread
to make her brothers' shirts. But they were very kind to her, no
brothers could be more so.

He could not help comparing this poor girl--the drudge of the
family--with the grand ladies of his own caste, whose task in life
was to dress up, to be rapidly witty in a saloon, to slander all
their acquaintances, simply to kill the time, for whom life had no
other aim than pleasure, and against whose love for sumptuary display
the Republic had to devise laws and enforce old edicts.

For the young philosopher this unsophisticated girl soon became an
object, first, of speculative, then of tender interest; whilst
Margaret--this was the fishermaiden's name--felt for Theodor, so
delicate and lovable, that motherly sympathy which a real womanly
nature feels for every human being sickly and suffering.

They met again--haunted as he was by the flashing eyes of the young
girl, it was impossible for him not to try and see her a second time,
and from her own fair lips he heard that the passion which had been
kindled in his heart had also roused her love. Then, instead of
endeavouring to suppress their feelings, they yielded to the charms
of this saintly affection, to the rapture of loving and being loved.
In a few days his feelings had made so much progress that he promised
to marry her, forgetting, however, that the strict laws of the
aristocratic Republic forbade all marriages between patricians and
plebeians. His noble character and his bold spirit prompted him to
brave that proud society in which he lived, for those refined ladies
and gentlemen, who would have shrugged their shoulders had he seduced
the young girl and made her his mistress, would have been terribly
scandalised had he taken her for his lawful wife.

His studies went on in a desultory way, his books were almost
forsaken; love engrossed all his mind.

In the midst of his thoughtless happiness, the young lover was
suddenly summoned back home, for whilst Theodor was supposed to be
poring over his old volumes, the father, without consulting him, not
anticipating any opposition, promised his son in marriage to the
daughter of one of his friends, a young lady of great wealth and
beauty. This union had, it is true, been concerted when the children
were mere babes, and it had from that time been a bond between the
two families. The whole town, nay, the Commonwealth itself, rejoiced
at this auspicious event. The young lady, being now of a marriageable
age, and having duly concentrated all her affections upon the man she
had always been taught to regard as her future husband, looked
forward with joy to the day that would remove her from the thraldom
in which young girls were kept. Henceforth she would take her due
share in all festivities, and not only be cooped up in a balcony or a
gallery to witness those enjoyments of which she could not take part.

Theodor was, therefore, summoned back home to assist at a great
festivity given in honour of his betrothal. This order came upon him
as a thunderbolt; still, as soon as he recovered from the shock, he
hastened back to break off the engagement contracted for him. He
tried to remonstrate, first with his father, and then with his
mother; but his eloquence was put to scorn. He pleaded in vain that
he had no inclination for matrimony, that, moreover, he only felt for
this young lady a mere brotherly affection, that could never ripen
into love; still, both his parents were deaf to all his arguments.
Now that the wedding day was settled, that the father had pledged his
word to his friend, it was too late to retreat. A refusal would be
insulting; it would provoke a rupture between the two families--a
feud in the town. No option was left but to obey.

Theodor thereupon retired to his own room, where he remained in
strict confinement, refusing to see anyone. The evening of that
eventful day the guests were assembled, the bride and her family had
arrived; the bridegroom, nevertheless, was missing. This was,
indeed, a strange breach of good manners, and numerous comments were
whispered from ear to ear. The father sent, at last, a peremptory
order to his undutiful son to come down at once.

The young man at last made his appearance dressed in a suit of deep
mourning, whilst his hair--which a little while before had fallen in
long ringlets over his shoulders--was clipped short. In this strange
dress he came to inform his father--before the whole assembly--that
he had decided to forego the pleasures, the pomp and vanity of this
world, and to take up his abode in a convent, where he intended to
pass his days in study and meditation.

The scene of confusion which followed this unexpected declaration can
easily be imagined. The guests thought it advisable to retire; still,
the first person to leave the house was Theodor himself, bearing with
him his father's curse. The discarded bride was borne away by her
parents, and her delicate health never recovered from that unexpected
disappointment.

That very night the young man went back to the Benedictine convent,
and, although the prior received him kindly, he still advised him to
yield to his father's wishes; but Theodor was firm in his resolution
of passing his life in holy seclusion.

After a few days, the fire which love had kindled within his veins
was so strong that he could not resist the temptation of going to see
Margaret to inform her of all that had happened. Driven as he was
from house and home, unable to go against the unjust laws of his
country, he had made up his mind to spend his life in holy celibacy,
in the convent where he had taken shelter. The sight of the young
girl, however, made him forget all his wise resolutions; he only swore
to her that he would brave the laws of his country, the wrath of his
parents, and that he would marry her in spite of his family and of
the whole world.

He thus continued to see the young girl, stealthily at first, then
oftener and without so many precautions, till at last Margaret's
brothers were informed of his visits. They--jealous of the honour of
their family, as all Slavs are--threatened their sister to kill her
lover if ever they found him with her. Then--almost at the same
time--the prior of the Benedictines, happening to hear of Theodor's
love for the fair fisher-girl of Lopud, expressed his intention of
expelling him, should he not discontinue his visits to the
neighbouring island.

Every new difficulty only seemed to give greater courage to the
lovers. They would have fled from their native country had it not
been for the fear of being soon overtaken, brought back and punished;
they, therefore, decided to wait for some time, until the wrath of
their persecutors had abated, and the storm that always threatened
them had blown over.

As Theodor could not go to see the young girl, Margaret now came to
visit her lover. Not to excite any suspicion, they only met in the
middle of the night; and, as they always changed their
trysting-place, a lighted torch was the signal where the young girl
was to steer her boat. Sometimes--as not a skiff was to be got--the
young girl swam across the channel, for nothing could daunt her
heroic heart.

These ill-fated lovers were happy in spite of their adverse fortune;
the love they bore one another made amends for all their woes. They
only lived in expectation of that hour they were to pass together
every night. Then, clasped in each other's arms, the world and its
inhabitants did not exist for them. Those were moments of such
ineffable rapture, that it seemed impossible for them ever to drain
the whole chalice of happiness. In those moments Time and Eternity
were confounded, and nothing was worth living for except the bliss of
loving and being loved. The dangers which surrounded them, their
loneliness upon those rocky shores, the stillness of the night, and
the swiftness of time, only rendered the pleasure they felt more
intense, for joy dearly bought is always more deeply felt.

Their happiness, however, was not to last long. Margaret's brothers,
having watched her, soon found out that when the young nobleman had
ceased coming to Lopud, it was she who visited her lover by night,
and, like honourable men, they resolved to be avenged upon her. They
bided their time, and upon a dark and stormy night the fishermen,
knowing that their sister would not be intimidated by the heavy sea,
went off with the boat and left her to the mercy of the waves.
Theodor, not to entice her to expose herself rashly to the fury of
the sea, had not lighted his torch; still, unable to remain shut up
within his cell, he roamed about the desolate shore, listening to the
roaring billows. All at once he saw a light--not far from the rocks.
No fisherman could be out in the storm at that hour. His heart sank
within him for fear Margaret should see the light and take it for his
signal. In a fever of anxiety he walked about the shore and watched
the fluttering light--now almost extinguished, and then burning
brightly.

The young girl seeing the light, and unable to resist the promptings
of her heart, made the sign of the Cross, recommended herself to the
mercy of the Almighty, and bravely plunged into the waters. She
struggled against the fury of the wind, and buffeted against the
waves, swimming towards that beacon-light of love. That night,
however, all her efforts seemed useless; she never could reach the
shore; that _ignis-fatuus_ light always receded from her. Still, she
took courage, hoping soon to reach that blessed goal; in fact, she
was now getting quite near it.

A flash of lightning, which illumined the dark expanse of the waters,
showed her that the torch, towards which she had been swimming, was
tied to the prow of her brothers' boat. She also perceived that the
Island of St. Andrea, towards which she thought she had been
swimming, was far behind her. A moment afterwards the torch was
thrown into the sea, and the boat rowed off. She at once turned
towards the island, and there, in the midst of the darkness, she
struggled with the huge breakers that dashed themselves in foam
against the reefs; but soon, overpowered with weariness, she gave up
every hope of rejoining her lover, and sank down in the briny deep.

The sea that separated the lovers was, however, less cruel than man,
for upon the morrow the waves themselves laid the lifeless body of
the young girl upon the soft sand of the beach.

The young patrician, who had passed a night of most terrible anxiety,
wandering on the strand, found the corpse of the girl he so dearly
loved. He caused it to be committed to the earth, after which he
re-entered the walls of the convent, took the Benedictine dress, and
spent the rest of his life praying for her soul and pining in grief.


Milenko did not exactly relate this story in these words, for to be
intelligible he had to make use of a mixture of Italian, Slav and
even Greek, and even then Captain Panajotti was often puzzled to
understand what he meant; therefore, he had to express himself in a
kind of dumb show, or in those onomatopoetic sounds rather difficult
to be transcribed.

As soon as he had finished, the captain said:

"We, too, have a story like that, and, on the whole, ours is a much
prettier one; for it was the man who swam across the Straits of the
Dardanelles to meet the girl he loved, and, on a stormy night, he was
drowned."

"Only ours is a true story; you yourself have seen, just now, the
hard-hearted brothers rowing in the dark."

"Ours is also true."

"And when did it happen?"

"More than a thousand years ago, when we Greeks were the masters of
all the world."

The _Spera in Dio_, having met with contrary winds and a storm in the
rough sea of the Quarnero, had been obliged to cruise about and shift
her sails every now and then, thus losing a great deal of time, and
she only reached Trieste after a week's delay. The caique instead had
a steady, strong wind, and less than twenty-four hours after they
left Ragusa they cast their anchor in front of the white walls of
Zara.

To the _pobratim_'s regret the boat was only to remain there two or
three days at most, just time enough to take some bales of hides, and
then set sail for Trieste; so, although they were so near Nona, it
was impossible for them to go and pay a visit to Ivanka. The two
young sailors had, however, no need of going to Nona to see their
friends, for no sooner had the ship dropped her anchor than Giulianic
himself came on board, for he was the Sciot merchant about whom
Captain Panajotti had often spoken to them, and who was to give them
the extra cargo.

"What! you here?" said Giulianic, opening his eyes with astonishment.
"Well, this is an unexpected pleasure; but I thought you were in
Trieste." Then, turning to Milenko, he added: "I had a letter from
your father only a few days ago informing me that your ship would be
there now. You have not been shipwrecked, I hope?"

"No, no," replied Uros, at once; "we were detained at Ragusa; but we
are on our way to Trieste, aren't we, captain?"

"If God grants us a fair wind, we are."

Milenko thereupon opened his mouth to speak, but his friend
forestalled him.

"So you had a letter from his father? Well, what news from home? Are
they all in good health? And how are the crops getting on?" Thereupon
he stepped on his friend's foot to make him keep quiet.

"Yes, all are well. Amongst other things, he says that your father
has gone to Montenegro."

"My father?" asked Uros, with a sly wink at Milenko.

"Yes; on account of a murder that had been committed at Budua." Then,
turning to the captain: "By-the-bye, you knew Radonic, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did."

"Well, it appears he's gone and murdered the only friend he had."

"That's not astonishing. The only thing that surprises me is that he
ever had a friend to murder. He was one of the most unsociable men I
ever met."

Afterwards they spoke of the accident that had kept the two young men
at Ragusa, at which Giulianic seemed greatly concerned.

"Anyhow," said he, "it's lucky that my wife and Ivanka have come with
me from Nona. They'll be so glad to see you again; for you must know,
Captain Panajotti, that my bones, and those of my wife and daughter,
would now be lying at the bottom of the sea, had it not been for the
courage of these two young men."

"Oh! you must thank him," said Uros, pointing to Milenko. "I only
helped so as not to leave him to risk his life alone."

"They never told me anything about it; but, of course, they did not
know that I was acquainted with you." Then, laughing, the captain
added: "Fancy, I have been warning them not to lose their hearts on
seeing your beautiful daughter."

"And didn't I tell you that my friend had already left his heart at
Nona?"

Saying this, Uros pinched his friend's arm. Milenko blushed, and was
about to say something, but Giulianic began to speak about business;
then added:

"And now I must leave you; but suppose you all three come and meet us
at the Cappello in about an hour's time, and have some dinner with
us? I'll not say a word either to my wife or Ivanka, and you may
fancy how surprised they'll be to see you."

Captain Panajotti seemed undecided.

"No, I'll not have any excuse; you captains are little tyrants the
moment the anchor is weighed, but the moment it's dropped you are all
smiles and affability. Come, I'll have a dish of _scordalia_ to whet
your appetite; now, you can't resist that; so ta-ta for the present."

The moment Giulianic disappeared Milenko looked at his friend, whose
eyes were twinkling with merriment.

"It's done," said Uros, smiling.

"But what made you take the poor fellow in as you did?"

"_I_ take him in? Well, I like that."

"Well, but----"

"If he deceived himself, am I to be held responsible for his
mistakes?"

"Still----"

"Besides, if there was any deception, I must say you did your best to
let it go on."

"Of course, I did; but who made me do it?"

"I did."

"And now is it to continue?"

"Of course."

"But why?"

"Milenko, you're a good fellow, but in some things you are a great
ninny. You ask me why? Well, because, for two days, you can make love
to the daughter under the father's very nose; in the meantime I'll
devote myself to the father and mother, and make myself pleasant to
them."

"Yes, but what'll be the upshot of all this?"

"'Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof,' the proverb says; why
will you make yourself wretched, thinking of the future, when you can
be so happy? If I only had the opportunity of spending two long days
with----"

Uros did not finish his phrase; his merry face grew dark, and he
sighed deeply; then he added: "There is usually some way out of all
difficulties; see how you got out of prison."

"Still, look in what a predicament you've placed me."

"Well, if you feel qualmish, we can tell the old man that he's a
goose, for he really doesn't know who his son-in-law is; then I'll
make love to fair Ivanka, and you'll look on. Now are you satisfied?"

"What are you wrangling about?" said Captain Panajotti, appearing out
of the hatchway in his best clothes, his baggy trowsers more
voluminous than those that Mrs. Bloomer tried to set in fashion a few
years afterwards.

"Oh! nothing," said Uros, laughing; "only you must know that every
first quarter of the moon I suffer from lunacy. I'm not at all
dangerous, quite the contrary; especially if I'm not contradicted. So
you might try and bear with me for a day or two; by the time we sail
again I'll be all right; it's only a flow of exuberant animal spirits,
that must vent themselves. But, how fine you are, captain; I'm afraid
you are trying to out-do my friend, and if it wasn't that you are
married, I'd have thought that all your warnings for us not to fall
in love with the Sciot's daughter----"

"I see that the lunacy is beginning, so I'll not contradict; but
hadn't you better go and dress?"

"All right," quoth Uros, and in a twinkling the two young men
disappeared down the hatchway.

Half-an-hour afterwards they were at the Albergo Cappello, the only
inn of the town, where they found Giulianic awaiting them. The two
women were very much astonished to see them. Ivanitza's eyes flashed
with unrestrained delight on perceiving her lover, but then she
looked down demurely--as every well-bred damsel should--and blushed
like a pomegranate flower. Only, when she heard her father address
him by his friend's name, she looked up astonished; but seeing Uros
slily wink at her, she again cast down her eyes, wondering what it
all meant.

After a while the mother whispered to her husband that she had always
mistaken one of the young men for the other.

"Did you?" said he, laughing. "Well, I am astonished, for you women
are so much keener in knowing people than we men are; for, to tell
you the truth, I've often been puzzled myself; they are both the same
age, they are like brothers, they are dressed alike, so it's easy to
mistake them."

"Anyhow," added she, "I'm glad to have been mistaken, because,
although I like both of them, still I prefer our future son-in-law to
young Bellacic; he's more earnest and sedate than his friend."

"Yes, I think you are right; the other one is such a chatterbox."

"And, then, he displayed so much courage at the time of our
shipwreck; indeed, had it not been for his bravery, we should all
have been drowned."

"Yes, I remember; he was the first one to come to our rescue. Still,
we must be just towards the other one, for he is a brave and a plucky
fellow to boot."

"And so lively!"

"That's it; rather too much so; anyhow, I'm glad that Ivanka has
fallen in love with the right man; because it would have been exactly
like the perverseness of the gentle sex for her to have liked the
other one better."

"Oh, my daughter has been too well brought up to make any objection!
Just fancy a girl choosing for herself; it would be preposterous!"

"Yes, of course it would; still, she might have moped and threatened
to have gone into a decline. Oh, I know the ways of your model
girls!"

In the meanwhile, Milenko explained to the young girl how the mistake
had originated, and how her father had, from the first, believed him
to be Uros.

Dinner was soon served in a private room of the hotel; and Uros, who,
to keep up the buoyancy of his spirits, and act the part he had
undertaken to play brilliantly, had swallowed several glasses of
_slivovitz_, and had induced Captain Panajotti to follow his example,
was now indulging freely with the strong Dalmatian wine. Still, he
only took enough to be talkative and merry; but, as he exaggerated
the effects of the wine, everybody at table believed him to be quite
tipsy.

No sooner had the dish of macaroni been taken away than he began to
insist upon Captain Panajotti telling them a story.

"Oh, to-morrow you'll be master on board again; but now, you know,
you must do what I like, just as if you were my wife!"

"What! Your wife----"

But Uros did not let Mrs. Giulianic finish her question, for he
insisted upon doing all the talking himself.

"My wife," said he, sententiously, "my wife'll have to dance to the
tune I play; for I intend to wear the breeches and the skirts, too,
in my house; so I hope you've brought up your daughter to jump
through paper hoops, like a well-trained horse--no, I mean a girl!"

"My daughter----"

"Oh, I daresay that your daughter's like you, turning up her nose;
but I say, D----n it! I'll not have a wife whose nose turns up."

Giulianic looked put out; his wife's face lengthened by several
inches, whilst Ivanka did her best to look scared.

"Come, captain," continued Uros, "spout us one of your stories. Now
listen, for he'll make you split with laughter. Come, give us one of
your spicy ones; tell us your tale about the lack of wit, but without
omitting the----"

"I'm afraid that the ladies----"

"Oh, rot the ladies! Now, all this comes from this new-fangled notion
of having women at table; if they are to be squeamish and spoil all
the fun, let them stop up their ears. Come, I told you I'd not brook
contradiction to-day."

"Well, by-and-by; let me have my dinner now."

"What's the matter with him?" asked Mrs. Giulianic of the captain;
"is he drunk?"

"Oh, worse! he's moon-struck; he's like that for a few days at every
new moon."

Mrs. Giulianic made the sign of the Cross, and whispered something to
her husband.

"Then, if you'll not tell us a story, our guest must sing us a song.
Come, father-in-law, sing us a song, a merry, rollicking one, for
when I'm on shore I like to laugh."

"No, not here; we are not in our own house, you know."

"Do you pay for the dinner, or don't you?"

"I do, but there are gentlemen dining in the next room."

"If they don't like your song, don't let them listen."

Thereupon the waiter came in.

"I say, you, fellow, isn't it true that we can sing in this stinking
hole of an old tub?"

"Oh! if you like; only this isn't a tavern, and there are two judges
dining in the next room."

"And you think I'm not going to sing for two paltry judges! I'll
howl, then."

"No; let's have some riddles," said Giulianic, soothingly; "I'm very
fond of riddles, aren't you? Now, tell me, captain, who was it that
killed the fourth part of mankind?"

"Why, that's as old as your wife," quoth Uros, at once; "why, Cain,
of course. But as you like riddles, I'll tell you one that suits you,
though, as the proverb says, a bald pate needs no comb."

Giulianic winced, for his bald head was his sore point, but then he
added, with a forced smile:

"Come, let's have your riddle."

"Well, you ought to know what makes a man bald, if anyone does."

"Sorrow," answered the bald man.

"Rot, I say!"

"What is it, then?"

"The loss of hair, of course," and he poked Giulianic in the ribs.
"That was good, wasn't it, father-in-law?"

"Well, I don't see much of a joke in it," answered the host,
snappishly.

"No; I didn't expect you would; that's the joke, you see." Then,
turning to Ivanka, with a slight wink: "Now, here's one for you."

"Let's hear it."

"Why are there in this world more women than men?"

"Because they are more necessary."

"That's your conceit; but you're wrong."

"What is it, then?" asked the young girl.

"Because the evil in this world is always greater than the good."

"So," said she, with a pretty smile, "then, women ought to be called
men's worse halves."

"Of course, they ought--though there are exceptions to all rules."
Then, after drinking very slowly half a glass of wine: "Now, one for
you, _babica_. This is the very best of the lot; I didn't invent it
myself, though I, too, can say a smart thing now and then, _babica_.
Tell me, when is a wife seen at her best?"

Ivanka's mother, who prided herself upon her youthful looks, winced
visibly on hearing herself twice called a granny; still, she added,
simpering:

"I suppose, when she's a bride."

"Oh! you suppose that, do you? Well, your supposition is all wrong."

"Well, when is it?"

"Ask your husband; surely, he's not bald for nothing."

"I'm sure, I don't know; I think----"

"You think it's when she turns up her nose, but that's not it, for
it's when she turns up her toes and is carried out of the house."

Captain Panajotti laughed, and so did Ivanka; but her mother, seeing
her laugh, could hardly control her vexation, so she said something
which she intended to be very sarcastic.

"Oh! you are vexed, _babica_, because I explained you the riddle."

"Vexed! there's nothing to be vexed about. I'm only sorry that, at
your age, you have such a bad opinion of women."

"_I_, a bad opinion, _takomi Boga!_ I haven't made the riddle; I've
only heard it from my father, and he says that riddles are the wisdom
of a nation. So, to show you that I have the best regard for you,
here's a bumper"--and thereupon he filled his glass to the brim and
stood up--"to your precious health, mother-in-law."

Then, pretending to stumble, he poured the glass of wine over her
head and face.

Giulianic uttered an oath, and struck the table with his fist; Ivanka
and Milenko thought he had gone too far. Still, the poor woman looked
such a pitiful object, with her turban all soaked and her face all
dripping with wine, that they all burst out laughing.

Mrs. Giulianic, unable to control her vexation, and angry at finding
herself the laughing-stock of the whole company, forgot herself so
far as to call Uros a fool and a drunkard. He, however, went on,
good-humouredly:

"I'm so sorry; but, you see, it was quite unintentional, _Bogami_,
quite unintentional. But never mind, don't be angry with me; I'll buy
you another dress."

"Do you think my wife is vexed on account of her dress?" said
Giulianic, proudly. "Thank Heaven! she doesn't need your dresses
yet."

"Oh, yes!" said Uros, mopping up the wine with his napkin, "I know
that you can afford to buy your wife dresses; but as I spoilt this
one, it is but right that I should pay for it. I can't offer to buy
you a yard of stuff, can I? And, besides, a dress is always welcome,
isn't it, mother-in-law?"

"Well, never mind about the dress," quoth Giulianic.

"Oh! if you don't mind it, your wife does; but there, don't be angry,
don't be wriggling with your nose. When I marry your daughter, my
pretty Ivanka----"

"You marry my daughter!" gasped the father.

"You, indeed!" quoth the mother.

"Yes, _babica_; then I'll buy you the dearest dress I can get for
money in Trieste. What is it to be, velvet or satin? plain or with
bunches of flowers? What colour would you like? as red as your face
is now?"

"When you marry Ivanka, you can buy me a bright green satin."

"Well, here's my hand upon it; only you'll look like a big parrot in
that dress. Isn't it true, father-in-law?"

"A joke is a joke," answered Giulianic; "but I wish you wouldn't be
'father-in-lawing' me, for----"

"Well, I hope you are not going to break off the engagement because I
happened to christen mother-in-law with a glass of good wine, are
you?"

"Your engagement?"

"Of course."

"I told you I don't mind a joke, still this is carrying----"

"Don't mind him, poor fellow," said Captain Panajotti. "The poor
fellow is daft."

"If anybody is engaged to my daughter," continued Giulianic, "it's
your friend there, Uros Bellacic!"

"Oh! I like that," said Uros, laughing. "I'm afraid the wine's all
gone up to your bald pate, old man." Then turning to Captain
Panajotti, he added: "He doesn't know his own son-in-law any more,"
and he laughed idiotically.

Giulianic and his wife looked aghast.

Thereupon, thumping the table, Uros exclaimed:

"I tell you I'm going to marry your daughter, though, if the truth
must be known, I don't care a fig for her, pretty as she is. I've
got----"

"And I swear by God that you'll never marry her!" cried Giulianic,
exasperated.

"That's rich," quoth Uros. "On what do you swear, old bald-pate?"

"I swear on my faith."

"And on your soul, eh?"

"On my soul, too."

"With your hand on the Cross?" asked Uros, handing him a little
Cross.

"I swear," answered Giulianic, beyond himself with rage.

"Well, well, that'll do; don't get angry, take it coolly as I do. You
see, I'm not put out. As long as you settle the matter with my
father, Milos Bellacic, I'm quite satisfied."

"Milos Bellacic your father?"

"Of course."

"Then you mean to say that you are----?"

"Uros Bellacic. Although the wine may have gone a little to my head,
still, I suppose I know who I am."

"Is it true?" said Giulianic, turning towards Milenko.

"Yes!" replied the young man, nervously, "Didn't you know it?"

"No."

"Didn't I tell you?" whispered his wife.

"Oh! you always tell me when it's too late," he retorted, huffishly.
"And now, what's to be done? Will you release me from my oath?"

Ivanka looked up, alarmed.

"Decidedly not; I'll never marry a girl who doesn't want me, whose
father has sworn on his soul not to have me, for whose mother I'm a
drunkard and a fool."

The dinner ended in a gloomy silence; a dampness had come over all
the guests, and, except Ivanka and Milenko, all were too glad to get
rid of one another.

On the morrow Uros called on Mrs. Giulianic, when her husband was not
at home. He apologised for his boorish behaviour, and explained
matters to her.

"Your daughter is in love with Milenko, to whom you all owe your
lives; he, too, has lost his heart on her, whilst I--well, it's
useless speaking about myself."

"I see it all now," quoth she, "and you are too good-hearted to wish
us all to be miserable on account of a stupid promise. Well, on the
whole, I think you were right."

"Then you forgive me for what I did and what I said?"

"Of course I do, now that I understand it all."

Before the caique sailed off, Uros was fully forgiven, and Giulianic
even promised to write to his friend and explain matters to him.




CHAPTER XIII

STARIGRAD


The caique reached Trieste in time to meet the _Spera in Dio_, which,
having discharged her goods, had taken a cargo of timber for Lissa.
At Trieste, the _pobratim_ bade good-bye to Captain Panajotti; and
he, having found there two of his countrymen, was able to set sail
for the Levant. From Lissa the _Spera in Dio_ returned to Trieste,
and there her cargo of sardines was disposed of to great advantage.

The young men had been sailing now six months with the captain, and
he, seeing that they were not only good pilots, clever sailors,
reliable young men, but sharp in business to boot, agreed to let them
have the whole management of the ship, for he was obliged to go to
Fiume, and take charge of another brig of his, that had lost her
captain. Moreover, being well off, and having re-married, he was now
going to take his young wife on a cruise with him.

"And who was the captain of your brig in Fiume?"

"One of my late wife's brothers, and as he seems to have disapproved
of my second marriage, he has discarded my ship."

"And is he married?"

"Of course, he is; did you ever know any unmarried captain? Land rats
always seem to look upon marriage as a halter, whilst we sailors get
spliced as young as possible. Perhaps it's because we are so little
with our better halves that we are happy in married life."

"And when you give up the sea will you settle down in Fiume?"

"I suppose so, though Fiume is not my birth-place."

"Isn't it? Where were you born, then?"

"Where the dog-king was born!"

"And where was the dog-king born? For, never having heard of him
before, I am now quite as wise as I was," said Uros.

"Well, they say that Atilla, who was a very great king, was born at
Starigrad, the old castle, which, as you know, is not very far from
Nona. Starigrad is said to have been built on the ruins of a very old
city, which was once called Orsopola, but which now hardly deserves
the name of a town. The village where I was born goes by the name of
Torre-Vezza, but we in Slav know it as Kulina-pass-glav."

"What a peculiar name, The Tower of the Dog's Head," added Milenko.

"Yes, it is also called The Tower of the Dog-King
Kulina-pass-kraljev."

"And why?" asked Uros.

"Because it was the tower where Atilla was born, and as the king
happened to have a dog's ears, the place was called after him The
Tower of the Dog-King."

"How very strange that a king should have a dog's ears."

"Not so very strange either. Once, in olden times, a king actually
had ass's ears; but that was long before constitutional monarchy: I
doubt whether people would stand such things nowadays. Some
historians say that he had a dog's head, but that, I daresay, is an
exaggeration; and perhaps, after all, he had only big hairy ears,
something like those of a poodle. Anyhow, if the legend is to be
believed, it does not seem wonderful that Atilla was somewhat of a
mongrel and doggish in his behaviour."

"Let's hear the legend," said Uros.

Thereupon, the captain and his two mates, lying flat on their
stomachs, propped themselves up on their elbows, and began to puff at
their cigarettes. Then the captain narrated as follows:


About four hundred years after the birth of our Lord and Saviour
Jesus Christ, there lived in Hungary a King who was exceedingly
handsome. The Hungarians are, as you must know, a very fine race; but
this monarch was so remarkably good-looking, that no woman ever cast
her eyes upon him without falling in love with him at once. This King
had a daughter who was as beautiful a girl as he was handsome a man,
and all the kings and princes were anxious to marry her. She had a
great choice of suitors, for they flocked to Hungary from the four
quarters of the globe. She, however, discarded them all, for she
could not find the man of her choice amongst them. Some were too
fair, others a shade too dark; the one was too short, the other was
tall and lanky. In fact, one batch of kings went off and another
came, but with no better success; fair-bearded and blue-eyed
emperors were the same to her as negro potentates, she hardly looked
upon either.

The King at first was vexed to find his daughter so hard to please,
then he grew angry at seeing her throw away so many good chances, and
at last he decided that she was to marry the very first man that
should come to ask for her hand, fair or dark, yellow or
copper-coloured.

The suitor who happened to present himself was a powerful chief of
some nomadic tribe. He was not exactly a handsome man, for he was
shock-headed, short and squat, with sturdy, muscular limbs, big,
broad hands and square feet. As for his face, it was quite flat, with
a pug nose, thick lips and sharp teeth. As for his ears, they were
canine in their shape, large and hairy.

Though he was not exactly a monster, still the girl refused him,
horrified. The man, gloating upon her, said, with a leer, that a time
might come when she would lick her chops to have him. Nay, he grinned
and showed his dog-like teeth as he uttered this very low expression,
rendering it ever so much the more obnoxious by emitting a low canine
laugh, something between a whine and a merry bark. The poor Princess
shuddered with horror and said she would as lief be wedded to one of
her father's curs.

The father now got into a towering passion and asked the Princess why
she would not marry, and the damsel, melting into tears, and almost
fainting with grief and shame, confessed that she was in love with
him--her own father.

Fancy the King's dismay!

He had been bored the whole of his life by all the women, not only of
his Court, but of his whole kingdom, who were madly in love with him.
Wherever he went there was always a crowd of young girls and old
dames, married women and widows, gazing at him as if he had been the
moon; grey eyes and green eyes, black eyes and blue eyes, were always
staring, ogling or leering at him; and, amidst deep-drawn sighs, he
always heard the same words: "Ah! how handsome he is!" His fatal
beauty made more ravages amongst the fair sex even than the plague or
the small-pox; the cemeteries and lunatic asylums were peopled with
his victims. His dreams were haunted by the sighs and cries of these
love-sick females. At last he had decided to live in a remote castle,
in the midst of a forest, where he would see and be seen by as few
women as possible; but even here he could not find rest, his own
daughter had not escaped the infection. That was too much for the poor
King. He at once banished the Princess, not only from his sight--from
his castle--but even from his kingdom. He wished thereby to strike
the rest of womankind with terror.

The poor girl, like Cain, wandered alone upon the surface of the
earth; bearing her father's curse, she was shunned by everyone who
met her; for the Hungarians have ever been loyal to their kings.

She was, however, not quite alone; for as she left the royal palace
she was met on her way by an ugly-looking cur, with a shaggy head, a
short and squat body, sturdy muscular legs, big paws, a pug nose,
sharp white teeth, and huge flapping ears. He was not exactly a fine
dog, but he seemed good-natured enough; and as he followed her steps,
he looked at her piteously with his little eyes.

She walked about for three days; then, sick at heart, weary and
faint, she sank down, ready to die. She was on a lonely highway, with
moors all covered with heather on either side; so that she could see
nothing but the limitless plain stretching far away in the distance
as far as the eye could reach. In that immense waste, with the bright
blue sky overhead, and the brown-reddish heath all around, where not
a tree, not a shrub, not a rock was to be seen, she walked on and on;
but she always seemed to be in the very centre of an unending circle.
Then a feeling of terror came over her; the utter loneliness in which
she found herself overpowered her. And now the mongrel cur, which had
remained behind, came running after her, the poor beast, which at
first she had hardly noticed, comforted her; he was now far more than
a companion or a protector, he was her only friend.

She sank down by the wayside, to pat the faithful dog and to rest a
while; but when she tried to rise, her legs were so stiff that they
refused to carry her. However, the sun, that never tarries, went on
and left her far behind. She saw his fiery disc sink like a glowing
ball far behind the verge of the moor; then darkness, little by
little, spread itself over the earth. Night being more oppressive
than daylight, the tears began to trickle down her cheeks; then she
lay down on the grass, and began to sob bitterly and to bewail and
moan over her ill-timed fate. She was again comforted; for the ugly
cur came to sniff at her, to rub his nose against her cheeks, and
lick her hands, as if to soothe and assuage her sorrow.

Tired as she was her heavy eyelids drooped, shut themselves, and soon
she sank into a deep sleep.

That night she had a most wonderful vision. Soon she felt her body
beginning to get drowsy and the pain in her weary head to pass away;
then consciousness gradually vanished. Then it seemed that she saw
two genii of gigantic stature appear in front of her; the mightiest
of the two bent down, caught her up as if she had been a tiny baby
only a few months old, clasped her to his breast, then spread out his
huge bat-like wings and flew away with her up into the air. It was
pleasant to nestle in his brawny arms and feel the wind rush around
her. He carried her with the rapidity of the lightning across the
endless plains of Hungary, over the blue waters of the Danube, over
lakes and snow-capped chains of mountains, and wide gaping chasms
which looked like the mouths of hell. The genius at last alighted on
the summit of a very high peak, and from there he slid down, making
thus a deep glen that went to the sea-shore. The other genius took up
the dog in his arms, transported him likewise through the air, and
perched himself on the top of another neighbouring peak. The
mountain-tops on which they alighted were the Ruino and Sveti Berdo
of the Vellibic chain. Once on their feet again the two Afrites laid
down their burdens, and built--till early morning--a huge castle of
massive stone, not far from the sea. Their task done, they placed the
Princess in a beautiful bed, all inlaid with silver, ivory and
mother-of-pearl; they whispered in her ear that henceforth, and for
the remainder of her life, she would have to keep away from the sight
of men, for her beauty might have been as fatal as her father's had
been. Then they rose up in the air, vanished, or rather, melted away,
like the morning mist.

You can fancy the Princess's surprise the next morning when--on
awaking--she found herself stretched on a soft couch, between fine
lawn sheets, in a lofty chamber, finer by far even than the one she
had had in her father's palace. She rubbed her eyes, thinking that
she was dreaming, and then lay for a few moments, half asleep and
half awake, hardly daring to move lest she might return, but too
soon, to the bitter misery of life. All at once, as she lay in this
pleasant sluggish state, she felt something moist and cold against
her cheek. She shuddered, awoke quite, turned round and found
herself in still closer contact with the cur's pug nose.

The Princess drew back astonished, unable to understand whether she
was awake or asleep, and, as her eyes fell on the cur, she was
surprised to see a kind of broad and merry grin on the dog's face,
for the mongrel evidently seemed to be enjoying her surprise.

The young girl continued to look round, bewildered, for, instead of
being on the dusty roadside, where she had dropped down out of sheer
weariness, she was lying on a comfortable bed, in a splendid room.
She stared at the costly tapestries which covered the walls, at the
beautiful inlaid furniture, at the damask curtains all wrought in
gold, at the crystal chandelier hanging down from the ceiling; and as
she gazed at all these, and many other things, the cur, with his big
hairy front paws on the edge of the couch, was standing on his hind
legs, looking at the beautiful young girl.

The poor girl blushed to see the cur leering at her so doggedly. She
rose quickly, put on the beautiful dresses that were lying on a chair
ready for her, and went about the house.

What she had taken for a dream, or a vision, was, in fact, nothing
but plain reality. She had, during the night, been carried from the
plains of Hungary down to the shores of the Adriatic, and shut up in
a fairy castle, alone with the faithful dog. From her windows she
could see the mountains on which the two Afrites had alighted, and on
the other side the sun-lit, translucent waters of the deep blue sea.

The castle, which seemed to rise out of the steep inaccessible crags
on which it was perched, was built of huge blocks of stone. It had
thick machicolated towers at every corner, gates with drawbridges and
barbicans. The apartments within this stronghold, the remains of
which are still to be seen, were as sumptuous and as comfortable as
any king's daughter might wish. Her protectors had provided her with
all the necessities of daily life, for every day, at twelve, a dainty
dinner, cooked by invisible hands, was laid out in the lofty hall,
whilst in the morning a cup of exquisite chocolate was ready for her
on the table in her bedroom; besides, she found all that could induce
her to pass her time pleasantly, for she had statues, pictures, birds
and flowers. She could walk in the small garden in the midst of the
square court, or under the marble colonnade that surrounded it; she
could stitch, sew, embroider, play the lute, or paint. Still, she was
quite alone, and time lay heavy on her hands. She could see, from the
windows of the second floor, people at a distance stop and stare at
the wonderful castle that had risen out of a rock, like a mushroom,
in the space of a night; but nobody ever saw her. Alone with the cur
from morn to night, from year's end to year's end; he followed her,
step by step, whithersoever she went, and whatever she did he would
wag his tail approvingly. If she sat down, he would squat on his
haunches, on a stool opposite, and gloat on her with his little eyes
so persistently that she felt her head grow quite dizzy, and she
almost fancied that she had a human being sitting there in front of
her, watching lovingly her slightest movement; and then the strangest
fancies flitted through her brain.

Several times she had tried, as a pastime, to teach the dog some
tricks; but she soon gave it up, for he always inspired her with a
kind of awe. He was such a knowing kind of a cur, that he invariably
seemed to read all her thoughts within her brain, and, winking at
her, did the very thing she wanted him to do, before she had even
tried to teach him the trick. Then, as he saw her open her eyes
wonderingly, he would look at her, grinning, as if he were making fun
of her; or else he sniffed at her in a patronising kind of way, as if
he would say:

"Pooh! what a very silly kind of girl you are. Couldn't you, a human
being, think of something better than that?"

It happened one day that, as they sat opposite each other, looking
into each other's eyes--he as quiet as a stone dog on a gate, she
with her tapering fingers interlocked, twirling her thumbs as a means
of passing her time--the Princess was thinking of her many rejected
suitors, whose hearts she had broken; even of the last one, the
short, squat man, with sturdy limbs, large hands and feet, a shaggy
head and huge ears. And she sighed, for though he was much more of a
Satyr than like her Hyperean father, still he was a man.

Thereupon, she looked at the cur, with its sturdy limbs, its shaggy
head and huge ears; and she sighed again. The dog winked at her.

"Cur," she said to herself, "you are ugly enough; still, if you were
a man I think I could fall in love with you."

The cur stood on his hind legs, his head a little on one side; there
was a knowing, impudent look in his eyes. Then he uttered a kind of
doggish laugh, something between a whine and a bark; then, after
showing his teeth in a grinning kind of way, he licked his chops at
her sneeringly.

The words of her last suitor were just then ringing in her ears. She
looked at the cur in amazement, for she almost fancied he had uttered
those selfsame words.

The cur was evidently mocking her, as he rolled his shaggy head
about, and gloated at her just as her last suitor had done.
Thereupon, she blushed deeply, and covering her face with her hands,
she burst into tears.

The poor dog thereupon came to lick the tears that oozed through her
fingers, so that she felt somewhat comforted by the affection which
this poor mongrel showed her.

This, thought she, is the end of every haughty beauty who is hard to
please and who thinks no one is good enough for her. She rejects all
the best matches in early youth, she turns up her nose at every
eligible _parti_, until--when age creeps on and beauty fades--she is
happy to accept the first boor that pops the question. As for
herself, she had not even a boor whom she could love, not even the
churlish man with the huge ears.

That evening, undressing before going to bed, the Princess stood, sad
and disconsolate, in front of her mirror. She was still of a radiant
beauty, quite as handsome as she had ever been; but alas! she knew
that her beauty would soon begin to fade in that lonely tower.

What had she done to the gods to deserve the punishment she was
undergoing? Why had the genii shut her up in that tower to pine there
unheeded and unknown? Why had they not left her to wander about the
world, or even die upon those blasted heaths of her country? Death
was better than having to waste away in a living death, doomed to
eternal imprisonment.

It was a splendid night in early May. The moon, on one side, silvered
the placid waters of the Adriatic, whilst it gleamed on the still
snow-capped tops of the Vellebic, on the other. The breeze that came
in through the open casement wafted in the smell of the sea, and of
the sage, the hyssop and lavender that grew all around. A nightingale
was trilling in an amorous strain, blackbirds whistled in plaintive
notes, just as in the daytime the wild doves had cooed their eternal
love-song to their mate.

The poor girl leaned her plump and snowy arms on the white marble
window-sill and sighed. How lovely the world is, she thought, and
then she remained as if entranced by an ecstatic vision. Within the
amber moon that rolled on high and flooded all below with mellow
light, the Princess saw a lover with his lass. Their mouths were
closely pressed in one long kiss, as thirsty lips that cleave unto
the brim of some ambrosial aphrodisiac cup. Above, the stars were
shining forth with love, whilst, down below, the whole earth seemed
to pant; the night-bird's lay, the lisping waves' low voice, and the
insect's chirp all spoke of unknown bliss. The very air, all laden
with the strong scent of roses, lilies and sweet asphodel, was like
the breath of an enamoured youth who whispered in her ear sweet words
of love. A scathing flame was kindled in her breast, and in her veins
her blood was all aglow; her shattered body seemed to melt like wax,
such was the unknown yearning which she felt upon that lovely night
in early May. With reeling, aching head and tottering steps, the
forlorn maiden slowly crept to bed, and while the hot tears trickled
down her cheeks, oblivion steeped her senses in soft sleep.

That night the wandering moon, that came peeping through the lofty
windows, saw a strange sight. Upon her round disc a broad, sallow
face could now be plainly seen, grinning good-humouredly at what she
beheld.

That night the Princess had a dream, or rather a vision. No sooner
did she shut her eyes and her senses began to wander and lose
themselves, than she saw the shaggy cur come into the room, with his
usual waddling gait, wagging his tail according to his wont. He came
up to her bed, stood upon his hind legs, put his big paws upon the
white sheets, and began to look at her just in the very same way he
had done that morning when she awoke to find herself shut up within
the battlemented walls of that lonely tower by the sea. She was
almost amused to see him stare at her so gravely, for he looked like
a wise doctor standing by some patient's bed. Until now there was
nothing very strange in this vision, but now comes the most wonderful
and interesting part, which shows how truth and fancy, the
occurrences of the day before and long-forgotten facts, are often
blended together to make up the plot of our dreams.

As the Princess was looking upon the dog's paws, she saw them change,
not all at once, but quietly undergo a slow process of
transformation. They, little by little, grew longer and shaped
themselves into fingers and broad hands. She looked up--in her sleep,
of course--and beheld the fore part of the legs gradually lengthen
themselves into two sturdy arms. The dog's shaggy head became
somewhat blurred, and in its stead a man's tawny mass of hair
appeared. In fact, after a few minutes, the last rejected suitor,
who, indeed, had always borne a strong likeness to the ugly cur that
had followed her in her exile, now appeared before her.

He was not a handsome man; no, far from handsome; still, on the
whole, it was better to have as her companion a human being than a
dog. Still, strange to say, she now liked this man on account of his
strong resemblance to the faithful dumb cur, the only friend she had
now had for years.

"You said that if I were a man you could love me," quoth he, in
something like a soft and gentle growl, sniffing at her as he spoke,
evidently unable to forbear from his long-acquired canine customs.
"Well, now, do you love me?"

The young girl--in her dream--stretched out her hand and patted the
man's dishevelled hair as she had been wont to caress the cur's
shaggy head; such is the force of habit.

"I told you that the time would come when you would lick your chops
to have me back; so you see my words, after all, have come true."

It was a churlish remark, but the young girl had got so accustomed to
the cur's strange ways, that she did not resent it; she even allowed
the man to kiss her hands, just as the mongrel had been wont to lick
them, which shows how careful we ought to be in avoiding bad habits.

It was then that the rolling, rollicking moon came peeping through
the window with a broad smile on her chubby round face, just as if
she was approving of the sight she saw.

On the morrow, when the Princess awoke, she looked for the cur
everywhere, but, strange to say, he was nowhere to be found. She
ransacked the whole house, but he had disappeared; she peered through
the barbicans, glanced down from the battlements; she mounted to the
top of the highest tower, strained her eyes, and gazed on the
surrounding country, but the dog was nowhere to be seen.

A sense of loneliness and languor came over her. It was so dreary to
be shut up in those large and lofty halls, that, at times, the very
sound of her steps made her shiver. Her very food became distasteful
to her.

From that day--being quite alone--she longed to have, at least, a
little child which she might love, and which might help her to
beguile the long hours of solitude. Every day her maternal instincts
grew stronger within her, and every evening, as she stood leaning on
the marble window-sill, she prayed the kind genii, who had taken pity
on her when she had been wandering on the moor, and almost dying of
weariness, of hunger and of thirst, to be kind to her, and bring her
a tiny little baby to take the place of her lost cur, for life
without a child was quite without an aim.

Months passed; the blossoms of the trees had fallen, the fruit had
ripened, the harvest had been gathered, the days had grown shorter,
the sea was now always lashed into fury, all the summer-birds had
flown far away, the others were all hushed; only the raucous cries of
the gulls were heard as they flew past the tower where she dwelt. The
days had grown shorter and shorter, the wind was cold, the weather
was bleak, when at last her wish was granted.

It was on a dreary, stormy night in early February; the Princess was
lying on her bed, unable to sleep, when all at once the window was
dashed open, and a huge stork flew in. It was the very stork, they
say, that, years afterwards, was so fatal to the town of Aquileja,
not very far from there. At that moment the poor Princess was so
terrified that she quite lost her senses; but when she came back to
herself, she found a tiny baby--not an hour old--lying in bed by her
side.

The wind was blowing in a most terrific way. The Quarnero, which is
always stormy, was nothing but one mass of white foam. The huge waves
dashed together, like fleecy rams butting against each other. The
billows ever rose higher, whilst the waters of the lowering clouds
overhead came pouring down upon the flood below. All the elements
seemed unchained against that lonely tower. The clouds came pouring
down in waterspouts upon it; the breakers dashed against it; the two
ravines, the big and the little Plas Kenizza--formed by the genii as
they had slid down the mountains--were now huge torrents, rolling
down with a roaring noise against the white walls of the tower,
making it look more like an enormous lighthouse on a rock than a
princely castle. The thunder never stopped rumbling; the forked
lightning darted incessantly down upon the highest pinnacles and the
whole stronghold, from its battlements down to its very base. Such a
terrific storm had never been known for ages; in fact, not since the
days when the mighty Julius had been murdered.

By the lurid light of the incessant flashes, the Princess first saw
her infant boy; and she heard its first wail amongst the deafening
din of the falling thunder-bolts. With motherly fondness, she pressed
the baby to her breast; whilst her heart was beating as if it were
about to break. What a thrill of unutterable bliss she felt that
moment; but, alas! all her joy passed into sorrow when she perceived
that her beautiful baby--beautiful, at least, to a mother's eyes--had
two dear little dog's ears.

Dogs' ears are by no means ugly--although they are occasionally
cropped. Why was it, then, that the Princess saw them with horror and
dismay?

Ears, the young mother thought, are the very worst features man
possesses. They stand out prominently and look uncouth, or they
sprawl out along the sides of the head; they are either as colourless
as if they had just been boiled, or as red as boiled lobsters.
Anyhow, she was somewhat fastidious about the shape and tint of those
appendages, so that now the sight of those huge hairy lobes was
perfectly loathsome to her, and as she looked upon them she burst
into tears. The poor forlorn baby, feeling itself snubbed, was
wailing by her side. After a little while she took up her infant; the
disgust she felt was stronger than ever; moreover, she was thoroughly
disappointed. She had begged for a baby, not for a little puppy. In
her vexation--she was a very self-willed girl, as princesses often
are--she took up the babe, got out of the bed, and in two strides she
was by the window. She would cast the little monster into the dark
night from where it had come. She herself did not want it.

As she reached the open window the two genii, her protectors, stood
before her.

"Stop, unnatural mother!" cried the taller of the two. "What are you
about to do?"

The Princess shrank back, frightened and trembling. There are a few
things at which we do not exactly like to be caught: infanticide is
one of them.

"Know," said the Afrite, in a voice like a peal of thunder, "that the
child, though with dog's ears, is not only of royal lineage, but he
is, moreover, the son of a great genius. About four hundred years ago
another Virgin gave birth to a Child, who, later on, was put to death
upon a cross because the people did not want him as their king. Well,
now, the followers of that virgin's child are our bitterest enemies;
our only hope is in your son; he will grow up to become a mighty
warrior and avenge us. He will waste the towns on which the gold
cross glistens, he will make their kings his captives, and all their
priests his slaves. The blood of the Christians will run in torrents,
even as the rain comes down the ravines to-night; his shafts will be
like the thunderbolts that have fallen on your tower to-night. His
name--which will be heard all over the world like the rumbling in the
clouds--will be The Scourge of God, and he will chastise men for
their evil deeds. Wherever he passes the grass will wither under his
feet, and the waste will be his wake. Only, that all these things
might come to pass, thou must well bear in mind that his head be
never shorn nor his beard shaven; let the tawny locks of his hair
fall about his shoulders like a lion's mane, for all his strength
will lie therein. As soon as his arm is able to wield a weapon, the
trail of blood flowing from a heifer's wound will show him where the
sword of the great god of war lies rusting in the rushes; with that
brand in his hand all men will bow before him, or fall like grass
beneath the mower's scythe. Love alone will overcome him, and a young
girl's lust will lull him into eternal sleep. He will be versed in
magic lore, and be able to read the starry skies as a written scroll.
From his very infancy he will feel a wholesome hatred for the
Nazarenes, his foes as well as ours."

Having uttered these words, the Afrite rose up like smoke and faded
away in the dark clouds.

In the meanwhile the child grew up of a superhuman strength, short of
stature but square, and with very broad shoulders; and when he was
but seven years of age the gates of the castle, hitherto always shut,
opened themselves for him. From that time he passed his days in the
dells and hollows of the mountains, chasing the wild beasts that
abounded in those gorges and in the neighbouring forests, almost
inaccessible to man. His mother saw him but little, for he only came
back to the castle when heavily laden with his prey.

He was but a youth when he organised a band of freebooters; and with
their help he sacked and plundered all the neighbouring towns and
villages, and the plains all around were strewn with the bones of the
dead. Being not only invincible, but just and generous to his men, he
soon found himself at the head of an army the like of which the world
had never seen. He destroyed the immense town of Aquileja, the
largest city of the Adriatic coast, and even burnt down the forest
which stretched from Ravenna to Trieste. Whithersoever he went the
houses fell, the temples and the theatres crumbled down, and he left
desolation behind him; so that, before he had even reached the age of
manhood, the words of the genius were fulfilled.

At that time the old King of Hungary happened to die, leaving no
heirs to ascend his throne. Anarchy desolated the land. The nobles,
who were at variance as to whom they were to elect, having heard, in
some mysterious way, that their beautiful Princess was still alive,
and that the great conqueror who was at that time plundering Rome was
her son, sent an embassy to the Princess, asking her to return to her
country, and begging her, as a boon, to accept the crown for her
child.

The Princess, whose name was Mor-Lak (the Daughter of Misfortune),
lived to a good old age. When she died she left her name to the sea
and to the channel, the waters of which bathe the town in which she
dwelt; therefore, the people who live thereabouts are, to this day,
called Morlacchi. If they have no more canine ears, their hair is
still as tawny as that of the dog-king, though all the other
Dalmatians are dark. Moreover, if you go to Starigrad you can see, as
I told you, the ruins of the Torre Vezza, the fairy tower where the
virgin's son was born; likewise the huge chasms of the Ruino and the
Sveti Berdo, the holy mountain where the Afrites slid down, in
remembrance of which the inhabitants still call them the Paklenizza
Malo and the Paklenizza Veliko, or, the Gorges of the Big and the
Little Devil.


A few days afterwards, the captain bade the young men good-bye, and
started for Fiume, whilst they, having their cargo ready, set sail
for Odessa. The weather was fine, the wind was fair; therefore, the
first voyage during which they were in sole command of the ship was a
most prosperous, though a rather rough one. For during four days they
had shipped several seas, so that they had the water up to their
waists, and, with all that, no water to drink; but these are the
incidents appertaining to a seafaring life, which sailors forget as
soon as they set foot on shore.




CHAPTER XIV

THE "KARVARINA"


Radonic had never been much of a favourite amongst his fellow
countrymen, for he was of an unsociable, surly, overbearing
disposition; still, from the day he had killed Vranic public opinion
began to change in his behalf. A man gifted with an evil eye is a
baleful being, whom everyone dreads meeting--a real curse in a town,
for a number of the daily accidents and trivial misfortunes were
ascribed to the malign influence of his visual organs. It was,
therefore, but natural that Radonic should, tacitly, be looked upon
as a kind of deliverer. Besides this unavowed feeling of relief at
having been rid of the _jettatore_, no one could feel any pity for
Vranic; for even the more indifferent could only shrug their
shoulders, and mutter to themselves, "Serve him right," for he had
only met with the fate he had deserved.

As for Radonic, he daily grew in the general esteem. There is
something manly in the life of a highwayman who, with his gun, stops
a whole caravan, or asks for bread, his dagger in his hand. It is a
reversion to the old type of prehistoric man. But, more than a
highwayman, Radonic was a _heyduk_, fighting against the Turks, and
putting his life in jeopardy at every step he made.

For a man of Radonic's frame of mind, there was something enticing in
the life he was leading; struggles and storms seemed congenial to his
nature. On board his ship he would only cast away his sullenness when
danger was approaching, and hum a tune in the midst of the tempest;
in fact, he only seemed to breathe at ease when a stiff gale was
blowing.

He arrived at Cettinje on the eve of an expedition against the Turks,
just when every man that could bear a gun was welcome, especially
when he made no claim to a share of the booty. Having reached the
confines of Montenegro, amidst those dark rocks, in that eyrie of the
brave, having the sky for his roof and his gun for a pillow, life for
the first time seemed to him worth living. He did not fear death
--nay, he almost courted it. He felt no boding cares for the morrow;
the present moment was more than enough for him. Though he lacked
entirely all the softness of disposition that renders social life
agreeable, he had in him some of the qualities of a hero, or, at
least, of a great military chief--boldness, hardihood and valour.
During the whole of his lifetime he had always tried to make himself
feared, never loved. He cared neither for the people's admiration nor
for their disdain; he only required implicit obedience to orders
given. With such a daring, unflinching character, he soon acquired a
name that spread terror whenever it was uttered; and in a skirmish
that took place a week after his arrival at Cettinje, he killed a
Turkish chieftain, cut off his head, and sent it, by a prisoner he
had taken, to the _Pasha_ of the neighbouring province, informing
this official that he would, if God granted him life, soon treat him
in the same way. A high sum was at once set upon his head, but it was
an easier thing to offer the prize than to obtain it.

Radonic would have been happy enough now, had he not been married,
or, at least, if he had been wedded to a woman who loved him, and who
would have welcomed him home after a day's, or a week's, hard
fighting--who would have mourned for him had he never come back; but,
alas! he knew that Milena hated him. Roaming in the lonely forests,
climbing on the trackless mountains, lurking amidst the dark rocks
and crags, his heart yearned for the wife he had ill-treated.

A month, and even more, had elapsed since Vranic had been murdered.
Zwillievic, his father-in-law, had been in Budua, and he had then
come back to Cettinje; but, far from bringing Milena with him, he had
left his wife there to take care of this daughter of his, who, in the
state in which she was, had never recovered from the terrible shock
she had received on that morning when she stumbled upon Vranic's
corpse.

All kinds of doubts again assailed him, and jealousy, that had always
been festering in his breast, burst out afresh, fiercer than ever; it
preyed again upon him, embittered his life. After all, was it not
possible that Milena was only shamming simply not to come to
Cettinje? Perhaps, he thought, one of the many young men who had
tried to flirt with her, was now at Budua making love to her.

He, therefore, made up his mind to brave the _pamdours_ (the Austrian
police), to meet with the anger of Vranic's brothers, just to see
Milena again, and find out how she fared, and what she was doing. He,
one evening, started from Cettinje, went down the steep road leading
to the sea-shore, got to the gates of the town at nightfall, and,
wrapped in his great-coat, with his hood pulled down over his eyes,
he crossed the town and reached his house.

He stopped at the window and looked in; Milena was nowhere to be
seen. He was seized by a dreadful foreboding--what if he had come too
late? Two women were standing near the door of the inner room,
talking. He, at first, could hardly recognise them by the glimmering
light of the oil-lamp; still, after having got nearer the window, he
saw that one of them was Mara Bellacic, and the other his
mother-in-law.

He then went to the door, tapped gently, and pushed it open; seeing
him, both the women started back astonished.

His first question was, of course, about his wife. She was a little
better, they said, but still very ill.

"She is asleep now. You can come in and see her, but take care not to
wake her," added Milena's mother.

"Yes," quoth Mara, "take care, for should she wake and see you so
unexpectedly, the shock might be fatal."

Radonic went noiselessly up to the door of the bedroom and peeped in.
Seeing Milena lying motionless on the bed, pale, thin and haggard, he
was seized with a feeling of deep pity, such as he had never felt
before in the whole of his life, and he almost cursed the memory of
his mother, for she had been the first to set him against his wife,
and had induced him to be so stern and harsh towards her.

He skulked about that night, and on the following day he sent for
Bellacic, for Markovic, and for some kinsmen and acquaintances, and
asked them to help him out of his difficulties. They at once
persuaded him to try and make it up with Vranic's relations, to pay
the _karvarina_ money, and thus hush up the whole affair.

While public opinion was favourable to him, it would be easy enough
to find several persons to speak in his behalf, to act as mediators
or umpires, and settle the price to be paid for the blood that had
been spilt.

Although the Montenegrins and the inhabitants of the Kotar, as well
as almost all Dalmatians, are--like the Corsicans--justly deemed a
proud race, amongst whom every wrong must be washed out with blood,
and although they all have a strong sense of honour, so that revenge
becomes a sacred duty, jealously transmitted from one generation to
another, still the old Biblical way of settling all litigations with
fines, and putting a price for the loss of life, is still in full
force amongst them.

In the present case Vranic's brothers were quite willing to come to a
compromise, that is to say, to give up all thoughts of vengeance,
provided, after all the due formalities had taken place, an adequate
sum were paid to them. First, they had never been fond of their
brother; secondly, they knew quite well that Radonic was fully
justified in what he had done, and that, moreover, everybody
commended him for his rash deed; thirdly, having inherited their
brother's property, the little sorrow they had felt for him the first
moment had quite passed away.

Markovic and Bellacic set themselves to work at once. Their first
care was to find six young and, possibly, handsome women, with six
babes, who, acting as friends to Radonic, would go to Vranic's
brothers and intercede for him.

It was rather a difficult task, for Radonic had few friends at Budua.
All the sailors that had been with him had not only rued the time
spent on his ship, but had been enemies to him ever afterwards. He
had married a wife from Montenegro, envied for her beauty, and not
much liked by the gentler sex. Milena had been too much admired by
men for women to take kindly to her; still, as she was now on a bed
of sickness, and all her beauty blasted, envy had changed into pity.

After no end of trouble, many promises of silk kerchiefs, yards of
stuff for dresses, or other trifles, six rather good-looking women,
and the same number of chubby babies, were mustered, and, on a day
appointed for the purpose, they were to go, together with Markovic
and Bellacic, to sue for peace.

In the meanwhile Radonic had stealthily called on a number of
persons, had invited them to drink with him, related to them the
number of Turks he had shot, and by sundry means managed to dispose
them in his favour. They, by their influence, tried to pacify the
Vranic family, and a month's truce was granted to Radonic, during
which time the preliminaries of peace were undertaken.

At last, after many consultations and no end of smooth talking, the
day for the ceremony of the _karvarina_ was fixed upon. Markovic and
Bellacic, together with the six women, carrying their babes and
followed by a crowd of spectators, went up to Vranic's house. As soon
as they got to the door, the women fell down on their knees, bowing
down their heads, and, whilst the babes began to shriek lustily, the
men called out, in a loud voice:

"Vranic, our brother in God and in St. John, we greet you! Take pity
on us, and allow us to come within your house."

Having repeated this request three times--during which the women
wailed and the babies shrieked always louder--the door at last was
opened, and the murdered man's two younger brothers appeared on the
threshold.

Though all the household had been for more than two hours on the
look-out for this embassy, still the two men put on an astonished
look, as if they had not the remotest idea as to what it all meant,
or why or wherefore the crowd had gathered round their house.

Standing on the threshold they inquired of the men what they wanted,
after which they went and, taking every woman by the hand, made her
get up; then, imprinting a kiss on every howling babe, they tried to
soothe and quiet it. This ceremony over, the women were begged to
enter the house and be seated. Once inside, Bellacic, acting as chief
intercessor, handed to the Vranics six yards of fine cloth which
Radonic had provided him with, this being one of the customary peace
offerings. Then, taking a big bottle of plum brandy from the hands of
one of his attendants, he poured out a glass and offered it to the
master of the house; the glass went round, and the house soon echoed
with the shouts of "_Zivio!_" or "Long life!" and the merriment
increased in the same ratio as the spirits in the huge bottle
decreased.

When everybody was in a boisterous good-humour--except the two
Vranics, for strong drink only rendered them peevish and
quarrelsome--the subject of the visit was broached.

Josko Vranic, the elder of the two brothers, would at first not
listen to Bellacic's request.

"What!" exclaimed he, in the flowery style of Eastern mourners, "do
you ask me to come to terms with Radonic, who cruelly murdered my
brother? Do you wish me to press to my heart the viper from whose
teeth we still smart? Do you think I have no soul, no faith? Oh! my
poor brother"--(he hated him in his lifetime)--"my poor brother,
murdered in the morning of his life, in the spring of his youth, a
star of beauty, a lion of strength and courage; had the murderer's
hand but spared him, what great things might he not have done! Oh, my
brother, my beloved brother! No; blood alone can avenge blood, and
his soul can never rest in peace till my dagger is sheathed in his
murderer's heart. No, Radonic must die; blood for blood; life for
life. I must find out the foul dog and strangle him as he strangled
my beloved brother, or I am no true Slav. Tell me where he is, if you
know, that I may tear him to pieces; for nothing can arrest my arm!"

Josko Vranic was a tailor, and a very peaceful kind of a tailor into
the bargain. It is true that, when his brain was fuddled with drink,
he was occasionally blood-thirsty; but his rage expended itself far
more in words than in deeds. For the present, he was simply trying to
act his part well, and was only repeating hackneyed phrases often
uttered in houses of mourning, at funerals, and at wakes.

All his thoughts were bent on the sum of money he might obtain for
_karvarina_, and he, therefore, thought that the more he magnified
his grief, the greater would be the sum he might ask for blood-money.

Bellacic and Markovic, as well as the other friends of both parties
gathered in the house, deemed it advisable to leave him to give
utterance to his grief. Then, when he had said his say and the
children were quieted, Radonic's friends began to persuade him to
forego all ideas of vengeance, and--after much useless talking--many
prayers from the women, and threats from the babes to begin shrieking
again, Vranic agreed that he would try and smother his grief, nay,
for their sakes, forget his resentment; therefore, after much
cogitation, he named a jury of twenty-four men to act as arbitrators
between him and the murderer, and settle the price that was to be
paid for the blood. This jury was, of course, composed of persons
that he thought hated Radonic, and who would at least demand a sum
equivalent to £200 or £300. He little knew how much his own brother
had been disliked, and the low price that was set on his life.

These twenty-four persons having been appointed, Radonic called upon
all of them, and got them to meet at Bellacic's house the day before
the ceremony of the _karvarina_; he sent there some small barrels of
choice wine, and provisions of all kinds for the feast of that day, as
well as for the banquet of the morrow, for he knew quite well that
the gall of a bitter enemy is less acrid after a good dinner, and
that an indifferent person becomes a friend when he is chewing the
cud of the dainty things you have provided for him.

As soon as supper was over, and while the _bucara_ of sweet _muscato_
wine was being handed round, Bellacic submitted the case to the
twenty-four arbiters, expatiated like a lawyer on the heinous way
Vranic had acted, how like a real snake he had crept between husband
and wife, trying to put enmity between them, and how he had succeeded
in his treachery, doing all this to seduce a poor distracted woman.

"Now," continued Bellacic, "put yourselves in Radonic's place and
tell me how you yourselves would have acted. If you have the right to
shoot the burglar who, in the dead of night, breaks into your house
to rob you of your purse, is it not natural that you should throttle
the ruffian who, under the mantle of friendship, sneaks into your
bedroom to rob you of your honour? Is the life of such a man worth
more than that of the scorpion you crush under your heel? Vranic was
neither my friend nor my enemy; therefore, I have no earthly reason
to set you against him, nor to induce you to be friendly towards
Radonic. I only ask you to be just, and to tell me the worth of the
blood he has spilt."

Bellacic stopped for a moment to see the effect of his speech on his
listeners. All seemed to approve his words no less than they did the
sweet wine of the _bucara_; then after a slight pause, he again went
on.

"Radonic may have many faults, nay, he has many; are we not all of us
full of blemishes? Still, the poor that will be fed for many days
from the crumbs of our feast will surely not say that he is a miser.
Still--withal he is lavish--one thing he is fully determined not to
do, that is to pay more for the blood he has spilt than it is really
worth.

"It is true that the heirs of the dead man are filling the whole town
with their laments; but do you think that those who mourn so loudly
would gladly welcome their brother back, nay, I ask you how many hands
would be stretched out to greet Vranic if the grave were to yawn and
give up the dead man. Who, within his innermost heart, is not really
glad to have got rid of a man who carried an evil influence with him
whithersoever he went?

"But speaking the truth in this case is almost like trying to set you
against the exaggerated claims of the late man's brothers; whilst you
all know quite well that I only wish you to act according to your
better judgment, and whatever your decision be, we shall abide by it.
You are husbands, you are Slavs; the honour of your homes, of your
children, of your wives is dear to you; therefore, I drink to your
honour with Radonic's wine."

As the _bucara_ could not go round fast enough, so glasses were
filled, and toasts were drunk. After that, Bellacic left the room, so
that the jury might discuss the matter under no restraint. Although
twenty of the men were in favour of Radonic, still four thought that
the arguments used in his favour had been so brilliant that Bellacic
had rather charmed than convinced them. They were, however, overruled
by the many, and the bumpers they swallowed in the heat of the
argument ended by convincing them, too.

"Gentlemen," said Bellacic, coming back, "I shall not ask you now if
Vranic's life was worth a herd or a single cow, a flock or a single
sheep, or even a goat, for here is Teodoroff, the _guzlar_, who is
going to enliven us with the glorious battle of Kossovo, and the
great deeds of our immortal Kraglievic."

The bard came in, and he was listened to with rapt attention during
the half-hour that his poem lasted. No one spoke, or drank, or even
moved; all remained as if spell-bound; their eyes seemed to seek for
the words as they flowed from the poet's lips. At last the _guzlar_
stopped, and after a few moments of silence, shouts of applause broke
forth. Just then Radonic came into the room, and the twenty-four men
all shook hands with him heartily, and, excited as the audience was
with the daring deeds of Marko Kraglievic, Bellacic made him relate
some of his encounters with the Turks, and show the holes in his coat
through which the bullets had passed.

"And now, Teodoroff," said Radonic, finishing the story of his
exploits, "give us something lively; I think we've had enough of
bloodshed for the whole evening."

"Yes," added Bellacic; "but let us first finish the business for
which we have been brought together, and then we can devote the
remainder of our time to pleasure."

"Yes," retorted one of the twenty-four arbitrators, "it's time the
matter was settled."

"Well, then," quoth Markovic, "what is the price of the _jettatore_'s
life?"

"As for me," said one of the younger men, "it's certainly not worth
that of a cow!"

"No, nor that of a goat!" added another.

"Well, let's be generous towards the tailor," said Bellacic,
laughing, "and settle his brother's life at the price of a huge
silver Maria Theresa dollar, eh?"

Some of the arbitrators were about to demur, but as the proposal had
come from them, they could not well gainsay it.

"Then it's settled," said Bellacic, hastening to fill the glasses;
"and now, Teodoroff, quick! give us one of your best songs; something
brisk and lively."

The _guzlar_ took up his instrument, played a few bars as a kind of
prelude, emitted a prolonged "Oh!" which ended away in a trill, and
then began the tale of


MARKO KRAGLIEVIC AND JANKO OF SEBINJE.

  Two brave and bonny knights, both bosom friends,
  Were Marko Kraglievic of deathless fame,
  And Janko of Sebinje, fair and wise.
  Both seemed to have been cast within one mould,
  For no two brothers could be more alike.
  One day, as they were chatting o'er their wine,
  Fair Janko said unto his faithful friend:
  "My wife has keener eyes than any man's,
  And sharper wits besides; our sex is dull;
  No man has ever played a trick on her."
  Then Marko, smiling, said: "Do let me try
  To match, in merry sport, my wits 'gainst hers."
  "'Tis well," quoth Janko, with a winsome smile,
  "But, still, beware of woman's subtle guile."
  Then 'twixt the friends a wager soon was laid;
  Fair Janko pledged his horse, a stallion rare,
  A fleet and milk-white steed, Kula by name,
  And with his horse he pledged his winsome wife;
  Whilst, for his wager, Marko pawned his head.
  "Now, one thing more; lend me thy clothes," said Mark,
  "Thy jewelled weapons, and thy milk-white steed."
  And Janko doffed, and Marko donned the clothes,
  Then buckled on his friend's bright scimitar.
  As soon as Janko's wife spied him from far,
  She thought it was her husband, and ran out;
  But then she stopped, for something in his mien,
  Which her quick eye perceived, proclaimed at once
  That warlike knight upon her husband's horse
  To be the outward show, the glittering garb
  And a fair mirage of the man she loved.
  Thereon within her rooms she hied in haste,
  And to her help she called her trusty maid.
  "O Kumbra, sister mine," she said to her,
  "I know not why, but Janko seems so wroth.
  Put on my finest clothes, and hie to him."
  When Marko saw the maid, he turned aside,
  And wrapped himself within his wide _kalpak_,
  Then said that he would fain be left alone.
  He thought, in sooth, that she was Janko's wife.
  A dainty meal was soon spread for the knight.
  The lady called again her trusted maid,
  And thus she spake: "My Kumbra, for this night
  Sleep in my room, nay, in my very bed.
  And, for the deed that I demand of thee,
  This purse of gold is thine. Besides this gift,
  Thou henceforth wilt be free." The maiden bowed,
  And said: "My lady's wish is law for me."
  Now Marko at his meal sat all alone,
  When he had supped he went into the room
  Where Kumbra was asleep; there he sat down,
  And passed the whole long night upon a chair,
  Close by the young girl's bed. He seemed to be
  A father watching o'er his sickly child.
  But when the gloaming shed its glimmering light,
  The knight arose; he went, with stealthy steps,
  And cut a lock from off the young girl's head,
  Which he at once hid in his breast, with care.
  Before the maiden woke he left the house,
  And rode full-speed back to his bosom friend.
  Still, ere he had alighted from his horse:
  "You've lost!" said Janko, with his winsome smile.
  "I've won!" quoth Marko, with a modest grace;
  "Here is the token that I've won my bet."
  And Janko took the golden curl, amazed.
  Just then a page, who rode his horse full-speed,
  Came panting up, and, on his bended knee,
  He handed to his lord a parchment scroll.
  The letter thus began: "O husband mine,
  Why sendest thou such pert and graceless knights,
  That take thy manor for a roadside inn,
  And in the dead of night clip Kumbra's locks?"
  Thereon, in sprightly style, the wife then wrote
  All that had taken place the day before.
  And Janko, as he read, began to laugh.
  Then, turning to his friend: "Sir Knight," quoth he,
  "Have henceforth greater care of thine own head,
  Which now, by right and law, belongs to me.
  Beware of woman, for the wisest man
  Has not the keenness of a maiden's eye.
  Come, now, I pledge thy health in foaming wine,
  For this, indeed, hath been a merry joke."


The greater part of the night was passed in drinking and in listening
to the bard's songs. Little by little sleepiness and the fumes of the
wine overpowered each single man, so that in the small hours almost
all the guests were stretched on the mats that strewed the floor,
fast asleep.

On the morrow the twenty-four men of the jury went, all in a body, to
Vranic's house. They sat down in state and listened to the tale of
the brothers' grievances, whilst they sipped very inferior
_slivovitz_ and gravely smoked their long pipes. When the tailor
ended the oft-repeated story of his grief and grievances, then they
went back to Bellacic's house, where they gave ear to all the
extenuating circumstances which Radonic brought forward to exculpate
himself. After the culprit had finished, the twenty-four men sat down
in council, and discussed again the matter which had been settled the
evening before.

A slight, but choice, repast was served to them; and Radonic took
care that no fault could be found with the wine, for he feared that
they might, in their soberer senses, change their mind and reverse
their opinion.

The dinner had been cooked to perfection, the wine was of the best,
the arguments Radonic had brought forward to clear himself were
convincing--even the four that had been wavering the evening before
were quite for him now. The majority of these men were married, and
jealous of their honour; the others were going to marry, and were
even more jealous than the married men. If Radonic could not be
absolved entirely, still he could hardly be condemned.

Thus the day passed in much useless talking and discussing, and night
came on. At sundown the guests began to pour in, and soon the house
was crowded. A deputation was then sent to the Vranic family to beg
them to come to the feast. The tailor at first demurred; but being
pressed he yielded, and came with his brother.

The evening began with the _Karva-Kolo_, or the blood-dance. It is
very like the usual _Kolo_, only the music, especially in the
beginning, is a kind of funeral march, or a dirge; soon the movement
gets brisker, until it changes into the usual _Kolo_ strain. The
orchestra that evening was a choice one; it consisted of two
_guzlas_, a _dipla_ or bag-pipe, and a _sfiraliza_ or Pan's
seven-reeded flute. Later on there was even a triangle, which kept
admirable time.

A couple of dancers began, another joined in, and so on, until the
circle widened, and then all the people who were too lazy to dance
had either to leave the room or stand close against the wall, so as
not to be in the way. Just when the dance had reached its height, and
the men were twirling the girls about as in the mazy evolutions of
the cotillon, Radonic, who had kept aloof, burst into the room. A
moment of confusion ensued, the dancers stopped, the middle of the
room was cleared, the music played again a low dirge. The guilty man
stood alone, abashed; around his neck, tied to a string, he wore the
dagger with which he might have stabbed Vranic had he not throttled
him.

As soon as he appeared two of the twenty-four arbitrators, who had
been on the look-out for him, rushed and seized him. Then, feigning a
great wrath, they dragged him towards Vranic, as if they had just
captured him and brought him to be tried.

"Drag that murderer away, cast him out of the house; or, rather,
leave him to me. Let me kill him."

"Forgive me," exclaimed Radonic.

"Down upon him!" cried Vranic.

The arbitrators thereupon made the culprit bow down so low that his
head nearly touched the floor; then all the assembly uttered a deep
sigh, or rather, a wail, craving--in the name of the Almighty and of
good St. John--forgiveness for the guilty man.

"Forgiveness," echoed Radonic, for the third time.

The dancers, who had again begun to walk in rhythmic step around the
room, forming a kind of _chassez-croisez_, stopped, and the music
died away in a low moan.

There was a moment of eager theatrical expectation. The murdered
man's brother seemed undecided as to what he had to do; at last,
after an inward struggle, he yielded to his better feelings, and
going up to Radonic, he took him by the hand, lifted him up and
kissed him on his forehead.

A sound of satisfaction, like a sigh of relief, passed through the
assembly; but then Vranic said, in a voice which he tried to render
sweet and soft:

"Listen, all of you. This man, who has hitherto been my bitterest
enemy, has now become my friend; nay, more than my friend, my very
brother, and not to me alone, but to all who were related to my
beloved brother. All shall forego every wish or idea of revenge, now
and hereafter."

Thereupon, taking a very small silver coin, he cut it in two, gave
Radonic half, and kept the other for himself, as a pledge of the
friendship he had just sworn.

When peace had been restored, and everybody had drunk to Radonic's
and Vranic's health, then the _Starescina_, or the oldest arbitrator,
whose judgment was paramount, stood up and made a speech, in which he
uttered the decision of the jury and the sentence of the _karvarina_,
that is to say, that, taking into consideration all the extenuating
circumstances under which the murder had been committed, Radonic was
to pay to Vranic the sum of a silver Maria Theresa dollar, the usual
price of a goat.

"What!" cried the tailor, in a fit of unsuppressed rage; "do you mean
to say that my brother's life was only worth that of a goat?"

A slight, subdued tittering was heard amongst the crowd; for, indeed,
it was almost ludicrous to see the little man, pale, trembling and
almost green with rage.

"No," quoth the umpire, gravely; "I never said that your brother's
life was worth that of a whole herd or of a single goat; the price
that we, arbitrators named by you, have condemned Radonic to pay is a
silver dollar. Put yourself in the murderer's place, and tell us what
you would have done."

Vranic shrugged his shoulders scornfully.

"We do not appeal to you alone, but to any man of honour, to any Iugo
Slav, to any husband of the Kotar. What would he have done to a man
who, pretending to be his friend, came by stealth, in the middle of
the night, into his home to----"

"Then," cried Vranic, in that shrill, womanish voice peculiar to all
his family, "it is not my brother that ought to have been killed. Was
he to blame if he was enticed----"

"What do you mean?" cried Radonic, clasping the haft of the dagger,
which he ought to have given up to Vranic.

"Silence!" said the umpire: "you forget that you have promised to
love----"

"If you intend to speak of Milena," said Bellacic, interrupting the
judge, "you must remember that the evening upon which your brother
was killed she was spending the evening----"

"At your house? No!" said Vranic, with a scornful laugh, shrugging
his shoulders again.

"Come, come," said one of the jury; "let's settle the _karvarina_."

"Besides," added another arbitrator, ingenuously, "Radonic has been
put to the expense of more than fifty goats. Until now, no man has
ever----"

"Oh, I see!" interrupted the tailor, with a withering sneer; "he has
bribed the few friends my poor brother had, so now even those have
turned against him."

Oaths, curses, threats were uttered by the twenty-four men, and the
younger and more hasty ones instinctively sought the handles of their
daggers.

"Gentlemen," said Bellacic, "supper is ready; the two men have sworn
to be friends----"

"I've sworn nothing at all," muttered the tailor, between his teeth.

"Let us sit down," continued the master of the house, "and try to
forget our present quarrels; we'll surely come to a better
understanding when cakes flowing with honey and sweet wine are
brought on the table."

They now carried in for the feast several low, stool-like tables,
serving both as boards and dishes. On each one there was a whole
roasted lamb, resting on a bed of rice. Every guest took out his
dagger and carved for himself the piece he liked best or the one he
could easiest reach, and which he gnawed, holding the bone as a
handle, if there was one, or using the flat, pancake-like bread--the
_chupatti_ of the Indians, the flap-jacks of the Turks--as plates.
Soon the wooden _bukaras_ were handed around, and then all ill-humour
was drowned in the heady wine of the rich Dalmatian soil. After the
lambs and rice, big sirloins of beef and huge tunny-fish followed in
succession, then game, and lastly, pastry and fruit.

After more than two hours of eating and drinking, with interludes of
singing and shouting, the meal at last came to an end. The gentlemen
of the jury, whose brains had been more or less muddled from the day
before, were now, almost without any exception, quite drunk. As for
the guests, some were jovial and boisterous, others tender and
sentimental. Radonic's face was saturnine; Markovic, who was always
loquacious, and who spoke in Italian when drunk, was making a long
speech that had never had a beginning and did not seem to come to an
end; and the worst of it was that, during the whole time, he clasped
tightly one of the _bukaras_, and would not relinquish his hold of
it.

As for Vranic and his younger brother, they had both sunk down on the
floor sulky and silent. The more they ate and drank, the more
weazened and wretched they looked, and the expression of malice on
their angry faces deepened their wrinkles into a fiendish scowl.

"I think," said the elder brother, "it is time all this was over, and
that we should be going."

"Going?" exclaimed all the guests who heard it. "And where do you
want to go?"

"Oh, if he isn't comfortable, let him go!" said one of the
arbitrators. "I'm sure I don't want to detain him; his face isn't so
pleasant to look at that we should beg him to stay--no, nor his
company either."

"Oh, I daresay you would like to get rid of me, all of you!"

"Well, then, shall we wind up this business?" said the judge of the
_karvarina_, putting his hand on Radonic's shoulder.

"I am quite ready," said he.

Thereupon he drew forth his leather purse and took out several Maria
Theresa dollars.

"Shall we make it five instead of one?" he asked, spreading out the
new and shining coins on his broad palm. "Now, tell me, tailor, if I
am niggardly with my money?" he added, handing the sum to Vranic.

The tailor seized the dollars and clenched his fist; then, with a
scowl:

"I don't want any of your charity," he hissed out in a shrill treble.
"Five are almost worth six goats, and my brother is worth but one.
Here, take your money back; distribute it among the arbitrators, to
whom you have been so generous. No, _heyduk_, you are not niggardly;
but, then, what are a few dollars to you? a shot of your gun and your
purse is full. Thanks all the same, I only want my due. No robber's
charity for me." And with these words he flung the five dollars in
Radonic's face.

The sharp edge of one of the coins struck Radonic on the corner of
the eye, just under the brow, and the blood trickled down. All his
drunkenness vanished, his gloomy look took a fierce expression, and
with a bound he was about to seize his antagonist by the throat and
strangle him as he had done his brother; but Vranic, who was on his
guard, lifted up the knife he had received from the murderer a few
hours before, and quick as lightning struck him a blow on his breast.

"This is my _karvarina_," said he; "tooth for tooth, eye for eye,
blood for blood."

The blow had been aimed at Radonic's heart, but he parried it and
received a deep gash in the fore-part of his arm.

A scuffle at once ensued; some of the less drunken men threw
themselves on Vranic, others on Radonic.

"Sneak, traitor, coward!" shouted the chief arbitrator, striking
Vranic in the face and almost knocking him down; "how dare you do
such a thing after having begged us to settle the _karvarina_ for
you?"

"And you've settled it nicely, indeed; gorged with his meat, drunk
with his wine, and your purses filled with his money."

"Liar!" shouted the men of the jury.

"Out of my house, you scorpion, and never cross its threshold again."

"I go, and I'm only too glad to be rid of you all;--but as for you,"
said Vranic to Bellacic, "had it not been for you, all this would not
have happened."

"What have I to do with it?"

"Did you not come to beg me to make it up? But I suppose you were
anxious to have the whole affair hushed up as quickly as possible."

"Fool!" answered Bellacic.

"Oh, Milena is not always at your house for nothing!"

"What did he say?" asked Radonic, trying to break away from the hands
of the men who were holding him, and from Mara Bellacic, who was
bandaging up his wound.

"What do you care what he said?" replied Bellacic; "his slander only
falls back upon himself, just as if he were spitting in the wind; it
can harm neither you nor Milena."

"Oh, we shall meet again!" cried Radonic.

"We shall certainly meet, if ever you escape the Turkish gallows, or
the Austrian prisons."

And as he uttered these last words, he disappeared in the darkness of
the road.




CHAPTER XV

A COWARD'S VENGEANCE


When the _pobratim_ returned to Budua they found the whole town
divided into two camps, and, consequently, in a state of open war.
Since the evening of the _karvarina_ two parties had formed
themselves, the Vranites and the Radonites. The first, indeed, were
few, and did not consist of friends of Vranic, but simply of people
who had a grudge, not only against Radonic, but against Bellacic and
the twenty-four men of the jury, who were accused of peculation. On
the whole, public opinion was bitter against the tailor, for, after
having made peace with his enemy, he had tried to murder him; then
--as if this had not been enough--he had gone on the morrow and given
warning to the police that Radonic, who had cowardly murdered his
brother, had returned to Budua, and was walking about the streets
unpunished; moreover, that the _heyduk_ had threatened to murder him,
so he came to appeal for protection.

This happened when Budua had just been incorporated with the Austrian
empire, and the people, jealous of their customs, looked upon the
protection of the government as an officious intermeddling with their
own private affairs, and strongly resented their being treated as
children unable to act for themselves.

Although a few crimes had been left unpunished, simply not to rouse
at once the general feeling against its present masters, still the
new jurisdiction was bent upon putting a stop to the practice of the
_karvarina_; and to make this primitive country understand that,
under a civilised form of government, people paid taxes to be
protected by wise and just laws; therefore, it was the duty of a
well-regulated police to discover and punish equitably all offences
done to any particular man.

In the present case, where notice was brought to the police of facts
that had happened, and aid was requested, steps had to be taken to
secure the person of the offender, and, therefore, to have Radonic
arrested at once for manslaughter.

Friends, however, came at once to inform Radonic of what had taken
place, advising him to take flight, and put at once the border
mountains of Montenegro between himself and the Austrian police.

The officials gave themselves and, what was far worse, everybody else
no end of trouble and annoyance with Vranic's case. They went about
arresting wrong persons, as a well-regulated police sometimes does,
and then, after much bother and many cross-examinations, everyone was
set free, and the whole affair dropped.

Milena, who was slowly recovering from her long illness, was the
first to be summoned to answer about her husband's crime. Bellacic
was after that accused of sheltering the murderer, and threatened
with fines, confiscation, imprisonment and other such penalties;
then he was also set free. The twenty-four men of the jury were next
summoned; but, as they had only acted as peacemakers on behalf of
Vranic, they, too, were reprimanded, and then sent about their
business.

After this Vranic's partisans dwindled every day, till at last he
found himself shunned by everyone. Even his customers began to
forsake him, and to have their clothes made by a more fortunate
competitor. At last he could not go out in the streets without having
the children scream out after him:

"Spy! spy! Austrian spy!"

The clergy belonging to the Orthodox faith looked upon the new law
against the _karvarina_ as an encroachment on their privileges. A
tithe of the price of blood-money always went to the Church; sundry
candles had to be lighted to propitiate, not God or Christ, but some
of the lower deities and mediators of the Christian creed. The law,
which took from them all interference in temporal matters, was a blow
to their authority and to their purses. Even if they were not begged
to act as arbitrators, they were usually invited as guests to the
feast, so that some pickings and perquisites were always to be got.

Vranic obtained no satisfaction from the police, to whom he had
applied; he was only treated as a cur by the whole population, was
nearly excommunicated by the Church, and looked upon as an apostate
from the saintly customs of the Iugo Slavs.

Taunted by his own family with having made a muddle of the whole
affair, treated with scornful disdain by friends and foes, the poor
tailor, who had never been very good-tempered, had got to look upon
all mankind as his enemies.

Thus it happened, one day, that Bellacic was at the coffee-house with
Markovic and some other friends, when Vranic came in to get shaved.

"What! do you shear poodles and curs?" he asked.

The loungers began to laugh. Vranic, whose face was being lathered,
ground his teeth and grunted.

"I say, has he a medal round his neck?"

"What! do they give a medal to spies?" asked one of the men.

"No," quoth Bellacic; "but according to their law, no dog is allowed
to go about without a medal, which proves that he has paid his
taxes."

"Keep quiet," said the barber and _kafedgee_, "or I'll cut you!"

"Do government dogs also pay taxes?" said another man, smiling.

"Ask the cur! he'll tell you," replied Bellacic.

"Mind, Bellacic!" squeaked out Vranic, who was now shaved; "curs have
teeth!"

"To grind, or to grin with?"

"By St. George and St. Elias! I'll be revenged on all of you, and you
the very first!" and livid with rage, grinding his teeth, shaking his
fist, Vranic left the coffee-house, followed by the laughter of the
by-standers, and the barking of the boys outside.

"He means mischief!" quoth the _kafedgee_.

"When did he not mean mischief," replied Markovic, "or his brother
either?"

"Don't speak of his brother."

"Why, he's dead and buried."

"The less you speak of some dead people, the better," and the
_kafedgee_ crossed himself.

"He's a sly fox," said one of the men waiting to be shaved.

"Pooh! foxes are sometimes taken in by an old goose, as the story
tells us."

Everybody knew the old story, but, as the barber was bent upon
telling it, his customers were obliged to listen.


Once upon a time, there was a little silver-grey hen, that got into
such an ungovernable fit of sulks, that she left the pleasant
poultry-yard where she had been born and bred, and escaped on to the
highway by a gap in the hedge. The reason of her ill-humour was that
she had seen her lord and master flirt with a moulting old hatching
hen, and she had felt ruffled at his behaviour.

"Surely, the only advantage that old hen has over me," she
soliloquised, "is a greater experience of life. If I can but see a
little more of the world, I, too, might be able to discuss
philosophical topics with my husband, instead of cackling noisily
over a new-laid egg. It is an undeniable fact that home-keeping hens
have only homely wits, and cocks are only hen-pecked by hens of
loftier minds than themselves, and not by such common-place females
who think that life has no other aim than that of laying a fresh egg
every day."

On the other side of the hedge she met a large turkey strutting
gravely about, spreading out his tail, making sundry gurgling noises
in his throat, puffing and swelling himself in an apoplectic way,
until he got of a bluish, livid hue about his eyes, whilst his gills
grew purple.

Surely, thought the little grey hen, that turkey must be a doctor of
divinity who knows the aim of life; every word that falls from his
beak must be a priceless pearl.

The little silver-grey hen looked at him with the corner of her eye,
just as coquettish ladies are apt to do when they look at you over
the corners of their fans.

"I say, Mrs. Henny, whither are you bound, all alone?" said the old
turkey, with his round eyes.

"I am bent upon seeing a little of the world and improving my mind,"
said the little hen.

"A most laudable intention," said the turkey; "and if you'll permit
me, young madam, I myself will accompany, or rather, escort you in
this journey, tour, or excursion of yours. And if the little
experience I have acquired can be of some slight use to you----"

"How awfully good of you!" said the gushing little hen. "Why, really,
it would be too delightful!"

As they went on their way the old turkey at once informed the little
hen that he was a professor of the Dovecot University, and he at once
began to expatiate learnedly about adjectives, compounds, anomalous
verbs, suffixes and prefixes, of objective cases and other such
interesting topics. She listened to him for some time, although she
could not catch the drift of his speech. At last she came to the
conclusion that all this must be transcendental philosophy, so she
repeated mechanically to herself all the grave words he spouted, and
of the whole lecture she just made out a charming little phrase, with
which she thought she would crush her husband some day or other. It
was: "Don't run away with the idea that I'm anomalous enough to be
governed by objective cases, for, after all, what's a husband but a
prefix?"

"And are you married?" asked the little hen, as soon as the turkey
had stopped to take breath.

"I am," said the old turkey, with a sigh, "and although I have a
dozen wives, I must say I haven't yet found one sympathetic listener
amongst them."

"Are they worldly-minded?" asked she.

"They are frivolous, they think that the aim of life is laying eggs."

"Pooh!" said the little hen, scornfully.

As they went along, they met a gander, which looked at them from over
a palisade.

"I say, where are you two off to?"

"We are bent upon seeing the world and improving our minds."

"How delightful. Now tell me, would it be intruding if I joined your
party? I know they say: Two are company, and three are not, still----"

"They also say: The more the merrier," quoth the little hen.

The turkey blushed purple, but he managed to keep his temper.

They went on together, and the gander, who was a great botanist, told
them the name of every plant they came across; and then he spoke very
learnedly with the turkey about Greek roots and Romance particles.

A little farther on they met a charming little drake with a killing
curled feather in his tail, quite an _accroche-cœur_, and the little
hen ogled him and scratched the earth so prettily with her feet that
at last she attracted the drake's notice.

After some cackling the little drake joined the tourists,
notwithstanding the gurgling of the turkey and the hissing of the
gander.

As they went on, they of course spoke of matrimony; the gander
informed them that he was a bachelor, and the little drake added that
he was an apostle of free love, at which the little hen blushed, the
turkey puffed himself up until he nearly burst, and the gander looked
grave. The worst of it was, that the little drake insisted on
discussing his theories and trying to make proselytes.

They were so intently attending to the little drake's wild theories,
that they hardly perceived a hare standing on his hind legs, with his
ears pricked up, listening to and looking at them.

The hare, having heard that they were globe-trotters, bent upon
seeing the world and improving their minds, joined their party at
once; they even, later on, took with them a tortoise and a hedgehog.
At nightfall, they arrived in a dense forest, where they found a
large hollow tree, in the trunk of which they all took shelter.

The little hen ensconced herself in a comfortable corner, and the
drake nestled close by her; the hare lay at her feet, and the gander
and turkey on either side. The tortoise and the hedgehog huddled
themselves up and blocked up the opening, keeping watch lest harm
should befall them.

They passed the greater part of the night awake, telling each other
stories; and as it was in the dark, the tales they told were such as
could not well be repeated in the broad daylight.

Soon, however, the laughter was more subdued; the chuckling even
stopped. Sundry other noises instead were heard; then the drowsy
voices of the story-tellers ceased; they had all fallen fast asleep.

Just then, while the night wind was shivering through the boughs, and
the moon was silvering the boles of the ash-trees, or changing into
diamonds the drops of dew in the buttercups and bluebells, a young
vixen invited a shaggy wolf to come and have supper with her.

"This," she said, stopping before the hollow tree, "is my larder. You
must take pot-luck, for I'm sure I don't know what there is in it.
Still, it is seldom empty."

The wolf tried to poke his nose in, but he was stopped by the
tortoise.

"They have rolled a stone at the door," said the wolf.

"So they have; but we can cast it aside," quoth the vixen.

They tried to push the tortoise aside; but he clung to the sides of
the tree with his claws, so that it was impossible to remove him.

"Let's get over the stone," said the wolf.

They did their best to get over the tortoise, but they were met by
the hedgehog.

"They've blocked up the place with brambles and thorns," said the
vixen.

"So they have," replied the wolf.

"What's to be done?" asked the one.

"What's to be done?" replied the other.

"I hear rascally robbers rummaging around," gurgled the turkey-cock,
in a deep, low tone.

"Did you hear that?" asked the wolf.

"Yes," said the vixen, rather uneasy.

"We'll catch them, we'll catch them," cackled the hen.

"For we are six, we are six," echoed the drake.

"There are six of them," said the vixen.

"And we are only two," retorted the wolf.

"So they'll catch us," added the vixen.

"Nice place your larder is," snarled the wolf.

"I'm afraid the police have got into it," stammered the vixen.

"Hiss, hiss, hiss!" uttered the gander, from within.

"That's the scratch of a match," said the vixen.

"If they see us we are lost," answered the wolf.

Just then the turkey, who had puffed himself up to his utmost,
exploded with a loud puff.

"Firearms," whispered the wolf.

"It's either a mine or a bomb," quoth the vixen.

"Dynamite," faltered the wolf.

They did not wait to hear anything else; but, in their terror, they
turned on their heels and scampered off as fast as their legs could
carry them. In a twinkling they were both out of sight.

The travellers in the hollow tree laughed heartily; then they
returned to their corners and went off to sleep. On the morrow, at
daybreak, they resumed their wanderings, and I daresay they are
travelling still, for it takes a long time to go round the world.


A few days afterwards Bellacic went to visit one of his vineyards.
This, of all his land, was his pride and his boast. He had, besides,
spent much money on it, for all the vines had been brought from Asia
Minor, and the grapes were of a quality far superior to those which
grew all around. The present crop was already promising to be a very
fair one.

On reaching the first vines, Bellacic was surprised to perceive that
all the leaves were limp, withering or dry. The next vines were even
in a worse condition. He walked on, and, to his horror, he perceived
that the whole of his vineyard was seared and blasted, as if warm
summer had all at once changed into cold, bleak, frosty winter. Every
stem had been cut down to the very roots. Gloomy and disconsolate he
walked about, with head bent down, kicking every vine as he went on;
all, all were fit for firewood now. It was not only a heavy loss of
money, it was something worse. All his hopes, his pride, seemed to be
crushed, humbled by it. He had loved this vineyard almost as much as
his wife or his son, and now it was obliterated from the surface of
the earth.

Had it been the work of Nature or the will of God, he would have
bowed his head humbly, and said: "Thy will be done"; but he was
exasperated to think that this had all been the work of a man--the
vengeance of a coward--a craven-hearted rascal that, after all, he
had never harmed, for this could be only Vranic's doing. In his
passion he felt that if he had held the dastard at that moment, he
would have crushed him under his feet like a reptile.

As Bellacic slowly arrived at the other end of the vineyard, he felt
that just then he could not retrace his steps and cross the whole of
his withering vines once more. He stopped there for a few moments,
and looked around; then it seemed to him as if he had seen a man
crouch down and disappear behind the bushes.

Could it be Vranic coming to gloat over him and enjoy his revenge? or
was it not an image of his over-heated imagination?

He stood stock-still for a while, but nothing moved. He went slowly
on, and then he heard a slight rustling noise. He advanced, crouching
like a cat or a tiger, with fixed, dilated eyes and pricked-up ears.
He saw the bushes move, he heard the sound of footsteps; then he saw
the figure of a man bending low and running almost on all fours, so
as not to be seen.

It was Vranic; now he could be clearly recognised. Bellacic ran after
him; Vranic ran still faster. All at once he caught his foot on a
root that had shot through the earth; he stumbled and fell down
heavily. As he rose, Bellacic came up to him.

"Villain, scoundrel, murderer! is it you who----? Yes, it could be no
other dog than you! Moreover, you wanted to see how they looked."

"What?" said Vranic, ghastly pale, trembling from head to foot.
"What?--I really don't know what you mean."

"Do you say that you haven't cut down my vines?"

"_I_ cut your vines? What vines?"

"Have, at least, the courage of your cowardly deeds, you sneak."

Thereupon Bellacic gave him a blow which made him reel. Vranic began
to howl, and to take all the saints as witnesses of his innocence.

"Stop your lies, or I'll pluck that vile tongue of yours out of your
mouth, and cast it in your face!"

Vranic thereupon took out his knife and tried to stab Bellacic. The
two men fought.

"Is that the knife with which you cut my vines?"

"No; I kept it for you," replied Vranic, aiming a deadly blow at his
adversary.

Bellacic parried the blow, and in the scuffle which ensued Vranic
dropped his knife as his antagonist overpowered him and knocked him
down.

Although Vranic was struggling with all his might, he was no match
for Bellacic, who pinned him down and managed to pick up the dagger.

"You have cut down all my vines; now you yourself 'll have a taste of
your own knife."

"Mercy! mercy! Do not kill me!"

"No, no; I'll not kill you," said Bellacic, kneeling down upon him;
then, bending over him and catching hold of his right ear, he, with a
quick, firm hand, severed it at a stroke.

Vranic was howling loud enough to be heard miles off.

"Now for the other," said Bellacic. "I'll nail them to a post in my
vineyard as a scarecrow for future vermin of your kind."

Vranic, however, wriggled, and, with an effort, managed to rise; then
he took to his heels, holding his bleeding head and yelling with pain
and fear.

Bellacic made no attempt to stop him, or cut off his other ear, as he
had threatened to do; he quietly walked away, perfectly satisfied
with the punishment he had inflicted on the scoundrel. Instead of
returning home he thought it more prudent to go and spend the night
in the neighbouring convent, and thus avoid any conflict with the
police.

Bellacic, who had ever been generous to the monks, was now welcomed
by the brotherhood; the best wine was brought forth and a lay servant
was at once despatched to town to find out what Vranic had done, and,
on the morrow, one of the friars themselves went to reconnoitre and
to inform Mara that her husband was safe and in perfect health.

Upon that very day the _Spera in Dio_ cast anchor in the harbour of
Budua, and Uros reached home just when the police had come to arrest
his father for having cut off Vranic's ear; and the confusion that
ensued can hardly be described.

For the sake of doing their duty, the guards, who were Buduans, made
a pretence of looking for Bellacic; they knew very well that he would
not be silly enough to wait till they came to arrest him.

Mara, like all women in such an emergency, was thoroughly upset to
see the police in her house. She threw her arms round her son, and
begged him to keep quiet, and not to interfere in the matter, lest
their new masters' wrath should be visited upon him. Anyhow, as the
police tried to make themselves as little obnoxious as they possibly
could, and as they went through their duties with as much grace, and
as little zeal, as possible, Uros did not interfere to prevent them
from discharging their unpleasant task.

The poor mother wept for joy at seeing her son, and for grief at the
thought that her husband was an exile from his house at his time of
life; but just then the good friar came in and brought news from
Bellacic, and comforted the family, saying that in a very few days
the whole affair would be quieted, and their guest would be able to
come back home.

"And will he remain with you all that time?" asked Mara.

"We should be very pleased to have him," replied the friar; "but for
his sake and ours, it were better for him to cross the mountain and
remain at Cettinje till the storm has blown over."

"And when does he start?"

"This evening."

"May I come and see him before he goes?" asked Mara.

"Certainly, and if you wish to go at once, I'll wait here a little
while longer, just not to awaken suspicion."

Mara, therefore, went off at once, and the friar followed her a
quarter of an hour afterwards.

Uros, on seeing Milena, felt as if he were suffocating; his heart
began to beat violently, and then it seemed to stop. He, for a
moment, gasped for breath. She, too, only recovering from her
illness, felt faint at seeing him.

Uros found her looking handsomer and younger than before; her
complexion was so pale, her skin so transparent, that her eyes not
only looked much larger, but bluer and more luminous than ever. To
Uros they seemed rather like the eyes of an angel than those of a
woman. Her fingers were so long and thin; her hand was of a lily
whiteness, as it nestled in Uros' brown, brawny and sunburnt one.

All her sprightliness was gone; the roguish smile had vanished from
her lips. Not only her features, but her voice had also changed; it
was now so pure, so weak, so silvery in its sound; so veiled withal,
like a voice coming from afar and not from the person sitting by you.
It was as painful to hear as if it had been a voice from beyond the
grave, and it sent a pang to the young man's heart.

As he put his arm around her frail waist, the tears rose to his eyes,
and he could hardly find the words, or utter them softly enough, to
say to her: "Milena, _srce moja_," (my heart) "do you still love me?"

"Hush, Uros!" said she, shuddering; "never speak to me of love
again."

"Milena!"

"Yes," continued she, sighing, "my sin has found me out. Had I
behaved as I should have done, so many people would not have come to
grief. Vranic might still have been alive."

"But you never gave him any encouragement, did you?" said Uros,
misunderstanding her meaning.

The tears started to her eyes. Weak as she was, she felt everything
acutely.

"Do you think I could have done such a thing? And yet you are right;
I used to be so light once; but that seems to me so long, so very
long ago. But I have grown old since then, terribly old; I have
suffered so much."

"I was wrong, dearest; forgive me. I remember how that fiend
persecuted you. I was near sending him to hell myself, and it was a
pity I didn't; anyhow, I was so glad when I heard that Radonic
had----"

"Hush! I was the cause of that man's death. Through it my husband
became an outcast, and now your father has been obliged to flee from
his home----"

"How can you blame yourself for all these things? It is only because
you have been so ill and weak that you have got such fancies into
your head; but now that I am here, and you know how much I love
you----"

She shuddered spasmodically, and a look of intense pain and
wretchedness came over her features.

"Never speak of love any more, unless you wish to kill me."

Uros looked at her astonished.

"I know that in all this I am entirely to blame; but if a woman can
atone for her sin by suffering, I think----"

"Then you do not love me any more?" asked Uros, dejectedly.

She looked up into his eyes, and, in that deep and earnest glance of
hers, she seemed to give up her soul to him. If months ago she had
loved him with all the levity of a reckless child, now she loved him
with all the pathos of a woman.

Uros caught her in his arms and pressed her to his heart. She leaned
her head on his shoulder, as if unable to keep it upright; an ashy
paleness spread itself over all her features, her very lips lost all
their colour, her eyelids drooped; she had fainted. Uros, terrified,
thought she was dying, nay, dead.

"Milena, my love, my angel, speak to me, for Heaven's sake!" he
cried.

After a few moments, however, she slowly began to recover, and then
burst into a hysteric fit of sobbing.

When at last she came again to her senses, she begged Uros never to
speak to her of love, as that would be her death.

"Besides," added she, "now that I am better, I shall return to my
parents, for I can never go back to that dreadful house of mine. I
could never cross its threshold again."

Uros was dismayed. He had been looking forward to his return with
such joy, and now that he was back, the woman he worshipped was about
to flee from him.

"Do not look so gloomy," said she, trying to cheer him; "remember
that----"

Her faltering, weak voice died in her throat; she could not bring
herself to finish her phrase.

"What?" asked Uros, below his breath.

"That I'm another man's wife."

"Oh, Milena! don't say such horrible things; it's almost like
blasphemy."

"And still it's true; besides----"

Her voice, which had become steady, broke down again.

"Besides what?" said Uros, after a moment's pause, leaving her time
to breathe.

"You'll be a husband yourself, some day," she added in an undertone.

"Never," burst forth Uros, fiercely, "unless I am your husband."

"Hush!" said she, shuddering with fear and crossing herself. "Your
father wishes you to marry, and--I wish it too," she added in a
whisper.

"No, you don't, Milena; that's a lie," he replied, passionately.
"Could you swear it on the holy Cross?"

"Yes, Uros, if it's for your good, I wish it, too. You know that
I----"

Her pale face grew of deep red hue; even her hands flushed as the
blood rushed impetuously upwards.

"Well?" asked Uros, anxiously.

"That I love you far more than I do myself."

He clasped her in his arms tenderly, and kissed her shoulders, not
daring to kiss her lips.

"Would it be right for me to marry a young girl whom I do not love,
when all my soul is yours?"

"Still," said she, shuddering, "our love is a sin before God and
man."

"Why did you not tell me so when I first knew you? Then, perhaps, I
might not have loved you."

Milena's head sank down on her bosom, her eyes filled with tears,
there was a low sound in her throat. Then, in a voice choking with
sobs, she said:

"You are right, Uros; I was to blame, very much to blame. I was as
thoughtless as a child; in fact, I was a child, and I only wanted to
be amused. But since then I have grown so old. Lying ill in bed,
almost dying, I was obliged to think of all the foolish things I said
and did, so----"

"So you do not love me any more," he said, abruptly; but seeing the
look of sorrow which shadowed Milena's face, he added: "My heart,
forgive me; it is only my love for you that makes me so peevish. When
you ask me to forget you----"

"And still you must try and do so. The young girl your father has
chosen for you----"

"Loves some one else," interrupted Uros.

Milena looked up with an expression of joy she vainly tried to
control. The young man thereupon told her the mistake which had taken
place, and all that had happened the last time he and his friend had
been at Zara.

"Giulianic has taken a solemn oath that I shall never marry his
daughter, and as Milenko is in love with her, I hope my father will
release his friend from the promise----"

Just then the door opened, and Mara came in.

"Well, mother," said Uros, "what news do you bring to us?"

"Your father is safe, my boy. He left this morning for Montenegro; by
this time he must have crossed the border. On the whole, the police
tried to look for him where they knew they could not find him. He
left word that he wishes to see you very much, and begs you to go up
to Cettinje as soon as you can."

"I'll go and see Milenko, so that he may take sole charge of the
ship, and then I'll start this very evening."

"No, child, there is no such hurry! Rest to-night; you can leave
to-morrow, or the day after."

Having seen Milenko, and entrusted the ship for a few days entirely
to him, Uros started early on the next morning for the black
mountains.

Mara could hardly tear herself away from him. She had been waiting so
eagerly for his arrival, and now, when he had come home, she was
obliged to part from him.

"Do not stay there too long, for then you will only return to start,
and I'll have scarcely seen you."

"No, I'll only stay there one or two days, no more."

"And then I hope you'll not mix up in any quarrel. I'm so sorry
you've come back just now."

"Come, mother," said Uros, smiling pleasantly as he stood on the
doorstep before starting, "what harm can befall me? I haven't mixed
up in any of the _karvarina_ business, nor am I running away as an
outlaw; if we have some enemies they are all here, not there. I
suppose I'll find father at Zwillievic's or some other friend's
house. Your fears are quite unfounded, are they not?"

All Uros said was quite true, but still his mother refused to be
comforted. As he bade Milena good-bye, "Remember!" she whispered to
him, and she slipped back into her room.

Did she wish him to remember that she was Radonic's wife?

Uros thereupon started with a heavy heart; everybody seemed to have
changed since he had left Budua.

The early morning was grey and cloudy, and although Uros was very
fond of his father, and anxious to see him, still he was loth to
leave his home.

At the town gate Uros met Milenko, who had come to walk part of the
way with him. Uros, who was thinking of his mother and especially of
Milena, had quite forgotten his bosom friend. Seeing him so
unexpectedly, his heart expanded with a sudden movement of joy, and
he felt at that moment as if they had met after having been parted
for ages.

"Well?" asked Milenko, as they walked along. "Do you remember when we
first started from Budua, we thought that we'd have reached the
height of happiness the day we'd sail on our own ship?"

"I remember."

"The ship is almost our own, and happiness is farther off than ever."

"Wait till we come back next voyage, and things might look quite
different then."

The sun just then began to dawn; the dark and frowning mountains lost
all their grimness as a pale golden halo lighted up their tops;
drowsy nature seemed to awake with a smile, and looked like a rosy
infant does when, on opening its eyes, it sees its mother's beaming
face.

The two friends walked on. Uros spoke of the woman he loved, and
Milenko listened with a lover's sympathy.

Milenko walked with his friend for about two hours; then he bade Uros
good-bye, promising him to go at once to his mother and Milena, and
tell them how he was faring.

Uros began to climb up the rugged path leading towards Montenegro.
After a quarter of an hour, the two friends stopped, shouted "Ahoy!"
to each other, waved their hands and then resumed their walk. Towards
nightfall Uros reached the village where Zwillievic lived.

With a beating heart, sore feet and aching calves he trudged on
towards the house, which, as he hoped, was to be the goal of his
journey. As he pushed the door open he shuddered, thinking that
instead of his father he might happen to find Milena's husband.

The apartment into which he entered was a large and rather low room,
serving as a kitchen, a parlour, a dining and a sleeping room. It
was, in fact, the only room of the house. Its walls were cleanly
whitewashed; not a speck of dust could be seen anywhere, nor a cobweb
amidst the rafters in the ceiling. The inner part was used for
sleeping purposes, for against the walls on either side there were
two huge beds. By the beds, two boxes--one of plain deal, like the
chests used by sailors; the other, made of cypress-wood and quaintly
carved--contained the family linen. In the middle of the room stood a
rough, massive table, darkened and polished by daily use, and some
three-legged stools around it. The walls were decorated with the real
wealth of the family--weapons of every shape, age and kind. Short
guns, the butt ends of which were all inlaid with mother-of-pearl;
long carbines with silver incrustations; modern rifles and
fowling-pieces; swords, scimitars, daggers, yatagans; pistols and
blunderbusses with niello and filigree silver-work, gemmed like
jewels or church ornaments. These trophies were heirlooms of
centuries. Over one of the beds there was a silver- and gold-plated
Byzantine icon, over the other a hideous German print of St. George.
The Prince of Cappadocia, who was killing a grass-green dragon, wore
for the occasion a yellow mantle, a red doublet and blue tights.
Under each of these images there was a fount of holy water and a
little oil-lamp.

As Uros stepped in, Milena's mother, who was standing by the hearth,
preparing the supper, turned round to see who had just come in. She
looked at him, but as he evidently was a stranger to her, she came up
a step or two towards him.

"Good evening, _domacica_," for she was not only the lady of the
house, but the wife of the head of the family and the chief of the
clan, or tribe.

"Good evening, _gospod_," said she, hesitatingly.

"You do not know me, I think. I am a kind of cousin of yours, Uros
Bellacic."

"What, is it you, my boy? I might have known you by your likeness to
your mother; but when I saw you last you were only a little child,
and now you are quite a grown-up man," added she, looking at him with
motherly fondness. "Have you walked all the way from Budua?"

"Yes, I left home this morning."

"Then you must be tired. Come and sit down, my boy."

"I am rather tired; you see, we sailors are not accustomed to walk
much. But tell me first, have you seen my father? Is he staying with
you?"

"Yes, he came yesterday. He is out just now, but he'll soon be back
with Zwillievic. Sit down and rest," said she, "and let me give you
some water to wash, for you must be travel-sore and dusty."

As Uros sat down, she, after the Eastern fashion, bent to unlace his
_opanke_; but he, unaccustomed to be waited upon by women, would not
allow her to perform such a menial act for him.

He had hardly finished his ablutions when his father and the
_gospodar_ came in. Seeing his son, Bellacic stretched out his arms
and clasped him to his heart. Then they began talking about all that
had taken place since they had seen each other; and, supper being
served, Uros, while he ate with a good appetite, related all the
adventures of his seafaring life, and did his best to keep his father
amused. At the end of the meal, when everyone was in a good-humour,
the pipes being lit and the _raki_ brought forth, he told them how
Milenko had fallen in love with the girl who ought to have been his
bride, how she reciprocated his affection, and the many complications
that followed, until Giulianic swore, in great wrath, that he, Uros,
should never marry his daughter. Although this part of the story did
not amuse the father as much as it did the rest of the company, still
it was related with such graphic humour that he could not help
joining in the laughter.

On the morrow, Bellacic, wanting to have a quiet talk with his son,
proposed that they should go and see a little of the country, and,
perhaps, meet Radonic, who was said to be coming back from the
neighbourhood of Scutari.

As they walked on, Bellacic spoke of his lost vineyard, and of his
rashness in cutting off Vranic's ear; then he added:

"Remember, now that you are going back to Budua, you must promise me
that, as long as you are there, you'll not mix up in this stupid
_karvarina_ business. I know that I am asking much, for if we old men
are hasty, recommending you who are young and hot-headed to be cool
is like asking the fire not to burn, or the sun not to shine; still,
for your mother's sake and for mine, you'll keep aloof from those
reptiles of Vranics, will you not?"

Uros promised to do his best and obey.

"I'd have liked to see you married and settled in life," and Bellacic
cast a questioning glance at his son.

Uros looked down and twisted the ends of his short and crisp
moustache.

"It is true you are very young still; it is we--your mother and I
--who are getting old."

Uros continued to walk in silence by his father's side.

"If Ivanka is in love with your friend, and Giulianic is willing to
give her to him, I am not the man to make any objections. The only
thing I'd like to know is whether it is solely for Milenko's sake
that you acted as you did."

Uros tried to speak, but the words he would utter stuck in his
throat.

"Then it is as I thought," added Bellacic, seeing his son's
confusion; "you love some one else."

Uros looked up at his father for all reply.

"Answer me," said Bellacic, tenderly.

"Yes," said the young man, in a whisper.

"A young girl?"

"No."

"A married woman?" asked the father, lifting his brows with a look of
pain in his eyes.

"Yes."

"A relation of ours?"

"Yes."

"Milena?"

Uros nodded.

Just then, as they turned the corner of the road, they met a crowd of
men coming towards them; it was a band of blood-stained Montenegrins
returning from an encounter with the Turks. They were bearing a
wounded man upon a stretcher.

"Milena would have been the girl your mother and I might have chosen
for your bride; and, indeed, we have learnt to love her as a
daughter; but fate has decreed otherwise."

They now came up to the foremost man of the band.

"Who is wounded?" asked Bellacic of him.

"Radonic," answered he.

"Is the wound a bad one?"

"He is dying!" replied the Montenegrin, in a whisper.




CHAPTER XVI

THE VAMPIRE


Vranic, having found out that the Austrian law could do nothing for
him, except punish him for his crime in cutting down the vines of a
man who had done him no harm, shut himself up at home to nurse his
wounded head, to brood over his revenge, and pity himself for all the
mishaps that had befallen him. The more he pitied himself, the more
irritable he grew, and the more he considered himself a poor
persecuted wretch. He durst not go out for fear of being laughed at;
and, in fact, when he did go, the children in the streets began to
call him names, to ask him what he had done with his ears, and
whether he liked cutting people's vines down.

With his bickering and peevish temper, not only his fast friends grew
weary of him, but his own family forsook him; his very brother, at
last, could not abide his saturnine humour, and left him. He then
began to drink to try and drown his troubles; still, he only took
enough to muddle his brains, and, moreover, the greater quantity of
spirits he consumed the more sullen he grew.

Having but one idea in his head--that is, the great wrong that had
been done to him--he hardly fell asleep at nights but he was at once
haunted by fearful dreams. His murdered brother would at once appear
before him and ask him--urge him--to avenge his death:

"While you are enjoying the inheritance I left you, I am groaning in
hell-fire, and my murderer is not only left free, but he is even
made much of."

Masses were said for the dead man's soul, still that was of no avail;
Vranic's dreams got always more frightful. The _morina_, the dreadful
_mara_ or nightmare, took up its dwelling in the tailor's house. No
sooner did the poor man close his eyes than the ponderous ghost came
hovering over him, and at last crushed him with its weight. The sign
of the pentacle was drawn on every door and window. A witch drew it
for him on paper with magical ink, and he placed the paper under his
pillow. He put another on the sheets; then the nightmare left him
alone, and other evil spirits came in its stead. Not knowing the
names of these evil spirits or their nature, it was a difficult task
to find out the planet under which they were subjected, the sign
which they obeyed, and what charm was potent enough to scare them
away.

One night (it was about the hour when his brother had been murdered)
the tailor was lying on his bed in a half-wakeful slumber--that is to
say, his drowsy body was benumbed, but his mind was still quite
awake, when all at once he was roused by the noise of a loud wind
blowing within the house. Outside, everything was perfectly quiet,
but inside a distant door seemed to have been opened down in some
cellar, and a draught was blowing up with a moaning, booming sound.
You might have fancied that a grave had been opened and a ghastly
gale was blowing from the hollow depths of hell below, and that it
came wheezing up. It was dreadful to hear, for it had such a dismal
sound.

Perhaps it was only his imagination, but Vranic thought that this
mysterious draught was cold, damp and chilly; that it had an earthy,
rank smell of mildew as it blew by him.

He lay there shivering, hardly daring to breathe, putting his tongue
between his chattering teeth not to make a noise, and listening to
that strange, weird blast as at last it died far away in a faint,
imperceptible sigh.

No sooner had the sound of the wind entirely subsided than he heard a
cadenced noise of footsteps coming from afar. Were these steps out of
the house or inside? he could not tell. He heard them draw nearer and
ever nearer; they seemed to come across the wall of the room, as if
bricks and stones were no obstacle to his uncanny visitor; now they
were in his room, walking up to his bed. Appalled with terror, Vranic
looked towards the place from where the footsteps came, but he could
not see anybody. Trembling as if with a fit of palsy, he cast a
fearful, furtive glance all around, even in the furthermost corner of
the room; not the shadow of a ghost was to be seen; nevertheless, the
footsteps of the invisible person grew louder as they approached at a
slow, sure, inexorable pace.

At last they stopped; they were by his bed. Vranic felt the breath of
a person on his very face.

Except a person who has felt it, no one can realise the horror of
having an invisible being leaning over you, of feeling his breath on
your face.

Vranic tried to rise, but he at once came in close contact with the
unseen monster; two cold, clammy, boneless hands gripped him and
pinned him down; he vainly struggled to get free, but he was as a
baby in the hands of his invisible foe. In a few seconds he was
entirely mastered, cowed down, overcome, panting, breathless. When he
tried to scream, a limp, nerveless hand, as soft as a huge toad, was
placed upon his mouth, shutting it up entirely, and impeding all
power of utterance. Then the ponderous mass of the ghost came upon
him, crushed him, smothered him. Fainting with fear, his strength and
his senses forsook him at the same time, and he swooned away.

When he came back to life, the cold, grey light of the dawning day,
pouring in through the half-closed shutters, gave the room a squalid,
lurid look. His head was not exactly paining him, but it felt drained
of all its contents, and as light as an empty skull, or an old poppy
head in which the seeds are rattling. He looked around. There was
nothing unusual in the room; everything was just as it had been upon
the previous evening. Had his struggle with the ghost been but a
dream? He tried to move, to rise, but all his limbs were as weary and
sore as if he had really fought and been beaten. Nay, his whole body
was as weak as if he had had some long illness and was only now
convalescent. He recalled to mind all the details of the struggle, he
looked at the places where he felt numb and sore, and everywhere he
remarked livid stains which he had not seen before. He lifted himself
up on his right elbow; to his horror and consternation, there were
two or three spots of blood upon the white sheet.

He felt faint and sick at that sight; he understood everything. His
had not been a dream; his gruesome visitor was a frightful ghost, a
terrible _vukodlaki_, which had fought with him and sucked his blood.
His brother had become a loathsome vampire; he was the first victim.

For a moment he remained bewildered, unable to think; then when he
did manage to collect his wandering senses, the terrible reality of
his misfortune almost drove him mad again.

The ghost, having tasted his blood, would not leave him till it had
drained him to the very last drop. He was a lost man; no medical aid
could be of any use; nourishing food, wine and tonics might prolong
his agony a few days longer and no more. He was doomed to a sure
death. Daily--as if in a decline--he saw himself wasting away, for
the vampire would suck the very marrow of his bones.

His was a dreary life, indeed, and yet he clung to it with might and
main. The days passed on wearily, and he tried to hope against hope
itself; but he was so weak and dispirited that the slightest noise
made him shiver and grow pale. An unexpected footstep, the opening or
shutting of a door, slackened or accelerated the beating of his
heart.

With fear and trembling he waited for night to come on, and when the
sun went down--when darkness came over the earth--his terror grew
apace. Still, where was he to go? He had not a single friend on the
surface of the earth. He, therefore, drank several glasses of
spirits, muttered his prayers and went to bed. No sooner had he
fallen asleep than he fell again a prey to the vampire.

On the third night he determined not to go to bed, but to remain
awake, and thus wait for the arrival of his gruesome guest. Still, at
the last moment his courage failed him, so he went to an old man who
lived hard by. He promised to make him a new waistcoat if he would
only give him a rug to sleep on, and tell him a story until he got
drowsy.

The old man complied willingly, above all as Vranic had brought a
_bukara_ of wine with him, so he at once began the story of


THE PRIEST AND HIS COOK.

In the village of Steino there lived an old priest who was
exceedingly wealthy, but who was, withal, as miserly as he was rich.
Although he had fields which stretched farther than the eye could
reach, fat pastures, herds and flocks; although his cellars were
filled with mellow wine, his barns were bursting with the grace of
God; although abundance reigned in his house, still he was never
known to have given a crust of bread to a beggar or a glass of wine
to a weary old man.

He lived all alone with a skinflint of an old cook, as stingy as
himself, who would rather by far have seen an apple rot than give it
to a hungry child whose mouth watered for it.

Those two grim old fogeys, birds of one feather, cared for no one
else in this world except for each other, and, in fact, the people in
Steino said----, but people in villages have bad tongues, so it's
useless to repeat what was said about them.

The priest had a nephew, a smith, a good-hearted, bright-eyed, burly
kind of a fellow, beloved by all the village, except by his uncle,
whom he had greatly displeased because he had married a bonny lass of
the neighbouring village of Smarje, instead of taking as a wife
the----, well, the cook's niece, though, between us and the wall, the
cook was never known to have had a sister or a brother either, and
the people----, but, as I said before, the people were apt to say
nasty things about their priest.

The smith, who was quite a pauper, had several children, for the
poorer a man is the more babies his wife presents him with--women
everywhere are such unreasonable creatures--and whenever he applied
to his uncle for a trifle, the uncle would spout the Scriptures in
Latin, saying something about the unfitness of casting pearls before
pigs, and that he would rather see him hanged than help him.

Once--it was in the middle of winter--the poor smith had been without
any work for days and days. He had spent his last penny; then the
baker would not give him any more bread on credit, and at last, on a
cold, frosty night, the poor children had been obliged to go to bed
supperless.

The smith, who had sworn a few days before never again to put his
foot in the priest's house, was, in his despair, obliged to humble
himself, and go and beg for a loaf of bread, with which to satisfy
his children on the morrow.

Before he knocked at the door, he went and peeped in through the
half-closed shutters, and he saw his uncle and the cook seated by a
roaring fire, with their feet on the fender, munching roasted
chestnuts and drinking mulled wine. Their shining lips still seemed
greasy from the fat sausages they had eaten for supper, and, as he
sniffed at the window, he fancied the air was redolent with the
spices of black-pudding. The smell made his mouth water and his
hungry stomach rumble.

The poor man knocked at the door with a trembling hand; his legs
began to quake, he had not eaten the whole of that long day; but then
he thought of his hungry children, and knocked with a steadier hand.

The priest, hearing the knock, thought it must be some pious
parishioner bringing him a fat pullet or perhaps a sleek sucking-pig,
the price of a mass to be said on the morrow; but when, instead, he
saw his nephew, looking as mean and as sheepish as people usually do
when they go a-begging, he was greatly disappointed.

"What do you want, bothering here at this time of the night?" asked
the old priest, gruffly.

"Uncle," said the poor man, dejectedly.

"I suppose you've been drinking, as usual; you stink of spirits."

"Spirits, in sooth! when I haven't a penny to bless me."

"Oh, if it's only a blessing you want, here, take one and go!"

And the priest lifted up his thumb and the two fingers, and uttered
something like "_Dominus vobiscum,_" and then waved him off; whilst
the old shrew skulking near him uttered a croaking kind of laugh, and
said that a priest's blessing was a priceless boon.

"Yes," replied the smith, "upon a full stomach; but my children have
gone to bed supperless, and I haven't had a crust of bread the whole
of the day."

"'Man shall not live by bread alone,' the Scriptures say, and you
ought to know that if you are a Christian, sir."

"Eh? I daresay the Scriptures are right, for priests surely do not
live on bread alone; they fatten on plump pullets and crisp
pork-pies."

"Do you mean to bully me, you unbelieving beggar?"

"Bully you, uncle!" said the burly man, in a piteous tone; "only
think of my starving children."

"He begrudges his uncle the grub he eats," shrieked the old cat of a
cook.

"I'd have given you something, but the proud man should be punished,"
said the wrathful priest, growing purple in the face.

"Oh, uncle, my children!" sobbed the poor man.

"What business has a man to have a brood of brats when he can't earn
enough to buy bread for them?" said the cook, aloud, to herself.

"Will you hold your tongue, you cantankerous old cat?" said the smith
to the cook.

The old vixen began to howl, and the priest, in his anger, cursed his
nephew, telling him that he and his children could starve for all he
cared.

The smith thereupon went home, looking as piteous as a tailless
turkey-cock; and while his children slept and, perhaps, dreamt of
_kolaci_, he told his wife the failure he had met with.

"Your uncle is a brute," said she.

"He's a priest, and all priests are brutes, you know."

"Well, I don't know about all of them, for I heard my
great-grandmother say that once upon a time there lived----"

"Oh, there are casual exceptions to every rule!" said her husband.
"But, now, what's to be done?"

"Listen," said the wife, who was a shrewd kind of woman; "we can't
let the children starve, can we?"

"No, indeed!"

"Then follow my advice. I know of a grass that, given to a horse, or
an ox, or a sheep, or a goat, makes the animal fall down, looking as
if it were dead."

"Well, but you don't mean to feed the children with this grass, do
you?" said the smith, not seeing the drift of what she meant.

"No; but you could secretly go and give some to your uncle's fattest
ox."

"So," said the husband, scratching his head.

"Once the animal falls down dead, he'll surely give it to you, as no
butcher 'll buy it; we'll kill it and thus be provided with meat for
a long time. Besides, you can sell the bones, the horns, the hide,
and get a little money besides."

"And for to-morrow?"

"I'll manage to borrow a few potatoes and a cup of milk."

On the next day the wife went and got the grass, and the smith,
unseen, managed to go and give it to his uncle's fattest ox. A few
hours afterwards the animal was found dead.

On hearing that his finest ox was found in the stable lying stiff and
stark the priest nearly had a fit; and his grief was still greater
when he found out that not a man in the village would offer him a
penny for it, so when his nephew came he was glad enough to give it
to him to get rid of it.

The cook, who had prompted the priest to make a present of the ox to
his nephew, hoped that the smith and all his family would be poisoned
by feeding on carrion flesh.

"But," said the uncle, "bring me back the bones, the horns, and the
hide."

To everyone's surprise, and to the old cook's rage, the smith and his
children fed on the flesh of the dead ox, and throve on it. After the
ox had all been eaten up, the priest lost a goat, and then a goose,
in the same way, and the smith and his family ate them up with
evident gusto.

After that, the old cook began to suspect foul play on the part of
the smith, and she spoke of her suspicions to her master.

The priest got into a great rage, and wanted to go at once to the
police and accuse his nephew of sorcery.

"No," said the cook, "we must catch them on the hip, and then we can
act."

"But how are we to find them out?"

After brooding over the matter for some days, the cook bethought
herself that the best plan would be to shut herself up in a cupboard,
and have it taken to the nephew's house.

The priest, having approved of her plan, put it at once into
execution.

"I have," said the uncle to the nephew, "an old cupboard which needs
repairing; will you take it into your house and keep it for a few
days?"

"Willingly," said the nephew, who had not the slightest suspicion of
the trap laid to catch him.

The cupboard was brought, and put in the only room the smith
possessed; the children looked at it with wonder, for they had never
seen such a big piece of furniture before. The wife had some
suspicion. Still, she kept her own counsel.

Soon afterwards the remains of the goose were brought on the table,
and, as the children licked the bones, the husband and wife discussed
what meat they were to have for the forthcoming days--was it to be
pork, veal, or turkey?

As they were engrossed with this interesting topic, a slight, shrill
sound came out of the cupboard.

"What's that?" said the wife, whose ears were on the alert.

"I didn't hear anything," said the smith.

"_Apshee_," was the sound that came again from the cupboard.

"There, did you hear?" asked the wife.

"Yes; but from where did that unearthly sound come?"

The wife, without speaking, winked at her husband and pointed to the
cupboard.

"_Papshee_," was now heard louder than ever.

The children stopped gnawing the goose's bones; they opened their
greasy mouths and their eyes to the utmost and looked scared.

"There's some one shut in the cupboard," said the smith, jumping up,
and snatching up his tools.

A moment afterwards the door flew open, and to everyone's surprise,
except the wife's, the old cook was found standing bolt upright in
the empty space and listening to what they were saying.

The old woman, finding herself discovered, was about to scream, but
the smith caught her by the throat and gave her such a powerful
squeeze, that before knowing what he was doing, he had choked the
cook to death.

The poor man was in despair, for he had never meant to commit a
murder--he only wanted to prevent the old shrew from screaming.

"_Bog me ovari!_ what is to become of me now?"

"Pooh!" said the wife, shrugging her shoulders; "she deserves her
fate; as we make our bed, so must we lie."

"Yes," quoth the smith, "but if they find out that I've strangled
her, they'll hang me."

"And who'll find you out?" said she. "Let's put a potato in her mouth
and lock up the cupboard again; they'll think that she choked herself
eating potatoes."

The smith followed his wife's advice, and early on the morrow the
priest came again and asked for his press.

"Talking the matter over with the cook," said he, "I've decided not
to have my cupboard repaired, so I've come to take it back."

"Your cook is right," said the smith's wife; "she's a wise old woman,
your cook is."

"Very," said the priest, uncomfortably.

"There's more in her head than you suppose," said the wife, thinking
of the potato.

"There is," said the priest.

"Give my kind respects to your cook," said the wife as the men were
taking the cupboard away.

"Thank you," said the priest, "I'll certainly do so."

About an hour afterwards the priest came back, ghastly pale, to his
nephew, and taking him aside said:

"My dear nephew--my only kith-and-kin--a great misfortune has
befallen me."

"What is it, uncle?" asked the smith.

"My cook," said the priest, lowering his voice, "has--eating
potatoes--somehow or other--I don't know how--choked herself."

"Oh!" quoth the smith, turning pale, "it is a great misfortune; but
you'll say masses for her soul and have her properly buried."

"But the fact is," interrupted the priest, "she looks so dreadful,
with her eyes starting out of their sockets, and her mouth wide open,
that I'm quite frightened of her, and besides, if the people see her
they'll say that I murdered her."

"Well, and how am I to help you?"

"Come and take her away, in a sack if you like; then bury her in some
hole, or throw her down a well. Do whatever you like, as long as I am
rid of her."

The smith scratched his head.

"You must help me; you are my only relation. You know that whatever I
have 'll go to you some day, so----"

"And when people ask what has become of her?"

"I'll say she's gone to her--her niece."

"Well, I don't mind helping you, as long as I don't get into a scrape
myself."

"No, no! How can you get into trouble?"

The priest went off, and soon afterwards the smith went to his
uncle's house, and taking a big sack, shoved the cook into it and
tied the sack up, put it on his shoulders and trudged off.

"Here," said the uncle, "take this florin to get a glass of wine on
the way, and I hope I'll never see her any more--nor," he added to
himself--"you either."

It was a warm day, and the cook was heavy. The poor man was in a
great perspiration; his throat was parched; the road was dusty and
hilly. After an hour's march he stopped at a roadside inn to drink a
glass of wine. He quaffed it down at a gulp and then he had another,
and again another, so that when he came out everything was rather
hazy and blurred. Seeing some carts of hay at the door which were
going to the next town, he asked permission to get on top of one of
the waggons. The permission was not only granted, but the carter even
helped him to hoist his sack on top. The smith, in return, got down
and offered the man a glass of wine for his kindness. Then he again
got on the cart and went off to sleep. An hour or two afterwards,
when he awoke, the sack was gone. Had it slipped down? had it been
stolen from him?--he could not tell. He did not ask for it, but he
only congratulated himself at having so dexterously got rid of the
cook, and at once went back home.

That evening his children had hardly been put to bed when the door
was opened, and his uncle, looking pale and scared, came in panting.

"She's back, she's back!" he gasped.

"Who is back?" asked the astonished smith.

"Why, she, the cook."

"Alive?" gasped the smith.

"No, dead in the sack."

"Then how the deuce did she get back?"

"How? I ask you how?"

"I really don't know how. I dug a hole ten feet deep, half filled the
hole with lime, then the other half with stones and earth, and I
planted a tree within the hole, and covered the earth all around with
sods. It gave me two days' work. I'll take and show you the place if
you like."

The priest looked at his nephew, bewildered.

"But, tell me," continued the smith, "how did she come back?"

"Well, they brought me a waggon of hay, and on the waggon there was a
sack, which I thought must contain potatoes or turnips which some
parishioner sent me, so I had the sack put in the kitchen. When the
men had gone I undid the sack, and to my horror out pops the cook's
ugly head, staring at me with her jutting goggle-eyes and her gaping
mouth, looking like a horrid jack-in-the-box. Do come and take her
away, or she'll drive me out of my senses; but come at once."

The smith went back to the priest's house, tied the cook in the sack,
and then putting the sack on his shoulders, he carried his load away.
He had made up his mind to go and chuck her down one of those almost
bottomless shafts which abound in the stony plains of the Karst.

He walked all night; at daybreak he saw a man sleeping on the grass
by the highway, having near him a sack exactly like the one he was
carrying.

"What a good joke it'll be," thought he, "to take that sack and put
mine in its stead."

He at once stepped lightly on the grass, put down the cook, took up
the other sack, which was much lighter than his own, and scampered
back home as fast as his weary legs could carry him.

An hour afterwards the sleeping man awoke, took up his sack, which he
was surprised to find so much heavier than it had been when he had
gone off to sleep, and then went on his way.

That evening the priest came back to his nephew's house, looking
uglier and more ghastly, if possible, than the evening before.
Panting and gasping, with a weak and broken voice:

"She's back again," he said in a hoarse whisper.

The smith burst out laughing.

"It's no laughing matter," quoth the priest, with a long face.

"No, indeed, it isn't," replied the nephew; "only, tell me how she
came back."

"A pedlar, an honest man whom I sometimes help by lending him a
trifle on his goods--merely out of charity--brought me a sack of
shoes, begging me to keep it for him till he found a stall for
to-morrow's fair. I told him to put the sack in the kitchen, and he
did so. When he had gone, I thought I'd just see what kind of shoes
he had for sale, and whether he had a pair that fitted me. I opened
the sack, and I almost fainted when I saw the frightful face of the
cook staring at me."

"And now," asked the smith, "am I to carry her away again, for you
know, uncle, she is rather heavy; and besides----"

"No," replied the priest; "I'll go away myself for a few days; during
that time drown her, burn or bury her; in fact, do what you like with
her, as long as you get rid of her. Perhaps, knowing I'm not at home,
she'll not come back. In the meanwhile, as you are my only relation,
come and live in my house and take care of my things as if they were
your own; and they'll be yours soon enough, for this affair has made
an old man of me."

The priest went home, followed by his nephew. Arriving there, he went
to the stable, saddled the mare, got on her, gave his nephew his
blessing, bade him take care of his house, and trotted off. No sooner
had he gone than the smith saddled the stallion, then went and took
the cook out of the sack, tied her on the stallion's saddle, then let
the horse loose to follow the mare.

The poor priest had not gone a mile before he heard a horse galloping
behind him, and, fearing that it was the police coming to bring him
back, he spurred the mare and galloped on; but the faster he rode,
the quicker the stallion galloped after him.

Looking round, the priest, to his horror and dismay, saw his cook,
with her eyes starting wildly out of their sockets, and her horrid
mouth gaping as black as the hole of hell, chasing him, nay, she was
only a few yards behind.

The terrified priest spurred on the mare, which began to gallop along
the highway; but withal she flew like an arrow, the stallion was
gaining ground at every step. The priest, fainting with fear, lost
all his presence of mind; he then spurred the mare across country.
The poor animal reared at first, and then began to gallop over the
stony plain; no obstacles could stop her, she jumped over bushes and
briars, stumbling almost at every step.

The priest, palsied with terror, as ghastly pale as a ghost, could
not help turning round; alas! the cook was always at his heels. His
fear was such that he almost dropped from his horse. He lashed the
poor mare, forgetful of all the dangers the plains of the Karst
presented, for the ground yawned everywhere--here in huge, deep
clefts, there in bottomless shafts; or it sank in cup-like hollows,
all bordered with sharp, jagged rocks, or concealed in the bushes
that surround them. His only thought was to escape from the grim
spectre that pursued him. The lame and bleeding mare had stopped on
the brink of one of these precipices, trembling and convulsed with
terror. The priest, who had just turned round, dug his spurs into the
animal's sides; she tried to clear the cleft, but missed her footing,
and rolled down in the abyss. The stallion, seeing the mare
disappear, stopped short, and uttered a loud neigh, shivering with
fear. The shock the poor beast had got burst the bonds which held the
corpse on his back, and the cook was thus chucked over his head on
the prone edge of the pit.

A few days afterwards some peasants who happened to pass by found the
cook sitting, stiff and stark, astride on a rock, seemingly staring,
with eyes starting from their sockets and her black mouth gaping
widely, at the mangled remains of her master's corpse.

As the priest had told the clerk that he was going away for a few
days, everybody came to the conclusion that his cook, having followed
him against his will, had frightened the mare and thus caused her own
and her master's death.

The smith having been left in possession of his uncle's house, as
well as of all his money and estates, and being, moreover, the only
legal heir, thus found himself all at once the richest man in the
village. As he was beloved by everybody, all rejoiced at his good
luck, especially all those who owed money to the priest and whose
debts he cancelled.


"You liked this story?" said the old man to Vranic, as soon as he had
finished.

"Yes," replied the tailor, thinking of the ghastly, livid corpse,
with grinning, gaping mouth, and glassy, goggle eyes, galloping after
the priest, and wondering whether she was like the vampire. "Yes,
it's an interesting story, but rather gruesome."

"Well, but it's only a story, and, whether ghastly or lively, it's
only words, which--as the proverb says--are evanescent as
soap-bubbles. Now," continued he, "if you want to go off to sleep,
look at this," and he gave him a bit of cardboard, on which were
traced several circles; "look at it till you see all these rings
wheeling round. When they disappear, you'll be asleep."

The old man put the bit of cardboard before Vranic, who leaned his
elbows on the table and his head between the palms of his hands, and
stared at the drawing. Five minutes afterwards he was fast asleep.

When he awoke the next morning, his head was not only aching, but his
weakness had so much increased that he had hardly strength enough to
stand on his feet. He, therefore, made up his mind to go to the
parish priest, and lay the whole matter before him.

Priests are everywhere but fetich men; therefore, if they have burnt
witches for using charms and philters, it is simply because these
women trespassed on their own domains, and were more successful than
they themselves. Of what use would a priest be if he could not pray
for rain, give little _sacré cœur_ bits of flannel as talismans
against pestilence, or brass medals to scare away the devil? A priest
who can do nothing for us here below, must and will soon fall into
discredit. The hereafter is so vague and indefinite that it cannot
inspire us with half the interest the present does.

The priest whom Vranic consulted was of the same opinion as the
tailor. He, too, believed that probably his brother had become a
vampire, who nightly left the tomb to go and suck his blood. For his
own sake, as well as for that of the whole town, it would be well to
exorcise the ghost. The matter, however, had to be kept a profound
secret, as the Government had put its veto on vampire-killing, and
looked upon all such practices as illegal.

It was, therefore, agreed that Vranic, together with his relations
and some friends, should go to the curate's about ten o'clock at
night; there the curate would be waiting for them with another
priest; from there the little party would stealthily proceed to the
cemetery where the ceremony was to be held.

The Friday fixed upon arrived. The night was dark, the weather
sultry; a storm had been brooding in the heavy clouds overhead and
was now ready to burst every moment.

As soon as the muffled people got to the gate of the burying-ground
the mortuary chapel was opened to them by the sexton. The priests put
on their officiating robes, recited several orisons appropriate to
the occasion; then, with the Cross carried before them, bearing a
holy-water sprinkler in their hands, followed by Vranic and his
friends--all with blessed tapers--they went up to the murdered man's
tomb. The priest then bade the sexton dig up the earth and bring out
the coffin.

The smell, as the pit was being dug lower down, became always more
offensive; but when, at last, the rotting deal coffin was drawn out
and opened, it became overpoweringly loathsome. The corpse, however,
being found in a good state of preservation, there could be no doubt
that the dead man was a vampire. It is true that the tapers which
everyone held gave but a dim and flickering light; moreover, that the
stench was so sickening that all turned at once their heads away in
disgust; still, they had all seen enough of the corpse to declare it
to be but seemingly dead. The priest, standing as far from it as he
possibly could, began at once to exorcise it in the name of the
Trinity, the Virgin and all the saints; to sprinkle it with holy
water, commanding it not to move, not to jump out of its box and run
away--for these ghouls are cunning devils, and if one is not on the
alert they skedaddle the moment the coffin is opened. Our priest,
however, was a match even for the dead man, and his holy-water
sprinkler was uplifted even before the lid of the loathsome chest was
loosened.

The storm which had been threatening the whole of that day broke out
at last. No sooner had the sexton begun to dig the grave than the
wind, which had been moaning and wailing round the stones and wooden
crosses, began to howl with a sinister sound. Then, just as the
priest uttered the formula of the exorcism--when the coffin was
uncovered and the uncanny corpse was seen--a flash of lurid lightning
gleamed over its livid features, and the rumbling thunder ended in a
tremendous crash; the earth shook as if with the throes of
childbirth; hell seemed to yawn and yield forth its fulsome dead. As
the priest sprinkled the corpse with holy water, the rain came down
in torrents as if to drown the world.

Although the noise was deafening, still some of the men affirm that
they heard the corpse lament and entreat not to be killed; but the
priest, a tall, stalwart man of great strength and courage, went on
perfectly undaunted, paying no heed to the vampire, mumbling his
prayers as if the man prostrate before him was some ordinary corpse
and this was a commonplace, every-day funeral.

The priest, having reached in his orisons the moment when he uttered
the name of Isukrst, or God the Son, Josko Vranic, who stood by,
shivering from head to foot, and looking like a cat extracted from a
tub of soap-suds, drew out a dagger from under his coat, where it had
been carefully concealed from the ghost's sight, and stabbed the
corpse. It was, of course, a black steel stiletto, for only such a
weapon can kill a vampire. He should have stabbed the dead man in his
neck and through the throat, but he was so sick that he could hardly
stand; besides, his candle that instant went out, and, moreover, he
was terribly frightened, for although he was stabbing but a corpse,
still that corpse was his own brother.

A flash of lightning which followed that instant of perfect darkness
showed him that the dagger, instead of being stuck in the dead man's
neck, was thrust in the right cheek.

The ceremony being now over, the priests and their attendants
hastened back to the chapel to take shelter from the rage of the
storm, as well as to escape from the pestilential stench.

The sexton alone remained outside to heap up the earth again on the
uncanny corpse, and shut up the grave.

"Are you sure you stabbed the corpse in the neck, severing the
throat, and thus preventing it from ever sucking blood again?" asked
the priest.

"Yes, I believe I have," answered Vranic, with a whining voice.

"I don't ask you what you believe; have you done it--yes, or no?"
said the ecclesiastic, sternly.

"Well, just as I lifted my knife to stab, the candle went out. I
couldn't see at all; the night was so dark; you all were far from me.
Besides, as I bent down, the smell made me so sick that----"

"You don't know where you stabbed?" added the priest, angrily.

"He stabbed him in the cheek!" said the sexton, coming in.

"Fool!" burst out the priest, in a stentorian voice.

"I was sure this would be the case," cried out one of the party.
"Vranic has always been a bungler of a tailor."

"You have done a fine piece of work, you have, indeed, you wretch!"
hissed the priest, looking at Vranic scornfully.

"You have endowed that cursed brother of yours with everlasting
life," said the other priest, "and now the whole town will be
infested with another vampire for ever!"

"Do you really think so?" asked Vranic, ready to burst out crying.

"Think so!" said all the other men, scornfully. "To bring us here in
the middle of the night with this storm, to stifle us with this
poisonous stench, and this is the result!"

"But really----" stammered Vranic.

"Anyhow, he'll not leave you till he has sucked the last drop of
blood from your body."

The storm having somewhat abated, all the company wended their way
homewards, taking no notice of the tailor, who followed them like a
mangy cur which everyone avoids.

That night, Vranic had not a wink of sleep. No one would have him in
his house; nobody would sleep with him, for fear of falling
afterwards a prey to the vampire. As soon as he lay down and tried to
shut his eyes, the terrifying sight appeared before him. The
festering ghost with the horrible gash in the cheek, just over the
jaw-bone, was ever present to his eyes; nor could he get rid of the
loathsome, sickening stench with which his clothes, nay, his very
body, seemed saturated. If a mouse stirred he fancied he could see
the ghost standing by him. He hid his head under the bed-cover not to
see, not to hear, until he was almost smothered, and every now and
then he felt a human hand laid on his head, on his shoulder, on his
legs, and his teeth chattered with fear.

The storm ceased; still, the sky remained overcast, and a thin,
drizzling rain had succeeded the interrupted showers. The dreadful
night came to an end; he was happy to see the grey light of dawn
succeed the appalling darkness. Daylight brought with it happier
thoughts.

"Perhaps," said he to himself, "my brother was no vampire, after all!
Perhaps the blade of the dagger, driven in the cheek, had penetrated
slantingly into the neck, severed the throat, and thus killed the
vampire; for something must have happened to keep the ghost away."

On the next day Vranic remained shut up at home. He felt sure that
his own relations would henceforth hate him, and his acquaintances
would stone him if they possibly could. Nothing makes a man not only
unjust, but even cruel, like fear, and no fear is greater than the
vague dread of the unknown. That whole day he tried to work, but his
thoughts were always fixed either on the festering corpse he had
stabbed or on the coming night.

Would the ghoul, reeking of hell, come and suck up his blood?

As the light waned his very strength began to flow away, his legs
grew weak, his flesh shivered, the beating of his heart grew ever
more irregular.

He lighted his little oil-lamp before it was quite dark, looked about
stealthily, trembling lest he should see the dreaded apparition
before its time, started and shuddered at the slightest noise.

He was weary and worn out by the emotions of the former sleepless
night; still, he could not make up his mind to go to bed. He placed
his elbows on the board, buried his head within his hands, and
remained there brooding over his woes. Without daring to lift up his
eyes or look around, he at times stretched out his hand, clutched a
gourd full of spirits and took a sip. Time passed, the twilight had
faded away into soft, mellow darkness without; but in the tailor's
room the little flickering light only rendered the shadows grim and
gruesome.

Drink and lassitude at last overpowered the poor man; his head began
to get drowsy, his ideas more confused; the heaviness of sleep
weighed him down.

All at once he was roused from his lethargy by a sound of rushing
winds. He hardly noticed it when it blew from afar, like the slight
breeze that ruffles the surface of the sea; but, now that it came
nearer, he remembered having heard it some evenings before. He grew
pale, panted, and then his breath stopped, convulsed as he was by
fear.

As upon the previous night, the wind was lost in the distance, and
then in the stillness of the night he heard the low, hushed sound of
footsteps coming from afar; but they drew nearer and ever nearer,
with a heavy, slow, metrical step. The night-walker was near his
house, at his door, on his threshold. The loathsome, sickening smell
of corruption grew stronger and stronger. Now it was as
overpoweringly nauseous as when he had bent down to stab his dead
brother. The sound of footsteps was now within his room; the spectre
must surely be by his side. He kept his eyes tightly shut and his
head bent down. A cold perspiration was trickling from his forehead
and through his fingers on to the table.

All at once, something heavy and metallic was thrown in front of him.
Although his eyes were tightly shut, he knew that it was the black
dagger that his brother had come to bring him back, and he was not
mistaken.

Was there a chuckle just then?

Almost against his will he opened his eyes, lifted his head, and
looked at his guest. The vampire was standing by his side grinning at
him hideously, notwithstanding the gash in his right cheek.

"Thank you, brother," said he, in a hollow, mocking voice, "for what
you did yesterday; you have, in fact, given me everlasting life; and,
as one good turn deserves another, you soon will be a vampire along
with me. Come, don't look so scared, man; it's a pleasant life, after
all. We sleep soundly during the day, and, believe me, no bed is so
comfortable as the coffin, no house so quiet as the grave; but at
night, when all the world sleeps and only witches are awake, then we
not only live, but we enjoy life. No cankering care, no worry about
the morrow. We have only fun and frolic, for we suck, we suck, we
suck."

Vranic heard the sound of smacking lips just by his neck, the vampire
had already laid his hands upon him.

He tried to rise, to struggle, but his strength and his senses
forsook him; he uttered a choked, raucous sound, then his breath
again stopped spasmodically, his face grew livid, he gasped for
breath, his face and lips got to be of a violet hue, his eyes shut
themselves, as he dropped fainting in his chair.




CHAPTER XVII

THE FACE IN THE MIRROR


A few days after Radonic had been brought back dying, Uros was
walking down the mountain path leading from the heights of Montenegro
to the Dalmatian coast. He was even in higher spirits than he was
usually wont to be.

His father had accompanied him to the frontier, and on the way he had
opened his heart to him, and told him of his love for Milena, and
even obtained his consent for his marriage, which might take place as
soon as her widowhood was over. Bellacic, moreover, had promised to
write to his friend, Giulianic, to release him from his pledge.

The day, as it dawned now, was a glorious one, bright, clear and
fresh. After the storm and rain of the day before, the dark crags of
the Cernagora seemed but newly created, or only just arisen out of
the glittering waters that stretched down below in a translucent,
misty mass of sluggish streams flowing through a cloudy ocean.

The breeze that blew from the mountain-tops seemed to him like some
exhilarating, life-giving fluid. Exercise--not prolonged as yet
--rendered his senses of enjoyment keener; he felt happy with himself
and with the world at large. He was in one of those rare moods in
which a man would like the earth to be a human being, so as to clasp
it fondly to his breast, as he does a child, or the woman he loves.

Although he did not rejoice at Radonic's death, still, as he loved
Milena, it was natural that he was glad the obstacle to his happiness
had been removed, and a wave of joy seemed to rise from his heart
upwards as his nerves tingled with excitement at the thought that in
a few months she might be his wife.

Therefore, with his blithe and merry character, ever prone to look on
the bright side of life, it is easy to imagine his buoyancy of
spirits as he walked down to Budua. Every step was bringing him
nearer her; before the sun had reached its zenith he would be at
home, clasping her in his arms; she--Milena--would be his for ever,
and he crossed his arms and hugged himself in his excited state of
mind.

Then he began to imagine Milenko's delight when he would hear that
he, too, could marry the girl he loved.

It is not to be wondered at that he thought the earth a good
dwelling-place, and that life--taking it on the whole--was not only
worth living, but very pleasant besides. It is true, he said to
himself, that man sometimes mars the work of God with his passions;
still, _karvarinas_ were the clouds of life, enhancing the beauty of
the bright days which followed sudden showers. Sullen and malicious
men like Vranic and his brood were buzzing insects, more tedious than
harmful to their fellow-creatures.

Such were the thoughts that flitted through his mind as he walked
briskly along, singing as blithely as a lark. As he had, the day
before, sent word to Milenko that he would be back on the morrow, he
stopped at every turn of the road, and, shading his eyes with his
hand, he looked down the road, hoping to see his friend's graceful
figure coming to meet him, as was sure to be the case.

He had never been separated from Milenko for so many days, and now
that he was about to see him, his longing seemed to increase at every
step.

As for Milenko, being of a more sensitive character, and having
remained on board, he had missed his friend even more keenly than
Uros had done. He would have started to meet him at early dawn, but
he had been obliged to remain behind and look after the ship's cargo,
that had been delayed the evening before on account of some trifling
incident--for, sometimes, things of no importance in themselves lead
to the most dreadful calamities. Likewise, the string of one of
Milenko's shoes broke, so he stopped to tie it; after some steps it
broke again. He stopped once more, pulled off his shoe, unlaced it,
tied the string as well as he could. After a quarter of an hour the
string of the other shoe broke too; he had again to stop and mend it.
More than five minutes was thus lost; besides, the loose strings not
only made him linger, but even slacken his pace.

Uros went down singing snatches of some merry song, little thinking
that the delay in meeting his friend would almost cost him his life.

The news of Radonic's death had soon been spread about Budua, and he,
who had never been a favourite during his lifetime, became a hero
after death. The Samson-like way in which he had fought was extolled,
the number of wounds he had received, the hundreds of Turks he had
killed went on daily increasing. His dauntless courage, his bold
feats, his cunningness in council were becoming legendary; in fact,
he was for some time a second Marko Kraglievic. The Vranite party
--especially after the night of the burying-ground affair--had
dwindled into nothing. The Radonites ruled the day.

Earless Vranic, as he was called everywhere, was galled by his
defeat; his envious, jealous disposition could find no rest. Being,
moreover, doomed to a certain death, he found himself like a stag at
bay, and he almost felt at times the courage of despair.

The radiant day which followed the dreadful night when the vampire
appeared to him brought no change to Vranic's gloom. He was too much
like a night-bird now to feel any pleasure at the sight of the sunlit
sky. Like an owl he shunned the light, and only prowled about when
every man had shut himself up in his house. He dreaded the sight of a
human face on account of the scowl of hatred he was sure to see
there, for he knew that everyone looked upon him not as a man, but as
the bloodsucker he would soon become.

Having recovered from his fainting-fit after the visit of the
_voukoudlak_, he almost lost his senses again, seeing the black
dagger on the table in front of him. With a fluttering heart, and
aching head and tottering limbs, he walked about his room, asking
himself what he should do and how he could escape the wretchedness of
his present life. Suicide never came into his head, for, in spite of
all his misery, life still was dear to him. The best thing would,
perhaps, be to leave Budua for a short time, and thus frustrate the
vampire.

As he had to go and pay the priest for the ceremony of the exorcism,
he decided to ask, and perhaps take, his advice upon what he was to
do and where he should go. He went grudgingly, indeed, to pay a large
sum of money for a ceremony which had been of no avail, and although
it had not been the priest's fault if the ghost had not been killed,
still the money was being thrown away, for all that.

Before leaving the house, he took the black dagger, washed and
scrubbed it with fine sand to cleanse it from the offensive smell it
had, then he put it in his breast pocket, where he had had it some
nights before. With heavy steps he trudged towards the priest's house
at dawn, before the people of the town were up and about the streets.
The priest, who was an early riser, had just got up. Vranic, with
unwilling hands, undid the strings of his purse, and counted out,
with many a sigh, the sum agreed upon, for the priest would not bate
a single cent. Then Vranic, with his eyes gloating on the silver
dollars, told the clergyman how the vampire had appeared to him and
overcome him.

"Aye," said the priest, "I was afraid that would be the case."

"And now I'd like to leave the town, for I might thus avoid the
vampire."

"The best thing you could do."

"Yes, but where am I to go in order to escape the ghost?"

"I think the best place for you is the Convent of St. George. Surely
the spectre 'll not follow you there in those hallowed walls, amongst
all those saintly men."

"Yes, but will the brotherhood receive me?"

"Tell them that I sent you. Moreover, I'll call myself during the day
and speak to them. May I add that, perhaps, you'll be induced to turn
caloyer yourself some day or other. Meanwhile, a little charity to
the convent would render your stay more agreeable. You know the
brotherhood is poor."

Vranic thanked the priest, and promised to be guided by his advice;
still, he could not help thinking of all the money this new scheme
might cost him. It is true, if he turned friar, he might get rid of
the vampire, but would he not also lose all his money into the
bargain?

Which was the greater evil of the two--to be sucked of all his blood,
or drained of all his money?

Out of the town gate, far from the haunts and scowling faces of men,
he breathed a little more at ease. Were they not all a set of
grasping, covetous ghouls, whose only aim was to wrench all he had
from him? The dazzling sunshine and the dancing waves, far from
soothing him, only irritated him, for he fancied that all the world
was blithe, merry and happy, and he alone was miserable. He thought
how happy he, too, might have been had that cursed _karvarina_ not
taken place. He had never felt any deep hatred against Radonic, nor
had he any real reason for disliking him; for, to be true to himself,
his brother's murder had been an incident, not an accident, in his
life. It was not Radonic's fault if the ghost-seer had become a
vampire after his death. All his grudge was rather against Bellacic,
who had helped to frustrate him of a good round sum of money, owed to
him for his brother's blood. He hated him especially for having
inflicted a bodily and moral wound by cutting off his ear, rendering
him thus an object of everlasting scorn in the whole town.

Radonic was dead, but Bellacic lived to triumph over him. If he could
only wreak his vengeance upon him he might pacify the vampire's rage;
if not, he could always make his escape into the convent. With these
thoughts in his head, he clutched the handle of the dagger and, as he
did so, he shivered from head to foot with a kind of hellish delight.

Just then he fancied he heard a distant chuckle and looked round. He
could see nobody. It was only his imagination. Almost at the same
time he heard a voice whisper softly in his ear:

"Use this dagger against my enemies better than you did against me,
and then, perhaps, you might be free."

Was it his brother ordering him what he was to do? Instead of
stopping at the convent, should he go on to Montenegro, waylay
Bellacic and murder him?

He had been walking, or rather, crawling quietly on, for about two
hours; the sun was high up in the sky, the day was hot, the road
dusty, and, worn out by sleeplessness, by worry and, above all, by
the great loss of blood, he was now overcome by weariness and
weakness. The monastery was at last in sight; still, he felt as if he
could hardly crawl any further on; so, undecided as he was, he sat
down at the side of some laurel-bushes to rest and make up his mind
as to what he was to do.

He had not been sitting there a quarter of an hour, blinking at the
sun, like an owl, when he heard snatches of an unknown song, wafted
from afar. It was not one of the plaintive lays of his own country,
but a lively, blithe Italian canzonet, with trills that sounded like
the merry warbling of a lark. The singing stopped--it began again,
then stopped once more; after that he heard a light, brisk step
coming towards him. A man who could sing and walk in such a way must
surely be happy, he thought. Then, without knowing who the man was,
he hated him for being happy. Why should some people have all the
sweetness, and others all the gall of life? he asked himself. Is not
this world a fool's paradise for him and a dungeon for me? In my
wretchedness he seems to taunt me with his mirth. Well, if ever I
become a vampire, the first blood I'll suck is that man's; and I'll
drain the very last drop, for it must be warm and sweet.

Just then the light-hearted singer passed by the laurel-bushes,
without perceiving the owl-like man half hidden behind them. Vranic,
lifting up his head, saw the flushed face, the sparkling eyes, the
red and parted lips of his enemy's son--the youth who, by his beauty
and his criminal love, had been the cause of all the mischief. Had it
not been for him, his brother would probably not have been murdered,
and, what was far worse, become a _voukoudlak_. Instinctively he
clasped the handle of his dagger, and the words he had heard a little
while before rang once more in his ears, urging him to make good use
of the knife now that an opportunity offered itself. Besides, would
not his revenge be a far keener one in killing this young man, his
father's only son, than in murdering Bellacic himself? This was real
_karvarina_, and his lost ear would be dearly paid for.

Uplifted by a strength which was not his own, urged on almost
unconsciously, Vranic jumped up and ran after the merry youth.

Uros just at that moment had perceived Milenko at a distance, and,
hurrying down to meet him, he, in his joy, had not heard the fiend
spring like a tiger from behind the bush and rush at him with
uplifted knife.

Milenko, seeing Vranic appear all at once, with a dagger in his hand,
stopped, uplifted both his hands, and uttered a loud cry of terror,
threat and anger.

Uros, for an instant, could not understand what was happening; but
hearing someone running after him, and already close to his heels, he
turned round, and to his horror he saw Josko Vranic scowling at him.
The face, with its blinking eyes and all its nerves twitching
frightfully, had a fierce and fiendish expression--it was, in fact,
just as he had seen it in the glass on New Year's Eve, at the fatal
stroke of twelve.

A moment of overpowering superstitious terror came over Uros; he knew
that his last hour had arrived. In his distracted state, Uros had
only time to lift up his arm in an attitude of self-defence, but
Vranic was already upon him, plunging the sharp-pointed blade in his
breast. The youth uttered a low, muffled groan, staggered, put his
hands instinctively to the deep gash, as if to stop the blood from
all rushing out; then he fell senseless on the ground.

Vranic plucked the poniard out of the wound mechanically; his arm
fell heavily of its own weight. Then, struck with a sudden terror,
not because he saw Milenko rushing up, but because he was bewildered
at what he had so rashly done, he, after standing quite still for a
moment, turned round and fled.

Milenko had already rushed to his friend's side; he was clasping him
in his arms, lifting him up with the tender fondness of a mother
nursing a sickly babe. Alas! all his loving care seemed vain; the
point of the dagger must have entered within his heart, and death had
been instantaneous.

Milenko did not lose his presence of mind for an instant; nor did he
try to run after the murderer. He took off his broad sash which he
wore as a belt, tore up his shirt, rolled a smooth stone in the rag,
and with this pad (to stop up the blood) he bandaged up the wound as
tightly as he possibly could. Then he took up his friend in his arms,
and although Uros was a heavier weight than himself, still his life
of a sailor had strengthened his muscles to such a degree that he
carried his burden, if not with ease, at least, not with too great
difficulty, down to the neighbouring convent.

It was well known in town that some of the holy men were versed in
medicine, and especially that the secret of composing salves, and the
knowledge of simples with which to heal deadly wounds, was
transmitted by one friar on his death-bed to another. Still, when
Milenko had laid down his friend upon a bed, the wisest of these wise
men shook their heads gravely and declared the case to be a desperate
one. The head surgeon said that, if life were not already extinct--as
Milenko had believed--still the youth's recovery could only be
brought about by a miracle, for he was already beyond all human help.

Milenko felt his legs giving way. A cold, damp draught seemed to blow
on his face.

"He might," continued the old man, "last some hours; he might even
linger on for some days."

"Anyhow," added another caloyer, "we have time to administer the Holy
Sacrament and prepare him for heaven."

"Oh, yes! there is time for that," quoth the doctor, shrugging his
shoulders; "but, before the wine and bread, I'll prepare the
cathartic water with which to wash the wound, for while there is life
a doctor must not give up hope."

"Then," said Milenko, falteringly, "I can leave him to your care, and
run and fetch his mother; he'll not pass away till my return?"

"Not if you make every possible haste."

"You promise?"

"He is in God's hands, my son."

With a heavy heart, and with the tears ever trickling down his
cheeks, Milenko ran down the mountain, and all the way from the
convent to the gates of Budua. He stopped to take breath before
Bellacic's house, and then he went in, and, composing his face as
well as he could, he gently broke the terrible news to the forlorn
mother.

Mara was a most courageous woman. Far from fainting and requiring all
attendance upon herself, she bethought herself at once of the
difficulty in the way, for she knew that no women were admitted into
a convent of monks. One person alone might help her. This was her
uncle, a priest of high degree, and a most important personage in the
town.

She hastened to his house, and, having explained matters to him, she
implored him to start at once with her for the Convent of St. George
and obtain for her the permission she required. The good man,
although he hated walking, was not only very fond of his niece, but
loved Uros as his own son, so he acceded at once to her request and
set out with her, notwithstanding that it was nearly dinner-time, and
not exactly an hour suited for a long up-hill walk. Milenko, having
broken the news to Mara, hastened to his own house to inform his
parents of the great misfortune. His father, snatching up a loaf of
bread and a gourd of wine, started at once with him. He would go as
far as the convent, enquire there how Uros was getting on, and then
hasten on to Montenegro and inform Bellacic of what had taken place.
When they all got to the convent they found that Uros was still alive
and always unconscious.

Just when Milenko had got back to the convent he remembered that, in
his hurry to go and return, he had forgotten one person, dearer to
his friend, perhaps, even than father or mother; that person was
Milena.

When the news of Radonic's death reached Budua, Milena made up her
mind to return to her father's house. Still, she was rather weak to
undertake the journey, and, moreover, she would not go there until
Uros had come back.

On the morning on which Uros was expected she had gone to her own
house, to put things in order previous to her departure, and Mara had
promised to come and see her that afternoon, and take her home with
her.

Time passed; Milena was sitting in her house alone, waiting for her
friend. At every step she heard outside, her heart would begin to
beat faster, and with unsteady steps she would go to the window,
hoping to see Uros and his mother; but she was always disappointed.
Her sufferings had told their tale upon her thin pale face, which,
though it had lost all its freshness, had acquired a new and more
ethereal kind of beauty. Her large and lustrous eyes--staring at
vacancy--seemed to be gazing at some woful, soul-absorbing vision.
The whole of that day she had been a prey to the most gloomy
forebodings.

All at once a little urchin of about four or five summers stood on
the doorstep.

"_Gospa_ Milena," lisped the little child, "I've come to see you."

It had been a daring deed to wander all the way from home by
himself, and he was rather frightened.

This child was the son of one of Mara's neighbours, whom Milena had
of late made a pet of, and whom she had sometimes taken along with
her when coming to her house.

Milena turned round and looked at the little child, that might well
have been taken for an angel just alighted from heaven, for the
slanting rays of the setting sun shining through his fair,
dishevelled, curly locks seemed to form a kind of halo round his
little head.

"Have you come all the way from home to see me?"

"Yes," said the child, staring at her to see whether she was cross.
"I've come for you to tell me a story."

Milena caught up the boy and covered him with kisses. She was about
to ask him if he knew whether Uros had returned, but the question
lingered for an instant on her lips; then she blushed, and feared to
frame her thoughts in words. Anyhow, it was a very good excuse to
shut up her house and take the little boy back home.

"Will you tell me a story?" persisted the urchin.

"Yes," said Milena, smiling, "for you must be tired and hungry, too."

She went into the orchard behind the house, and presently came back
with a huge peach, which made the child's eyes glisten with pleasure.

"Now, come and sit down here, and when you've finished your peach
I'll take you home."

Thereupon she sat down on her favourite seat, the doorstep, and the
child nestled by her side.

"What story shall I tell you?"

"One you've already told me," replied the boy, for, like almost all
children, he liked best the stories he already knew.

Milena then began the oft-repeated tale of


THE MAN WHO SERVED THE DEVIL.

"Once a farmer's only son married a very young girl----"

"How old was she?" interrupted the child.

"She was sixteen."

"Last time you told me she was fifteen."

"So she was, but that was a year ago. They had a very grand wedding,
to which all the people of the village were invited----"

"Not the village, the town," said the child.

"You are right," added Milena, correcting herself.

"For eight days they danced the _Kolo_ every night, and had grand
dinners and suppers."

"What had they for dinner?"

"They had roast lambs, _castradina_, chickens, geese----"

"And also sausages?"

"Yes; and ever so many other good things."

"But what had they for supper?"

"They had huge loaves of milk-bread and cakes with raisins----"

"Had they also peaches?" asked the boy, with his mouth full, whilst
the juice of his own luscious peach was trickling down his chin.

"Yes; they had also grapes, melons and pomegranates; so when every
guest had eaten till he could hardly stand, all squatted on the floor
and sucked sticks of sugar-candy. When the eight days' feasting was
over, the bridegroom weighed himself and, to his dismay, found that
he was eight pounds lighter than on the eve of his marriage."

"Why?" asked the child, with widely-opened eyes.

"Because," answered Milena, with a slight smile and the faintest of
blushes, "because, I suppose, he had danced too much."

"But if he ate till he couldn't stand?"

"Anyhow," continued Milena, "he was so frightened when he saw how
much he had lost in weight that he made up his mind to run away and
leave his wife at home."

"But why?" quoth the urchin.

"Because he thought that if he kept getting thin at that rate,
nothing would soon be left of him. He, therefore, made a bundle of
his clothes and went off in the middle of the night. He walked and
walked, and after a few days, at early dawn, he got to a bleak and
desolate country, where there was nothing but huge rocks, sharp
flints, and sandy tracts of ground. Far off he saw a large castle,
with high stone walls and big iron gates. Being very tired and not
seeing either a tree or a bush as far as eye could reach, he went
and knocked at one of the gates. An elderly gentleman, dressed in
black, came to open, and asked him what he wanted.

"'I come,' said the bridegroom, 'to see if you are, perhaps, in want
of a serving-man.'

"'You come in the nick of time,' said the old man, grinning. 'I'll
take you as my cook; you'll not have much to do.'

"'But,' answered the young man, 'I'm not very clever as a cook.'

"'It doesn't matter; you'll only have to keep a pot boiling and be
ever stirring what's in it.'

"He then led the young man into a kind of underground kitchen, where
there was an immense pot hanging on a hook, and underneath a roaring
fire was burning. Then the old gentleman gave the youth a ladle as
big as a shovel, and bade him stir continually, and every now and
then add more fuel to the fire.

"The youth stirred on and on for twenty-five years, and then he grew
tired and stopped for a while. When he was about to begin again he
heard a voice coming out of the cauldron, which said:

"'You've been mixing us up for a good long while; couldn't you let us
have a little rest?'

"The cook--who was no more a youth, but an elderly man--got
frightened. He left the kitchen and went to find his master.

"'Well,' said the elderly gentleman, who was not a day older than he
had been twenty-five years before, 'what is it you want?'

"'I'm rather tired of always stirring that pot, and I'd like to go
home.'

"'Quite right,' replied the master. 'I suppose you want your wages?'

"He then went to an iron box and took out two big sacks of gold
coins.

"'You have served me faithfully, and I'll pay you accordingly. This
money is yours.'

"The man took the money and thanked his master.

"'I'll give you, moreover, some advice, which is, perhaps, worth more
than the money itself. Listen to my words, and remember them. Upon
leaving me, always take the high road; on no account go through lanes
and byways. Never put up for the night at little hostelries, but
always stop at the largest inns. Whenever you are about to commit
some rash act, defer your purpose till the morrow. Lastly, when
people speak badly of the devil, tell them that he is less black than
he is painted.'

"The man thanked his master and went off. He walked for some time on
the highway, and then he met another traveller, who was walking in
the same direction. After a few hours they came to a crossway.

"'Let us take this path, for we'll get to the next town two hours
sooner,' said the traveller.

"The devil's cook was about to follow the stranger's advice, when he
heard his master's words ringing in his ears: 'Always take the high
road, and on no account go through lanes and byways.'

"He, therefore, told his fellow-traveller how he had pledged his word
to his master to follow his advice. As neither could persuade the
other, they parted company, promising each other to meet again at
nightfall, at the neighbouring town.

"As soon as the devil's cook reached the inn where he was to spend
the night, he asked for his new friend, and, on the morrow, he was
grieved to hear that a wayfarer, answering to the traveller's
description, had been murdered the day before, when crossing the
lonely byway leading to the town.

"The devil's cook set out once more on his way, and he was soon
overtaken by a party of merry pedlars, all journeying towards his
native town, where, a few days afterwards, there was to be a fair
held in honour of a patron saint. He made friends with all of them,
especially as he bought silk kerchiefs, dresses and trinkets, as
presents for his wife. They trudged along the high road, avoiding all
short cuts, lanes and byways. In the evening they came to a large
village, where they were to pass the night.

"'Let us stop here,' said one of the party, pointing to a tavern by
the roadside; 'I know the landlord; the cooking is very good, nowhere
can you get a better glass of wine; and besides, it is much cheaper
than at the large inn farther down.'

"The devil's cook was already on the threshold, when he again
remembered his master's words:

"'Never put up at little hostelries, but always stop at the larger
inns.'

"He, therefore, parted from his company, and went off by himself to
the next inn.

"He had his supper by himself, and then, being very tired, he went
off to bed. In the middle of the night he was awakened by a very loud
noise and a great bustle. He got out of bed, and, going to the
window, he saw the sky all red, and the village seemed to be in
flames. He went downstairs, and he was told that the little tavern by
the roadside was burning. It appears that the travellers who had
stopped there had all got drunk. Somehow or other they had set fire
to the house, and, in their sleep, had all got burnt.

"The devil's cook was again grateful to his master for his good
advice, and on the morrow he once more set out on his way alone.

"In the evening he at last reached his native town. He was surprised
at the many changes that had taken place since he had left it
twenty-five years before. On the square, just in front of his own
house, a large inn had been built; therefore, instead of going at
once to his wife's, he went to pass the night at the inn, and see
what was taking place at home.

"From the windows of the inn he saw all his house illuminated, and
people coming in and going out as if some wedding or other grand
feast were taking place. Then, in one of the rooms of the first floor
he saw his wife--now a buxom matron--together with two handsome
youths in priest's attire. To his horror and dismay, he saw her
hugging and fondling the young men, who were covering her with
kisses. At this sight he got into such a rage that he took out his
pistol."

"No," said the child, interrupting, "he took up his gun, which was in
a corner of the room."

"Quite right," answered Milena; "he took up his gun, aimed at his
wife, and was about to shoot, when he fancied he heard his master's
voice saying:

"'Whenever you are about to commit some rash act, put off your
purpose till the morrow.'

"He, therefore, thought he would postpone his revenge till the next
day, and he went downstairs to have his supper.

"'Who lives opposite,' he asked of the landlord, 'in that house where
they seem to be having such grand doings?'

"'A very virtuous woman,' quoth the host, 'whose husband disappeared
in a strange, mysterious way on the eighth day of the wedding feast,
and has never been heard of since.'

"'And she never married again?'

"'No, of course not.'

"'But who are those two handsome priests that are with her?'

"'Those are her two boys, twins born shortly after the marriage. The
house is illuminated as to-morrow the two young men are to be
consecrated priests, and their mother is giving a feast in their
honour.'

"On the morrow the husband went home, made himself known, presented
each of his two sons with a sack of gold coins, gave his wife all the
beautiful presents he had bought for her; then he went to church and
assisted at the ceremony of the consecration. After that he gave all
his old friends a splendid feast, which lasted eight days; and he
told them how, for twenty-five years, he had served the devil, who
was by no means as black as he is painted."

"I wonder," said the child, "if he got thin again after the feast."

"I don't know," replied Milena, "for the story stops there."

"No, it doesn't, for my papa said that many people tried to go and
offer themselves as cooks to the devil, but that they had never been
heard of since then."

"And now I'll take you home. Perhaps we'll meet _gospa_ Mara on our
way."

"No, we'll not meet her," said the child, abruptly.

"Why? Because Uros has come home?"

"But Uros hasn't come home."

"How do you know?"

"I know, because _Capitan_ Milenko came this morning and told _gospa_
Mara that Josko Vranic had killed Uros, and so she went off at once
to the Convent of St. George, where----"

Milena heard no more. A deadly faintness came over her; she loosened
the grasp of the door she had clutched, her legs sank under her, and
she fell lifeless on the ground.

The urchin looked at her astonished. He, for a moment, gave up
sucking his peach-stone; then he turned on his heels and scampered
home to inform his mother about what had happened.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE CONVENT OF ST. GEORGE


When Mara reached the convent, it was with the greatest difficulty,
and only through the persuasive influence of her uncle, Danko
Kvekvic, that she was allowed to see her son. Uros, moreover, had to
be transported from the cell into which he had been carried, into a
room near the church--a sort of border-land between the sanctuary and
the convent. Even there she was only allowed to remain till
nightfall.

"Tell me," said Mara, to the ministering monk (a man more than six
feet in height, and who, in his black robes, seemed a real giant),
"tell me, do you think he might pass away during the night while I am
not with him?"

"No, I don't think so. He is young and strong; he is one of our
sturdy race--a Iugo Slav, not a Greek, or an effete Turk eaten away
by vice and debauchery. He'll linger on."

"Still, there is no hope?"

"Who can tell? I never said there was none. For me, as long as there
is a faint spark of life, there is always hope."

"Still, you have administered the sacrament to him?"

"You wouldn't have him die like a dog, would you?" answered the
priest, combing out his long white beard with his fingers.

"No, certainly not."

"Besides, we all take the sacrament when we are in bodily health.
Your son came to himself for a few moments, and we seized the
opportunity to administer to him the Holy Communion and pray with
him; it does no harm to the body, whilst it sets the troubled mind at
ease."

Danko Kvekvic, Mara and Milenko crossed themselves devoutly.

"It cannot be denied," continued the monk, "that our patient lies
there with both his feet in the grave. Still, God is omnipotent. I
have seen many a brave man fall on the battlefield----"

"You have been in war?" asked Milenko, astonished.

"Bearing the Cross and tending the wounded."

"Still, it is said that at times you wielded the gun with remarkable
dexterity," interrupted Danko Kvekvic, with a keen smile.

"Do people say so? Well, what if they do? I am sure no harm is meant
by it; for, if my memory does not deceive me, the very same thing was
said about a priest who is no monk of our order, Danko Kvekvic, and
who, for all that, is said to be a holy man."

"Well, well, we all try to serve our God and our country as well as
we can; and no doubt we have done our best to save our flag from
being trampled in the dust, or a fellow-countryman's life when in
danger. But I interrupted you; tell me what you have seen on the
battlefield."

"Nothing, except blood spilt; but I was going to say that I've seen
many a man linger within the jaws of death for days together, and
then be snatched from danger when his state became desperate."

"By your skill, father," said Mara, "for we are all aware that you
know the secrets of plants, and that you have effected wonderful
cures by means of simples."

"Aye, aye! perhaps I have been more successful than the learned
doctors of Dunaj" (Vienna) "or Benetke" (Venice); "still, shall I
tell you the secret of my cures?"

Mara opened her eyes in wonder. "I thought it was only a death-bed
secret transmitted from one dying monk to his successor," said she.

"We are not wizards," said the old man, with a pleasant smile; "we
make no mystery of the herbs we seek on the mountains, and even the
youngest lay-brother is taught to concoct an elixir or make a salve
for wounds."

"But the secret you spoke of?" said Mara.

"It is the pure life-giving air of our mountains, the sobriety of our
life, our healthy work in the open fields or on the wide sea. Our
sons have in their veins their mothers' blood, for every Serb or
Montenegrin woman is a heroine, a brave _juna-kinja_, who has often
suckled her babe with blood instead of milk. These are the secrets
with which we heal dying men."

Then, turning to Milenko, he added:

"You, too, must be a brave young man, and wise even beyond your
years. You have the courage of reason, for you do not lose your head
in moments of great danger. We have already heard how you saved
several precious lives from the waves, and now, if your friend does
recover--and, with God's help, let us hope he will--it is to you, far
more than to anyone else, that he will owe his life. A practised
surgeon could surely not have bandaged the wound and stopped the
hemorrhage better than you did. Your father should have sent you to
study medicine in one of the great towns."

Mara stretched forth her hand and clasped Milenko.

"You never told me what you had done, my boy," said she, while the
tears trickled down her cheeks.

"What I did was little enough; besides, did Uros ever tell you how he
saved my life and dragged me out of prison at Ragusa?" and Milenko
thereupon proceeded to tell them all how he had been accused of
manslaughter, and in what a wonderful way he had been saved by his
friend.

"In my grief I have always one consolation," said Mara; "should the
worst happen, one son is left me, for they are _pobratim_," said she,
turning to the monk.

"What has become of the murderer? Has he been arrested?" asked
Kvekvic of Milenko.

"He took to the rocks and disappeared like a horned adder. At that
moment I only thought of Uros, who would have bled to death had he
been left alone."

"Oh, those Vranics are a cursed race! The Almighty God has not put a
sign on them for nothing. This one has a cast in his eye, so that men
should keep aloof from him. They are all a peevish, fretful,
malicious race," said Kvekvic.

"Their blood turns to gall," added the monk.

"Oh, but I'll find him out, even if he hide himself in the most
secret recess!" quoth Milenko, turning towards Mara. "I'll not rest
till my brother's blood is avenged."

"'Tooth for tooth, eye for eye,' say our Holy Scriptures," and Danko
Kvekvic crossed himself.

"Amen!" added the monk, following his example.

Just then Uros opened his eyes. He came to his senses for a few
seconds, and, seeing his mother, his pupils seemed to dilate with a
yearning look of love. She pressed his hand, and he slightly--almost
imperceptibly--returned the pressure. His lips quivered; he was about
to speak, when he again closed his eyes and his senses began once
more to wander. The monk bathed his lips with the cordial he was
administering him. The patient, apparently, had again fallen off to
sleep.

Just then the sound of the convent bell was heard.

"I am sorry," said the old caloyer, turning towards his guests, "but
I have to dismiss you now; the bell you have just heard summons us to
_vecernjca_. When our prayers are over, the doors of our house are
closed for the night--no one comes in or goes out after evensong."

"But we two can surely remain with you to-night," said Kvekvic,
pointing to Milenko.

"Surely Father Vjekoslav will readily give you permission to be our
honoured guests as long as you like, if he has not already granted
it; but----" (here the old man hesitated).

"But what?" asked Kvekvic.

"The _gospa_," said the monk, turning towards Mara, "must return
home."

"Yes, I know," added Mara, sighing as she got up.

"Still," quoth the good caloyer, "we shall take great care of him,
and to-morrow morning you can come as early as you like."

The poor mother thanked the good old man; she slightly brushed off
the curls from her boy's forehead, kissed him with a deep-drawn sigh,
and with tearful eyes rose to go.

"Thank you for all the care you have taken of my child; thank you,
uncle Danko, for all your kindness," and she kissed the priest's and
the monk's hands, according to the custom of the Slavs.

Just then, a young lay-monk came to inform Mara that someone was
asking for her. It was Milenko's mother, who had come up to the
convent door to ask how Uros was getting on, and to see if she could
be of any use, for Milenko, with his usual thoughtfulness, had begged
his mother to come in the evening and accompany her friend back home.

"Go, Milos, and join the brethren in their prayers," said Danko
Kvekvic. "I shall recite my orisons here, beside my nephew's bed."

The monk and Milenko accompanied the forlorn mother to the convent
door, and bade her be of good cheer; then they went to church to take
part in the evening service.

When the candles were all put out, and echoes of the evening-song had
died away, they all slowly, and with stately steps, wended their way
to the refectory, where a simple repast was spread out for them.
Being Friday, the frugal supper consisted of vegetarian food; there
were tomatoes baked with bread-crumbs, egg-plants stuffed with rice,
and other such oriental dishes. The dessert, especially, was a
sumptuous one, not only on account of the thickly-curded sour milk,
but of the splendid fruit which the convent garden afforded. There
were luscious plums as big as eggs; large, juicy and fragrant
peaches, the flesh of which clung to the stone; huge water-melons,
the inside of which looked like crimson snow, and melted away as
such, and sweet-scented musk-melons; above all, big clusters of
grapes of all shapes and hues; rosy-tinted, translucent berries,
looking like pale rubies; dark purple drupes covered with pearly
dust, which seemed like bunches of damsons; big white Smyrna grapes
of a waxy hue, the small sultana of Corinth, and the long grapes that
look like amber tears.

Milenko, notwithstanding the grief he felt, made a hearty meal, for,
except a bit of bread, broken off as he walked along from his
father's loaf, and a draught of wine, he had scarcely tasted food the
whole of that day; therefore, he was more than hungry. Supper being
over, and a short thanksgiving prayer having been offered, Milenko
found himself all at once surrounded by the monks, who pressed him
with questions, for childish curiosity was their prevailing weakness.

They were especially interested in the theatrical performances the
young man had witnessed at the Fenice of Venice, for they were amazed
to hear that the grand ladies of the town, all glittering with costly
gems, sat in boxes, where they exhibited to all eyes their naked arms
and breasts, whilst they looked at young girls in transparent skirts
hardly reaching their knees, who kept dancing on the tips of their
toes, or twirled their legs over their partners' heads. Hearing such
lewdness the saintly men were so greatly shocked that they crossed
themselves demurely, and the eldest shook their heads, and said,
reproachfully, that such dens of infamous resort were not places for
modest young men to go to.

After that, Milenko told them of the last great invention, the boats
that went without sails, but which had two huge wheels moved by fire;
at which the monks again crossed themselves, and said that those were
the devil's inventions, and that if things continued at such a rate,
God would have to send another flood and destroy the world once more.

Milenko would have willingly escaped from his persecutors, but he
still had to answer many questions about his life on board, the
hardships he had had to undergo, the storms his ship had met with.

The medical monk had gone to take his place at Uros' bedside, and
Danko Kvekvic, after having had some supper, had come out to breathe
the fresh air on the convent's terrace, where all the caloyers had
assembled before retiring to rest.

The scene was a most lovely one. Behind the terrace the high
mountains rose dark against the sky; nearer, the black rocks had
furry, velvety, and satin tints, for, under the dark and dusky light
of the disappearing twilight, the stones seemed to have grown soft;
whilst, on the other side, the broad expanse of the sea looked like a
mass of some hard burnished metal.

The utter quietness, the perfect peace and rest which pervaded the
whole scene, rendered the sense of life a pleasurable feeling; still,
it is doubtful whether most of those holy men--who had never known
the real wear and tear of life--felt all the bliss of that beatific
rest.

"Now," said Kvekvic to Milenko, "you can come and see your friend,
who, I am sorry to say, seems to be sinking; then you must retire to
rest; you'll soon have to start with your ship, and you should not
unfit yourself for your task."

"No," pleaded Milenko; "it is, perhaps, the last watch we shall keep
together; therefore, let me stay by his bedside. But, tell me, is he
really getting worse?"

"The fever is increasing fast, notwithstanding the father's
medicines."

"Had we not better have a doctor from Budua or Cattaro?"

"I don't think their skill could be of much use, for I really think
his hours are numbered here below--although he is young, and might
struggle back to life; darkness, albeit, is gathering fast around
him."

Milenko, with a heavy heart, went back to the sufferer's cell, where
some other monks, also versed in the art of healing, had gathered
around him in a grave consultation. They all said to Milenko that
there was still hope; but, one by one, they all left the room, making
the sign of the Cross, and recommending him to God, as if human aid
could do nothing more for him.

Poor Milenko felt as if all the nerves of his chest had contracted
painfully; life did not seem possible without the friend, the
constant companion of his infancy.

As it was agreed that Danko Kvekvic should stay up with the old monk,
all the other caloyers went off to sleep; but presently one of the
younger brothers came in, bearing a tray of fragrant coffee, cooked
in the Turkish fashion.

"Oh, thank you!" said Kvekvic, rubbing his hands, "I think you must
have guessed my wishes, for, to tell you the truth, I was actually
pining for a draught of that exhilarating beverage, one of the few
good things we owe to the enemies of our creed, for, in fact, I know
of few beverages that can be compared to a cup of fragrant coffee."

"As far as luxuries go, the Turks are certainly our masters; not only
in confectionery, in sweet-scented sherbet, but even in cooking we
are rude barbarians compared to them."

"They certainly are hedonists, who know how to render life
pleasurable."

"Aye," said the monk, sternly, "theirs is the broad path leading to
perdition." Then, after a slight pause, he added: "What is that book
thou hast brought with thee, Blagoslav?"

"I thought," replied the young man, somewhat bashfully, "I might help
you to pass your long vigil by reading to you; that is, of course, if
it be agreeable to you."

The poor fellow stammered, and stopped, seeing the little success his
proposal seemed to elicit.

"Blagoslav," retorted the old man, gravely, "vanity caused the
archangel's downfall, and vanity is thy besetting sin. Blagoslav,
thou knowest that thou readest well, for thou hast too often been
praised for it, and now thou seizest every opportunity to hear the
sound of thine own voice, which, I freely grant, is a pleasant one."

"Let us hear it, then," said Danko Kvekvic, kindly; "besides, I
firmly believe that brother Blagoslav's intentions were good and----"

"Danko Kvekvic," said the old man, gruffly, "you are not a general
favourite and an important man in Budua for nothing; you have the
evil knack of flattering people's foibles."

"Come, come!" said the priest, good-humouredly, "should we pat a cat
on the right side or on the wrong side?" Then, turning to Blagoslav,
he added: "I, for myself, shall be thankful to you for beguiling away
the long hours by reading something to us."

The young man, who had stood with his eyes cast down, and as still as
a statue, sat down on a stool by the table and opened his book.

"What volume of ancient lore have you there?" asked the priest,
pleasantly.

"'The Lives of the Saints,' written by a holy monk of our order."
Then, looking up at the old monk, "Which Life shall I read?" he
asked.

"Begin with that of our patron saint, Prince George of Cappadocia. It
is a holy legend, which we, of course, all know, for the peasant
often sings it at his plough, the shepherds say it to one another
whilst tending their sheep, and"--turning to Milenko--"I suppose you,
too, have often recited it at the helm when keeping your watch on the
stormy sea."

"Yes, and invoked his holy name in the hour of danger." Thereupon
Milenko crossed himself, and the others followed suit.

"It is one of our oldest legends; still, always a very pleasant one
to hear, especially if it is well read. But, before you begin,
Blagoslav, let me first set the sufferer's pillow straight and
administer to his wants; then we shall listen to your reading without
disturbing you."

The old man suited his actions to his words--felt Uros' pulse, gave
him with a spoon some drops of cordial, and afterwards sat down.

"Now we are ready," said he to the young monk.

Blagoslav thereupon began as follows:--


PISMA SVETOGA JURJE.

THE SONG OF ST. GEORGE

  All hail, O Bosnia! fairest of all lands,
  Renowned throughout the world since many an age;
  The springtide of the year renews thy bloom,
  And with the spring St. George's Day is nigh.
  He was the greatest glory of the Cross,
  Who taught our fathers Christ's most holy creed.
  Now God again has granted us His gifts--
  The life-awakening dews, the greenwood shade,
  The sun's bright rays which warm the fruitful meads,
  And melt the snow that lingers still a while
  Upon the high and hoary mountain-tops;
  The flowers fair that grow amongst the grass,
  The blood-red rose that sheds its fragrance far,
  The tawny swallows, from the sunny South,
  That twitter sweetly 'neath the thatchèd eaves,
  Are all the gifts that God sends every year
  To Bosnia. Still He grants a greater boon;
  This is the gladsome day of great St. George.
  For though our land can boast of valiant knights,
  Of warlike princes, eke of holy men,
  Still greater far than all was _voyvod_ George
  Who whilom was of Cappadocia Duke.
  He killed the grisly dragon that of yore
  Laid waste the land around Syrene's white walls,
  And freed the country from a fearful scourge.
  Far down a lake full many fathoms deep,
  There dwelt this dragon dreadful to behold;
  For from his round red eyes he shot forth flames,
  And spouted from his snout a sooty smoke
  That burnt and blasted all around the mere.
  This dragon daily slew those daring knights,
  Who, mounted all on prancing, warlike steeds
  Had gone to try their strength against the beast;
  For on his ghastly green and scaly skin
  They bent and broke, or blunted, their best blades,
  As striking on the dragon's horrid hide
  Was worse than hitting at a coat of mail,
  Or cleaving some hard, flinty rock in twain;
  So, therefore, like an Eastern potentate,
  He reigned and ruled the region round Syrene.
  It was a terror-striking sight to see
  The horrid beast rise out in snaky coils,
  And rear his head with widely-gaping mouth,
  As towards the town he hissed with such a din
  That shook the strong and battlemented walls;
  Thereon to satisfy his hungry maw.
  The craven townsfolk, all appalled with fear,
  Would--as a dainty morsel--send the beast
  Some lovely maiden in the prime of youth.
  If naught was offered to the famished beast,
  He lifted up his huge and bat-like wings,
  And flapping, leapt upon the town's white walls;
  There, gripping 'twixt his sharp and cruel claws,
  Whoever stood thereby within his reach,
  He mauled and maimed, and gulped down men by scores,
  Until the ground seemed all around to be
  A marsh of mangled flesh and muddy gore,
  With skulls half split and jagged, splintered bones.
  When each and every man within the town
  Had offered up his child unto the fiend,
  And every mother wept from early morn,
  And saw at night her child in dreadful dreams,
  They told the King his turn had come at last
  To offer up his daughter to the beast--
  His cherished child, the apple of his eye,
  The only heir of all his wide domains.
  Oh! brother mine, hadst thou but seen just then
  The hot and blinding tears rush from his eyes,
  Whilst cruel grief convulsed his manly frame;
  At such a woful sight you would have thought
  It was some abject woman, not a King,
  Who, crouching low, was sobbing on the ground.
  He kissed his child and said: "My daughter dear,
  Woe worth the day that thou art reft from me!
  For now, alas! who is to wear my crown,
  Who is to grace my throne when thou art gone?"
  When last he ceased to weep, he bade the maids
  To deck his daughter out in richest dress,
  With costly Orient pearls and priceless gems,
  E'en as she were to wed the mighty Czar;
  And then he said: "My daughter, as thy suite,
  Take thou with thee my dukes, my noblest peers,
  And likewise all the ladies of the land,
  In sable garments clad to grace thy steps.
  Still, let us hope some help may come at last,
  And, meanwhile, pray the great god Alkoron.
  In dire distress all earthly help is vain;
  Alone, thy god may come to thy behest
  And free thee from the dreadful dragon's claws."
  The mother hugged her daughter to her heart,
  The forlorn father blessed his weeping child,
  Who then departed to her dismal doom;
  And as she crossed the squares, the crowded streets,
  The flutes and timbrels played a wailing dirge,
  That might have melted e'en a heart of stone.
  Behind her walked the lords of high degree,
  Then all the noble ladies of the land,
  All clad in widow's weeds and trailing veils.
  It was, indeed, a grand and glorious sight
  To witness all this pageantry of woe,
  The stately show of grief, the pomp of tears.
  The sun that shone upon the Princess's robes,
  Now glittered brightly on the gold brocade;
  Her eight rings sparkled all with costly gems,
  For each alone was worth at least eight towns;
  Her shining girdle, wrought of purest gold,
  Was studded o'er with coral and turquoise;
  Around her throat she wore a row of pearls,
  Iridescent, all brought from far-off seas.
  Upon her brow she bore the regal gem,
  Which glittered in the sun with such a sheen
  That every eye was dazzled by its light.
  The maid, moreover, was of beauty rare,
  Of tall and slender form, yet stately mien,
  And graceful as the topmost bough that bends,
  Or branchlet bowing 'neath the summer breeze;
  Within her hand she held some lilies white,
  The symbols of a young and modest maid.
  She crossed with tearful eyes the crowded streets;
  With grace she greeted every child she met,
  And all--whose hearts were not as cold as clay--
  Shed bitter tears at such a sight of woe,
  And sighing, said: "Alas, her mother dear!"
  At last when she had almost reached the lake,
  The mighty dukes, her father's noble peers,
  As well as every lady of her suite,
  Appalled with fear, now bade her all farewell,
  And hastened back to town before the beast
  Arose from out the mere to seize his prey.
  Now, God Almighty chose to show His love
  Not only to the crowd that stood aghast,
  But unto all the region round Syrene.
  He, therefore, sent His servant, saintly George,
  To turn them from their evil ways to Christ.
  The Knight came to the mere just when the maid
  Remained alone to weep upon her fate,
  Forsaken as she seemed by God and man.
  The Knight, who saw her from afar, sped on
  With all due haste; then leaping from his steed,
  He strode up by her side and asked her why
  She stood there by the lake appalled, aghast.
  For all reply the Princess only sobbed,
  And with her hand she bade him quickly go.
  "Can I afford no help?" then asked the Knight.
  "Flee fast away, spur on your sprightly steed;
  With all due haste, take shelter in the town;
  Uprising from the waters of the lake,
  The hungry dragon now doth take his meal;
  So hie thee hence. Just see, the waters move;
  Thou hast no time to tarry here to speak."
  But George, undaunted by her words, replied:
  "Fair maiden, dry your eyes and trust in me.
  Or rather trust in God, who sent me here."
  "What shall I do, fair Knight?" the maid replied.
  "Forswear," he answered, "all thy gods of clay,
  And bow with meekness to the name of Christ,
  Whose Cross we bear to reach a better life;
  For, with His mighty help, I hope to slay
  The hellish beast that haunts this lonely land;
  So, therefore, stand aside and let me fight."
  Now, when the girl had heard these words of hope,
  She hastened to reply unto the saint,
  "If God doth grant thee superhuman might,
  That wonders as the like thou canst achieve;
  If thou hast strength enough to slay the fiend
  And free me from this awful fate of mine,
  I shall forsake my god, false Alkoron,
  And bow with thee unto thine own true God,
  Extolling Him as mightier of the two.
  If thou wilt also show me how the sign
  Of that most mystic Cross is made, Sir Knight,
  I shall then cross myself both morn and eve.
  Moreover, thou shalt have most costly gifts,
  As well as all the gems I bear on me."
  She had but hardly uttered these few words
  When, lo! the waters blue began to heave,
  And bubble up with foam, and then the beast
  Upreared on high his dark and scaly head,
  That looked just like some sharp and jagged cliff,
  'Gainst which small shipwrecked smacks are dashed at night.
  Then, rising from the lake, the horrid beast
  Began to spout the water like a whale,
  And bellow with a loud, appalling noise,
  Just like the crocodiles that lurk unseen
  Amongst the sedges growing by the Nile;
  The roaring ended in a hollow moan,
  As when the hot simoon begins to blow
  In fitful blasts across the Libyan plain.
  The Princess stood thereby and shook with fear;
  She almost fainted at that dreadful sight.
  St. George's warlike steed began to rear,
  And prance and tremble; then it tried to flee;
  But curbing it with might, and wheeling round,
  The Knight with clashing strokes attacked the beast.
  His sabre, striking on that scaly skin,
  Struck forth a shower of sparks that glittered bright
  Like ocean spray tossed by the wind at night,
  Or glowing iron 'neath the smithy's sledge,
  Or when the kindling steel is struck 'gainst flint.
  The monster lifted then its leathern wings
  And, bat-like, tried to fly. It only looked
  Like some old hen alighting from its perch;
  With flutt'ring wings outspread it floundered down,
  And was about to fall upon the Knight
  And crush him 'neath its huge and massy weight;
  Or grasp him with its sharp and cruel claws,
  Just as an eagle pounces on a lamb.
  But George, invoking Mary to his help,
  Bent down and wheeled aside; then with one stroke
  He plunged his sword within the dragon's side,
  Just near the heart, beneath the massy wings.
  A flood of dark red blood at once gushed out,
  Which forthwith tinged the water with this gore.
  The monster yelled aloud with such a din
  That shook the white and battlemented walls
  Then, writhing like a trodden newt or worm
  It wallowed in the dust and seemed to die.
  But still, before the dragon passed away,
  The Knight undid his long and silken scarf,
  And bound it round the monster's scaly neck;
  He handed then the scarf unto the maid,
  Who now drove on the dragon like a lamb.
  They both went through the gate within the town,
  Between the gaping crowd that stood aside
  To let them pass, amazed at such a sight;
  And thus they crossed the streets and crowded squares,
  Until they reached the lofty palace gate.
  There 'neath the pillared portal stood the King,
  Who stared astounded at the sight he saw.
  The saintly Knight alighted from his steed,
  And bowing low, he said in accents clear:
  "Believe in God the Father, mighty King,
  Believe in God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost;
  Forsake for aye thy lying gods of clay,
  And Sire, let all Syrene with bended knee,
  Confess the Lord and make the mystic sign
  Of Jesus Christ, who died upon the Cross.
  If thou provoke the anger of the Lord,
  Far greater scourges might then hap to thee."
  The King, who saw his own dear child alive,
  Shed tears of joy and clasped her to his heart,
  And gladly then--and without more ado--
  There in the midst of all the gathered crowd,
  With all his Court, he made the mystic sign
  That scares the foe of man in darkest hell;
  Then bowing down confessed the name of Christ.
  Thereon the saint unsheathed the mighty sword,
  And with a blow struck off the scaly head.
  The dragon, that till then had scourged the town,
  Lay wriggling low amidst the throes of death,
  And wallowed in a pool of dark red blood,
  Emitting a most foul and loathsome smell.
  Still, at the ghastly sight all stared well pleased,
  Nay, some threw stones and hit the dying beast,
  For 'gainst a fallen foe; the vile are brave.
  And during all this time the kind old King
  Had tried to show the gratitude he felt;
  He led the saint within his palace halls,
  For there he hoped to grant him many a boon.
  "Thou art, indeed," said he, "most brave and true,
  Endowed by God with superhuman might,
  And as a token of my heartfelt thanks
  Accept this chain of gold, for 'tis the meed
  Of daring deeds, the like of which thou didst.
  This diamond ring till now adorned my hand;
  I give it thee. Besides, my gallant Knight,
  One half of all my land will now be thine;
  Nor even then can I requite thy worth,
  Except by granting thee my only child,
  My darling daughter, as thy loving bride."
  The saint, however, thanked for all these gifts,
  And bowing low, he said unto the King:
  "Thy gratitude to God alone is due,
  For I am but a tool within His hand;
  'Tis He who sent me here to kill the beast,
  That hell had sent to waste and scourge your land.
  Without His help, a man is but a reed,
  A blade of grass that bends beneath the breeze,
  A midge that ne'er outlives a single night;
  To thy distress He lent a listening ear,
  And freed thee from that foul and fiendish beast.
  Then dash thy foolish gods of stone and brass,
  Build shrines and temples, praise His holy name.
  Still, for thy gifts accept my heartfelt thanks;
  My task, howe'er, is that to go and preach
  The name of Jesus Christ from town to town.
  To Persia straightway I must wend my way
  And there declare the love of God to man."
  Thereon he took his leave and went away
  To preach in distant lands a better life;
  Converting men of high and low degree.
  To Alexandra, who then reigned in Rome,
  He bore the tidings of Christ's holy name;
  And God e'er granted to this _voyvod_ saint
  The might of working strange and wond'rous deeds.
  At last he met a saintly martyr's death,
  And shed his precious blood for Jesus Christ.
  To Thee, St. George, we now devoutly pray,
  To be our intercessor with the Lord,
  That He vouchsafe His mercy to us all.




CHAPTER XIX

THE "KARVA TAJSTVO"


The sun had already set as Mara and her friend left the convent gates
and slowly wended their way homewards. The mother's heart was heavily
laden with grief, for although the holy men had done their best to
comfort and encourage her, still doubt oppressed her, and she kept
asking herself whether she would still find her son alive on the
morrow. Now the darkness which slowly spread itself over the open
country, and rendered the surrounding rocks of a gloomier hue, the
broad, blue sea of a dull, leaden tint, only made her sadness more
intense.

Dusk softens the human heart; it opens it to those tender emotions
unfelt during the struggle of the day, whilst the raging sun pouring
from above enkindles the fierce passions lurking in the heart. That
dimness which spreads itself over the world at nightfall, wrapping it
up as in a vaporous shroud, has a mystic power over our nature. That
clear obscure mistiness seems to open to the mind's eye the distant
depths of borderland; we almost fancy we can see dim, shadowy figures
float past before us. The most sceptic man becomes religious,
superstitious and spiritual at gloaming.

The two women hardly spoke on their way; both of them prayed for the
sufferer lying in the convent; but whilst they prayed their minds
often wandered from Uros to Milena, who had been left at home ailing.
When they arrived at the gates of the town night had already set in.
Mara hastened home with her friend, but Milena was not there; they
both went to Radonic's house to look for her. They were afraid lest,
in her state of health, she might have heard of her husband's death.

A dreary night awaited the women there. After the child had left her,
Milena, who had fallen into a swoon, had been delivered of a son; but
the infant, uncared for, and finding the world bleak and desolate,
had fled away, without even waiting for the holy water and the salt
to speed it forth to more blessed regions.

Milena had only been roused to life by the throes of childbirth, and
no sooner had her deliverance taken place than she again fainted
away.

Mara's neighbour having, in the meanwhile, been informed by her
little boy of Milena's illness, hastened at once to her help.
Moreover, on her way thither, she called the _babica_ (or midwife),
but when she reached Radonic's house, she found the new-born infant a
cold corpse and the mother apparently dead. The two women did their
utmost to recall Milena to life, but all their skill was of no avail.
At last, at their wits' end, a passer-by was hailed and begged to go
for the doctor at once.

When Mara came, all hopes of rousing Milena to life had been
despaired of, but what the skill of the scientific practitioner and
of the wise old woman could not bring about, was effected simply by
Mara's presence. After Uros' mother had stood some time by her side,
stroking her hair, pressing her hand on the sufferer's clammy
forehead, and whispering endearing words in her ear, Milena opened
her eyes. Seeing Mara standing beside her, the sight of that woman
whom she loved, and whose son she doated on, slowly roused her to
life. Consciousness, little by little, crept back within her. When
she heard from the mother's lips that Uros was not dead, nay, that
there was hope of his recovery, she whispered:

"If I could only see him once more, then I should be but too happy to
die."

After this slight exertion she once more fainted, but she was soon
afterwards brought back again to life, and Mara then was able to make
her take the cordial the doctor had prepared for her.

A few hours later, when the physician took his leave for the night,
prescribing to the women what they were to do, he and the midwife
warmly congratulated each other, not doubting that their skill had
snatched the young woman out of the jaws of death.

After a night of pain and restlessness, Milena, early on the next
morning, exhausted as she was, fell into a quiet, death-like sleep.
Mara then left her to return to the Convent of St. George to see if
Uros were still alive and how he was getting on. Milenko's mother
went with her. They had not been away long when Milena, shuddering,
uttered a loud cry of terror, sat up in her bed and looked straight
in front of her.

"What is the matter?" said the midwife, running up to the bedside.

"Don't you see him standing there?" cried the awe-stricken woman.

"There is nobody, my dear; nobody at all."

"Yes! Radonic, my husband, all covered with wounds! He is dying--he
is dead!" and Milena, appalled, stared wildly at the foot of the bed.

"It is your imagination; your husband is with your father at
Cettinje."

"No, no; I tell you he's there; help him, or he'll bleed to death!"
and the poor woman, exhausted, fell back on her bed unconscious.

The midwife shuddered, for, although she saw nobody, she was quite
sure that the apparition seen by Milena was no fancy of an overheated
brain, but Radonic's ghost, that had come to visit his wife, for the
news of the _heyduk_'s death had been carefully withheld from Milena.

The midwife went to the fount of holy water, took the blessed sprig
of olive which was over it, dipped it into the fount and sprinkled
the bed and the place where the ghost had stood, uttering all the
while the appropriate prayer for the purpose. Then she sprinkled
Milena, and made the sign of the Cross over her. After that she gave
her some drops of cordial, and little by little brought her back to
her senses, vowing all the while not to remain alone again in that
haunted house.

When Milena recovered, "My husband is dead, is he not?" she asked.

"But--no," said the midwife, hesitatingly.

"You know he is. Did you not see him standing there? He had one wound
on the head and several in the breast."

The elderly woman did not answer.

"When did he die?" quoth Milena.

"Some days ago; but----"

"He was killed by the Turks, was he not?"

"Yes."

"Why did no one tell me?"

"Because they were afraid to upset you."

"He is dead," said Milena to herself, staring at the spot where she
had seen her husband, "dead!" Then she heaved a deep sigh of relief.

The midwife tried to comfort her, but she did not seem to heed her
words.

"My babe is dead, all are dead!"

Presently the doctor came in to see how she was getting on.

"Is Uros dead?" was Milena's first question.

"No, he is still alive; a message came from the convent this
morning."

"But is there any hope of recovery?"

"If he has lasted on till to-day he may yet pull through; he is young
and healthy."

"Can I get up to-day?" asked Milena, wistfully.

"Get up?" asked the doctor, astonished.

"Yes."

"Did you hear her?" said the physician, turning towards the midwife.
"She asks if she can get up. Yes, you can get up if you wish to kill
yourself."

A look of determination settled in the young woman's eyes; but
neither the doctor nor the midwife noticed it.

"Anyhow, it is a good sign when the patient asks if he can get up,
except in consumption," added the physician, taking his leave. "If
you keep very quiet, and lie perfectly still, without tossing about
and fretting, you'll be able to get up in a few days."

Milena pressed her lips, but did not say anything in reply; only,
after a little time:

"Do I look very ill?"

"No, not so very ill, either."

"Give me that looking-glass," she added.

The midwife hesitated.

"Is that the way you are going to lie still and get well; you must
know that yesterday you were very ill."

"I know; but please hand me the looking-glass."

The midwife did as she was bid. Milena took up the glass and looked
at herself scrutinisingly, just like an actor who has made up his
face.

"I am very much altered, am I not?"

"Oh, but it'll be all over in one or two days! Wait till to-morrow,
and----"

"But to-day I think people would hardly recognise me?"

"Oh, it is not quite as bad as that! besides----"

Milena opened her eyes questioningly, and looked at the midwife.

"I care very little whether I am good-looking or not; whom have I to
live for now?"

"Come, you must not give up in that way. You are but a child, and
have seen but little happiness up to now; you are rich, free,
handsome; you'll soon find a husband, only don't talk, take a cup of
this good broth, and try to go to sleep."

"Very well, but I know you are busy, so go home and send me your
daughter; she can attend upon me; besides, _gospa_ Markovic will soon
be here."

The midwife hesitated.

"Go," said Milena; "I'll feel quieter if you go."

"But you must promise me to keep very quiet, and not to attempt, on
any account, to get up."

"Certainly," said Milena; "the doctor said I was not to rise; why
should I disobey him? Besides, where have I to go?"

The midwife, after having tucked her patient carefully in bed and
made her as cosy as she could, went off, saying that her daughter
would soon come to her.

Milena, with anxious eyes and a beating heart, watched the midwife,
and, at last, saw her go away and close the door after her. She
waited for some time to see that she did not return; then she
gathered up all her strength, and tried to rise.

It was, however, a far more difficult task than she had expected, for
she fancied that she had fallen from the top of a high mountain into
a chasm beneath, and that every bone in her body had been broken to
splinters. If she had been crushed under horses' hoofs, she could not
have felt a greater soreness all over her body. Still, rise she
would, and she managed to crawl slowly out of her bed.

Her legs, at first, could hardly hold her up; the nerves and muscles
had lost all their strength, she fancied the bones had got limp; her
back, especially, seemed to be gnawed by hungry dogs.

Having managed to get over her first fit of faintness, she, holding
on to the bed and against the wall, succeeded in dragging herself
towards the table and dropped into a chair.

She sat there for a while, making every effort to overcome her
faintness, but she felt so sick, so giddy, and in such pain, that her
head sank down on the table of its own weight, and she burst out
crying from sheer exhaustion.

When she had somewhat recovered, she slowly undid her long tresses,
and her luxuriant hair fell in waves down to the ground. She shook
her head slightly, as if to disentangle the wavy mass, plunged her
fingers through the locks to separate them, and felt them lovingly,
uttering a deep sigh of regret as she did so; then after a moment's
pause, she shrugged her shoulders, took up a pair of scissors, and,
without more ado, she clipped the long tresses as close to her head
as she possibly could, carefully placing each one on the table as she
cut it off. Then she felt her head, which seemed so small, so cold,
and so naked; she took up a mirror with a trembling hand and
quivering lips pulled down at each corner. After she had seen her own
reflection in the glass, she burst into tears. She had hardly put
down the mirror, when Frana, the midwife's daughter, came in.

The young girl, seeing Milena, whom she had expected to find in bed,
sitting on the chair with all her hair clipped off, remained rooted
to the spot where she was standing.

"Milena, dear, is it you?"

"Yes," replied Milena, mournfully.

"But why did you get up? and why have you cut off your beautiful
hair?" asked the midwife's daughter, scared.

"My hair burdened my head; I could not bear the weight any more;
besides----"

The young girl looked at Milena, wondering whether she were in her
right senses, or if the grief of having lost her husband and her
child had not driven her to distraction.

"Besides what, Milena?"

"Well, I am not for long in this world, you know!"

"Do not say such foolish things; and let me help you back to bed."

Milena shook her head, and fixing her large and luminous deep blue
eyes on the young girl, she said, wistfully:

"Listen, Frana. Uros is dying, perhaps he is dead! I must see him
once more. I must go to him, even if I have to die on the way
thither!"

"What! go to the Convent of St. George?"

Milena nodded assent.

"But what are you thinking about? How can you, in your state, think
of going there?"

"I must, even if I should have to crawl on all-fours!"

"But if you got there, if I carried you there, they would never let
you go in; you know women----"

"Yes, they will; that's why I've cut off my hair."

"I don't understand."

"I'll dress up as a boy; you'll come with me; you'll say I'm your
brother, and Uros' friend. You'll do that for me, Frana?"

And Milena lifted up her pleading eyes, which now seemed larger than
ever and lighted up with an inward ethereal fire.

The young girl seemed to be hypnotised by those entreating eyes.

"But where will you find the clothes you want?"

"If you can't get me your brother's, then borrow or buy a suit for
me; but go at once. You must get me a cap, and all that is required,
but go at once."

"Very well; only, in the meantime, go to bed, take some broth, and
wait till I return."

"But you promise to come back as quickly as you can?"

"Yes, if you are determined to put your life in danger, and----"

"And what?"

"If you don't care what people say."

"Frana, if ever you love a man as I love Uros, you will see that you
will care very little for your own life, and still less for what
people might say about you."

Frana helped Milena to go to bed again. She made her take a cup of
broth, with the yolk of an egg beaten into it; placed, on a chair by
her bed, a bowl of mulled wine, which she was to take so as to get up
her strength; put away the long locks of hair lying on the table, and
at last she went off.

Presently, Milenko's mother came to see Milena, and stayed with her
till Frana returned, and then she was persuaded to go back home. When
she had gone, Frana undid the bundle she had brought, took out a
jacket, a pair of wide breeches and leggings, the _opanke_; lastly,
the small black cap with its gold-embroidered crimson crown.

Frana helped Milena to dress, and, in her weak state, the operation
almost exhausted her. The broad sash, tightly wound round her waist,
served to keep her up, and, leaning on Frana's arm, she left the
house.

"I have managed to find a cart for you, so we need not cross the
town, but go round the walls, in order that you may not be seen;
besides, the cart will take us to the foot of the mountain, not far
from the convent."

"How shall I ever be able to thank you enough for what you have done
for me, Frana?"

"By getting over your illness as quickly as possible, for if any harm
should come of it my mother 'll never forgive me, and I don't blame
her."

The sun was in the meridian when the cart arrived at the foot of the
mountain and the two friends alighted. As they climbed the rough and
uneven path leading up to the convent, Milena, though leaning on
Frana's strong arm, had more than once to stop and rest, for at every
step she made the pain in every joint, in every muscle, was most
acute. It seemed as if all the ligaments that bind the bones of the
skeleton together had snapped asunder, and that her body was about to
fall to pieces. Then she felt a smarting, a fire that was burning
within her bowels, and which increased at every effort she made; in
fact, had it not been for the young girl, she would either have sunk
by the roadside or crawled up--as she had said herself--on all-fours.

Her head also was aching dreadfully, her temples were throbbing, and
she was parched with fever. Her limbs sank every now and then beneath
her weight; still, her love and her courage kept her up, and she
trudged along without uttering a word of complaint. At last they
reached the convent. Then her strength gave way. Anxiety, pain and
shame overpowered her, and she fell fainting on the threshold. Frana
summoned help; but, before the monks came, Milena had recovered, and
was sitting down on a bench to rest.

In the meanwhile Uros was lingering on--a kind of death in life; the
vital flame was flickering, but not entirely extinguished; the ties
that fastened the soul to life were still strong. Towards midnight he
had sat up in his bed, and--as the monks thought--the Virgin and
Christ had appeared to him, then he had, for some time, not given any
further signs of consciousness. Nay, the monks were so sure the
sufferer was passing away, that they, in fact, began reciting the
prayers for the dying. They did so with much fervour, regarding Uros
almost as a saint, for never had mortal man been so highly favoured
by the Deity. Little by little, however, life, instead of ebbing
away, seemed to return; but the sufferer's mind was quite lost.

In the morning, first his father had come, together with his friend
Janko, and a little while afterwards Mara came.

The monks related to the wondering parents how the Virgin had
appeared, bringing with her the infant Christ for him to kiss.
Milenko, however, kept his peace, feeling sure that if he expressed
an opinion as to the weird apparition, his words would be regarded as
blasphemy.

Coming to himself, Uros recognised his parents, and as Mara bent upon
him to kiss his brows:

"Milena," whispered Uros, almost inaudibly.

"Milenko," said the mother, "he wants you."

"No," said Milenko, softly to Mara, "it is not me he wants; he has
been calling for Milena since he has been coming back to life. I am
sure that her presence would quiet him, and, who knows? perhaps add
to his recovery."

The poor mother said nothing; she only patted her boy's brown hand,
which seemed to have got whiter and thinner in this short space of
time.

"I think it is so hard to refuse him a thing upon which he has set
his heart," said Milenko, pleadingly.

Mara still gave no answer.

"Perhaps I am wrong in mentioning it--but you do not know how dearly
he loved this cousin of his."

Mara's eyes filled with tears.

"Could these priests not be persuaded to let her come in just for a
moment?"

"Milena is too ill to come here; in fact----"

"Is she dead?" asked the young man.

"No, not dead, but as ill as Uros himself is."

"What is the matter with her?" asked Milenko.

Mara whispered something in the young man's ear.

Danilo Kvekvic had left the sufferer to attend to his own duties. All
the monks of the convent had, one by one, come to recite an orison by
the bedside, as at some miraculous shrine; then Uros was left to the
care of his parents; even the old monk, after administering to the
young man's wants, had gone to take some rest.

For some time the room was perfectly quiet; Mara and Milenko were
whispering together in subdued tones; the _pobratim_'s fathers stood
outside.

After a little while Uros began to be delirious, and to speak about
Radonic and Vranic, who were going to kill Milena.

"There, you see, she is dying; let me go to her. Why do you hold me
here? Unhand me; you see she is alone--no one to attend upon her."
(The remainder of his words were unintelligible.)

The tears rolled down Mara's cheeks, for she thought that her son's
words were but too true; at that moment Milena was probably dying.

"She came to me for help, and I----"

"Milenko," added the delirious man, "get the ship ready; let us take
her away."

"Yes," said Milenko; "we have only to heave the anchor and be off."

Uros thereupon made an effort to get up, but the pain caused by his
wound was so great that he fell fainting on his bed with a deep moan.

The two men standing at the door came to the sufferer's bedside. Mara
herself bent over him to assist him. Just then Milenko was called
out--someone was asking for him.

The fever-fit had subsided. The sufferer, falling back on his pillow,
exhausted, seemed to be slowly breathing his last.

The tears were falling fast from Mara's eyes. The two men by the bed
were twisting their bristling moustaches, looking helplessly forlorn.
Just then Milenko appeared on the threshold, followed by a wan and
corpse-like boy. Bellacic frowned at the intruder. Mara, at the
sight, started back, opening her eyes widely.

"You?" said she.

Milena's head drooped down. Milenko put his arm round her waist to
keep her up.

"You here, my child?" added Mara, opening her arms and clasping the
young woman within them.

Milena began to sob in a low voice.

"The blessed Virgin must have given you supernatural strength, my
poor child; still, you have been killing yourself."

Milena did not utter a word. She pressed Mara's hand convulsively;
her face twitched nervously as she looked upon her lover lying
lifelessly on his bed; then (Mara having made way for her) the
exhausted woman sank down upon her chair.

"I told you," said the old monk, coming in, "that in your weak,
exhausted state it was not right for you to see your friend, but
nowadays," added he, in a grumbling tone, "young people are so
headstrong that they will never do what is required of them for their
own good. Now that you have seen him, I hope that you are satisfied
and will come out."

"Just let me stay a little longer, till he comes to himself again,
only a very few minutes," said Milena, imploringly, and clasping her
hands in supplication.

"Please let him stay; Uros 'll be so glad to see him when he opens
his eyes. He'll keep very quiet till then."

"Be it so," said the monk; "only the room is getting too crowded. The
best cure for a sick man is sympathy and fresh air."

"You are right," said Milenko, "but I give up my place to him;
besides, I have some business in town."

As Bellacic accompanied the _pobratim_ out--

"Where are you going?" said he.

"To find out Vranic, and settle accounts with him."

"No, no! Wait!" said the father.

"Wait! for what?"

"Let us not think of vengeance as long as Uros lives."

Milenko did not seem persuaded; Bellacic insisted:

"Don't let us provoke the wrath of the Almighty by more bloodshed."

As they were thus discussing the matter, the doctor from Budua
arrived, having been sent by Danilo Kvekvic at the request of the
monks.

The old practitioner, the same one who had attended Milena, looked at
Uros, shook his head gravely, as if he would say: "There is no hope
whatever;" then he touched the sufferer's pulse and examined his
wound. He approved of the treatment he had received, and then, after
a few moments' brown study, and after taking a huge pinch of snuff, as
if to clear his head, he said, slowly, that all human effort was
vain; the young man could not last more than a few hours--till
eventide, or, at the longest, during the night.

"Umph!" grunted the old man, shrugging his shoulders; "he is in the
hands of God."

"Of course, of course. We are all in the hands of God."

"I thought," added the caloyer, "he would not pass yesterday night,
especially after the Most Blessed appeared to him, holding her Infant
in her arms."

"What!" said the doctor; "you mean to say that the Virgin appeared to
him?"

"Of course, and I was not the only one who saw her, for, besides,
Blagoslav, Danko Kvekvic, and this young man"--pointing to Milenko
--"were also in the room."

"Then God may perform another miracle in his favour," said the
doctor, incredulously, "for he is beyond all earthly skill."

Uros, in fact, was sinking fast, and, although the old man clung to
hope, still the doctor's words seemed but too true. After some time
the sufferer seemed to give signs of consciousness, and when Milena
placed her thin white hand on his forehead, he felt the slight
pressure of her fingers, and, with his eyes closed, said:

"Milena, are _you_ here?" and a faint smile played over his lips.

"Yes, my love," whispered Milena, "I am here."

Uros opened his eyes, looked at her, and seemed bewildered at the
change which had come over her; still, he said nothing for a while,
but was evidently lost in thought, after which he added:

"Milena, have you been here all night?"

"No, I only came here just now."

"You look ill--very ill; I thought you were dying."

Milena kissed his hand, bathing it with tears. Uros once more sank
down on his bed exhausted; still, after a few moments' rest, he again
opened his eyes and looked round for his father. Bellacic understood
the mute appeal, and bent down over him.

"Father," said he, "I don't think I am in this world for a long time.
I feel that all my strength is gone; but before----"

The father bent low over his son.

"Before what?" he asked.

"Before dying----"

"Well, my son?"

"Will you promise, father?"

"Yes, I promise; but what is it you want, my darling?"

"To be married to Milena," he said, with an effort.

The tears trickled down the elderly man's sunburnt cheeks.

"I promise to do my utmost," said he.

He at once turned round and explained the whole affair to his wife.
Milena, who seemed to have guessed Uros' request, had hid her face in
her hands and was sobbing. Thereupon Bellacic left the room and went
to find the old monk, who had gone out with the doctor. Taking him
aside, he explained the matter to him.

"What!" said the old monk, "bring another woman into the convent, and
a young woman besides?"

"Oh, there is no need to bring her in!"

"What do you mean?"

"She is already in," replied Bellacic, unable to refrain from
smiling.

"How did she come in? When did she come in? And with whom did she
come in?" asked the caloyer, angrily.

"She came in just before the doctor; you yourself accompanied her."

The old man stared at Bellacic.

"She is the one who came in dressed in boy's clothes; the midwife's
daughter accompanied her as far as the----"

"What! do you mean to say that there are three women, and that one of
them is a midwife?" quoth the monk, shocked.

Bellacic explained matters. The caloyer consented that Danilo Kvekvic
should be sent for to perform the wedding rites _in extremis_,
provided Milena left the convent together with Mara that very
evening, and did not return again on the morrow. Bellacic, moreover,
having promised to give the church a fine painting, representing the
Virgin Mary as she had appeared to Uros the evening before, the whole
affair was settled to everyone's perfect satisfaction.

Mara, who had taken Milena into the adjoining room, said to her:

"Uros has made his father a strange request, and Bellacic has
consented; for who can gainsay a dying man's wish?"

"I know," said Milena, whose lips were twitching nervously.

"He wishes to be married to you."

Milena fell into Mara's arms and began to sob.

"But," said Milena, "I am so frightened."

"Frightened of what?"

"My husband."

Mara, bewildered for a moment, remembered that Milena had never been
told of Radonic's death.

"I know," continued the young woman, "that he was killed, for he
appeared to me only a few hours ago; and I am so frightened lest he
should be recalled again and scare Uros to death."

"Oh! if incense is burning the whole time, if many blessed candles
are lighted, and the whole room sprinkled with holy water, the ghost
will never be able to show itself in such a place; besides, my dear,
you know that you were almost delirious, so that the ghost you saw
must have only been your fancy."

"Still, I did not know that he was dead, and I saw him all covered
with wounds, and as plainly as I see you now; he looked at me so
fiercely----"

Milena shuddered; her features grew distorted at the remembrance of
the terrible apparition, and, in her weak state, the little strength
left in her forsook her, and she fell fainting into Mara's arms.

It was with great difficulty that she was brought back to life, and
then she consented to the marriage.

A messenger was sent to Budua to ask Danilo Kvekvic to come and
officiate, and the midwife's daughter went with him to bring Milena a
dress, as it would have almost been a sacrilege for her to get
married in a boy's clothes.

Danilo Kvekvic came at once; the young girl brought the clothes and
the wreaths, and everything being ready, the lugubrious marriage
service was performed; still, it was to be gone through once more,
when Uros should have recovered, if he ever did recover. The monks
crowded at the door, looking on wonderingly at the whole affair, for
in their quiet, humdrum life, such a ceremony was an unheard of
thing, and an event affording them endless gossip.

The emotion Uros had undergone weakened him in such a way that he
fell back fainting. His pulse grew so feeble that it could not be
felt any more; his breathing had evidently stopped, a cold
perspiration gathered on his brow; his features acquired not only the
rigidity, but also the pinched look and livid tint of death.

"I am afraid that it is the beginning of the end."

He began once more reciting the prayers for the dying. Danilo Kvekvic
sprinkled him with holy water. All the rest sank on their knees by
the bed. A convulsive sob was heard. Milenko, unable to bear the
scene any longer, rushed out of the room.

Whilst he was sobbing, and the friars outside were trying to comfort
him, the old monk came out.

"Well, father?" said the young man, with a terror-stricken face.

"It is all over," said the old man, shaking his head gravely.

Milenko uttered a deep groan; then he sank on his knees, kissing the
monk's hand devoutly.

"Thank you, father, for all that you have done for my brother. If
earthly skill could have recalled him to life, yours would have done
so. Thank you for your kindness to me and to all of us. Now my task
begins; nor do I rest until it is accomplished."

Unable to keep back the tears that were blinding him, nor the sobs
rising to his throat, he rose and ran out of the convent.

Arriving at Budua, he went everywhere seeking for Vranic; but he
could not find him anywhere. Nothing positive was known about him;
only, it was said that three children had seen him, or someone
looking like him, outside the city walls. Later on, a young sailor
related that he had rowed a man answering to Vranic's description on
board of a ship bound for the coasts of Italy. The ship, a few hours
afterwards, had sailed off.

Weary and disheartened, Milenko went home, where he found his father
and mother, who had come back from the convent.

"Well," said the father, "have you heard anything about Vranic?"

"He has fled; my vengeance has, therefore, to be postponed. It might
take weeks instead of days to accomplish it; months instead of weeks,
and even years instead of months. But I shall not rest before Vranic
pays with his own blood for his evil deed," said Milenko.

"You would not be a Slav, nor my son, if you did not act in this way.
Uros had certainly done as much for you."

"And now," added Milenko, "as I might be called away from this world
before accomplishing this great deed of justice, we must gather,
to-night, such of our friends and relations as will take with us the
terrible oath of blood, the _karva tajstvo_."

"Be it so," said Janko Markovic. "I, of course, will take the oath
with you, my son, and will help you to the utmost of my power."

Milenko shook his father's hand, and added: "Danilo Kvekvic will be
the officiating priest. He, being a relation, will not refuse, will
he?"

"No, certainly not. He may, of course, demur, but by his innuendoes
he led me to understand that he will be waiting for you."

"He is a real Iugo Slav."

Milenko and his father busied themselves at once about the great
ceremony. They went to all the relations and friends of the two
families, begging them, now that Uros was dead, to join with them in
taking the oath of revenge against Vranic, the murderer.

Not a man that was asked refused. All shook hands, and promised to be
at Markovic's house that night, and from there accompany him to the
priest's.

Night came on. Milenko's mother had gone to sit up with Mara and
Milena; Bellacic had remained to pray at his son's bedside, together
with the good monks. One by one the friends and relations of the
_pobratim_, muffled up like conspirators, knocked at Markovic's door,
and were stealthily allowed to enter. _Slivovitz_ and tobacco were at
once placed before the guests. When they were all gathered together,
and the town was asleep, they crept out quietly and wended their way
through the deserted streets to the priest's house.

Milenko tapped at the door.

"They are all asleep at this house," said one of the men; "you must
knock louder."

Hardly had these words been uttered than a faint ray of light was
seen, and, contrary to their expectations, the door was opened by
Danilo himself.

"Milenko! You, at this hour of the night? I thought you were at the
convent, reciting prayers over my nephew, your _pobratim_."

"A _pobratim_ has other duties than praying--the holy monks can do
that even better than myself."

"But I am keeping you standing at the door; what can I do for you?"

"We have a request to make, which you will not be surprised at. You
must follow us to church."

"To church, at this hour of the night?"

"Yes. We wish--one and all here present--to take the oath of blood
against the murderer."

"But, my children, think of what you are asking of me. Our religion
commands us to forgive our enemies. Christ----"

"We are Slavs, Danilo Kvekvic," said one of the men.

"But Christians, withal, I hope?"

"Still, vengeance with us is a duty, a sacred duty."

"I am the _pobratim_," quoth Milenko, "the brother of his choice. Did
I not swear before you to avenge any injury done to Uros, your
nephew? Do you wish me to forget my oath--to perjure myself?"

"Mind, it is the priest, not the uncle, who speaks," said Danilo,
sternly; "therefore, remember that the _karva tajstvo_ is illegal by
the laws of our country."

"By the laws of Austria," cried out several of the men, "not by the
laws of our country. We are Slavs, not Austrians."

"Come, Danilo, we are men, not children; trifling is useless, words
are but lost breath in this matter," said Janko Markovic. "We are
losing time."

"If you do not follow us with a good will----"

"I see that you mean to carry out your intentions, and that preaching
is useless; therefore, I am ready to follow you."

Saying this, he put his cap on his head, and opened the door.

"And the key?" asked Milenko.

"What key?"

"The key of the church."

"Why, I happen to have it in my pocket."

The church being opened, what was their surprise to see it draped in
black; but Danilo Kvekvic explained that there had been a funeral
service on that very day, and so the church had remained in its
mourning weeds.

Thereupon he shut and locked the doors. Some tapers were lighted on
the altar, and the priest, putting on his robes, began to read the
service.

The few candles shed but a glimmering light in the sacred edifice,
and the small congregation, kneeling on the benches by the altar,
were wrapt in a gloomy darkness which added a horror to the mystery
of the ceremony.

The service for the dead having been read, Kvekvic knelt and partook
of the Holy Communion; then, lighting two other tapers, he called the
congregation to him. All gathered at the foot of the altar, and knelt
down there. He then took up the chalice, where, according to the
Orthodox rites of the Communion, bread and wine were kneaded
together. Milenko, as the head of the avengers, went up to the altar,
and, bowing before the sacred cup containing the flesh and blood of
Jesus Christ, he made a slight cut in the forefinger of his left
hand, and then caused a few drops of his own blood to fall on the
Eucharist. He was followed by his father, and by all the other
partakers of the oath. When the last man had offered up a few drops
of blood, the priest mixed it up with the consecrated bread and wine
already in the cup.

"Now," said he, with an inspired voice, "lift up your hands to
heaven, and repeat after me the following oath."

All the men lifted up their hands, each one holding a piece of Uros'
blood-stained shirt, and then the priest began:

"By this blessed bread representing the flesh of our Lord Jesus
Christ, by the wine that is His own blood, by the blood flowing from
our own bodies, for the sake of our beloved Uros Bellacic, heinously
murdered, and now sitting amongst the martyrs in heaven, and from
there addressing us his prayers, I, Milenko Markovic, his _pobratim_;
I, Janko Markovic, his father of adoption; I, Marko Lillic, his
cousin" (and so on), "all related or connected to him by the ties of
blood, or of affection, solemnly swear, in the most absolute and
irrevocable manner, not to give our souls any peace, or any rest to
our bodies, until the wishes of the blessed martyr be accomplished by
taking a severe revenge upon his murderer, Josko Vranic, of this
town, on his children (if ever he has any), or, in default, on any of
his relations, friends and acquaintances who might shelter, protect,
or withhold him from our wrath; and never to cease in our intention,
or flag in our pursuit, until we have obtained a complete and cruel
satisfaction, equal, at least, to this crime committed by this common
enemy of ours. We swear to God the Father, God the Son, and God the
Holy Ghost, that not one of us will ever try to evade the dangers his
oath may put him to, or will allow himself to be corrupted by gold or
bribes of the murderer or his family, or will listen with a pitiful
ear to the prayers, entreaties, or lamentations of the person or
persons destined to expiate the crime that has taken place; and,
though his kith-and-kin be innocent of the foul deed perpetrated by
their relation, Josko Vranic, we will turn a deaf ear to their words,
and only feel for them the horror that the deed committed awakes
within us.

"We swear, moreover, by the blessed Virgin and by all the saints in
heaven, that should any of us here present forget the oath he has
taken, or break the solemn pact of blood, the others will feel
themselves bound to take revenge upon him, even as upon the murderer
of Uros Bellacic; and, moreover, the relations of the perjured man,
justly put to death, will not be able to exact the rites of the
_karvarina_."

Thereupon, the men having taken the oath, the priest at the altar
sank down on his knees, and, uplifting the chalice, continued as
follows:

"We pray Thee, omnipotent God, to listen to our oaths, and, moreover,
to help us in fulfilling them. We entreat Thee to punish the murderer
in his own person, and in that of his sons for seven successive
generations; to persecute them with Thy malediction, just as if they
themselves had committed the murder. We solemnly declare that we will
not consider Thee, O Lord, as just; Thee, O Lord, as saintly; Thee, O
Lord, as strong; nor shall we regard Thee, O Lord, as capable of
governing the world, if Thou dost not lend a listening ear to the
eager wishes of our hearts; for our souls are tormented with the
thirst for revenge."

When they had all finished this prayer, if it can be called a prayer,
they, one by one, went and partook of that loathsome communion of
blood with all the respect and devotion Christians usually have on
approaching the Lord's Table. After that Danilo Kvekvic knelt down
once more, and uplifting his hands in supplication:

"O Lord, Protector of the oppressed," said he, "Thou punishest all
those who transgress Thy wise laws and offend Thee, for Thou art a
jealous God. Help these parishioners of mine to fulfil an act of
terrestrial justice. Punish, with all Thy wrath, the perpetrator of
so abominable a crime; let him have no rest in this world, and let
his soul burn for ever in hell after his death; scatter his ashes to
the winds, and obliterate the very memory of his existence. Amen."

"Amen," repeated every man after him.

Thereupon he blessed them all; and coming down from the altar he
shook hands with each one, no more as a priest, but as a relation of
the murdered youth, and thanked them for the oath they had taken.

The candles having been put out, the door of the church was
stealthily opened, and, one by one, all the men crept out and
vanished in the darkness of the night.




CHAPTER XX

"SPERA IN DIO"


After the ceremony of the _karva tajstvo_, all the men who had taken
part in it met together at Janko Markovic's house, so as to come to a
decision as to what they were to do in their endeavours to capture
the murderer. All the information that had been got in Budua about
Vranic helped to show that he had embarked on board of an Italian
ship, the _Diana_, which had sailed the evening of the murder. If
this were the case, nothing could be done for the present but wait
patiently till they could come across him, the communications between
Budua and Naples being few and far between.

"Well," said Milenko, "I'll sail at dawn for Trieste. It is one of
the best places where I can get some information about this ship.
Moreover, I'll do my best to get a cargo for one of the ports to
which she might be destined, and I must really be very unlucky not to
come across him before the year is out."

"And," replied Janko Markovic, "if our information is wrong--if,
after all, he's still lurking in this neighbourhood, or hiding
somewhere in Montenegro, we shall soon get at him."

"We have taken the oath," replied all the friends.

"Thank you. I'm sure that Uros' death will very soon be avenged."

_Slivovitz_ and wine were then brought out to drink to the success of
the _karva tajstvo_.

At the first glimmer of dawn, Milenko bade his mother farewell and
asked her to kiss Mara and Milena for him; then, receiving his
father's blessing, and accompanied by all his friends, he left home
and went to the ship.

All the cargo had been taken on board several days before, the papers
were in due order, and the ship was now ready to start at a moment's
notice.

No sooner had Milenko got on board than the sleeping crew was roused,
the sails were stretched, the anchor was heaved, and the ship began
to glide on the smooth surface of the waters.

"_Srecno hodi_" (a pleasant voyage), shouted the friends, applauding
on the pier.

"_Z' Bogam_" (God be with you), replied Milenko.

"_Zivio!_" answered the friends.

The young captain saw the houses of Budua disappear, with a sigh. A
heaviness came over him as his eyes rested on a white speck gleaming
amidst the surrounding dark rocks. It was the Convent of St. George,
where, in his mind's eye, he could see his dearly beloved Uros lying
still and lifeless on his narrow bed.

Then a deep feeling of regret came over him. Why had he rushed away,
when his friend had scarcely uttered his last breath? He might have
waited a day or two; Vranic would not escape him at the end.

Never before--not even the first time he had left home--had he felt
so sad in quitting Budua. He almost fancied now his heart was reft in
two, and that the better part had remained behind with his friend.
Not even the thought of Ivanka, whom he so dearly loved, could
comfort him. A sailor's life--which had hitherto had such a charm for
him while his friend was on board the same ship with him--now lost
all its attraction, and if he had not been prompted by his craving
for revenge, he would have taken the ship to Trieste (where she was
bound to), and there, having sold his share, he would have gone back
to Budua.

The days seemed endless to him. The crew of the ship, although
composed of Dalmatians, was almost of an alien race; they were from
the island of Lussin, and Roman Catholics besides--in fact, quite
different people from the inhabitants of Budua or the Kotor; and, had
it not been for a youth whom he had embarked with him from his native
town, he would have scarcely spoken to anyone the whole of the
voyage, except, of course, to give the necessary orders.

No life, indeed, is lonelier than that of a captain having no mate,
boatswain or second officer with him. Fortunately, however, for
Milenko, Peric--the youth he had taken with him to teach him
navigation--was a rather intelligent lad, and, as it was the first
time he had left home, he was somewhat homesick, so, in their moments
of despondency, each one tried to cheer and comfort the other.

In the night--keeping watch on deck--he would often, as in his
childhood, lean over the side of the ship and look within the fast
flowing waters. When the sea was as smooth and as dark as a metal
mirror, he--after gazing in it for some time--usually saw the water
get hazy and whitish; then, little by little, strange sights appear
and disappear. Some of them were prophetic visions. Once, he saw
within the waters a frigate on fire. It was, indeed, a sight worth
seeing. The vision repeated itself three times. Milenko, feeling
rather anxious, began to look around, and then he saw a faint light
far on the open sea. There was no land or island there. Could that
light, he asked himself, be that of a ship on fire? He at once gave
orders to steer in the direction of the light. As the distance
diminished, the brightness grew apace. The flames, that could now be
seen rising up in the sky, made the men believe that it was some new
submarine volcano. Milenko, however, felt that his vision had been
prophetic.

He added more sails; and, as the breeze was favourable, the _Spera in
Dio_ flew swiftly on the waters. Soon he could not only see the
flames, but the hulk of the ship, which looked like a burning island;
moreover, the cargo must have been either oil or resin, for the sea
itself seemed on fire.

In the glare the conflagration shed all around, Milenko perceived a
small boat struggling hard to keep afloat, for it was so over-crowded
that, at every stroke of the oars, it seemed about to sink.

The joy of that shipwrecked crew, finding themselves safe on board
the _Spera in Dio_, was inexpressible.

Another time he saw, within the sea, the country beyond the walls of
his native town. A boy of about ten was leading an old horse in the
fields. After some time, the boy seemed to look for some stump on
which to tether the horse he had led to pasture; but, finding none,
he tied the rope round his own ankle and lay down to sleep. Suddenly,
the old horse--frightened at something--began to run, the boy awoke
and tried to rise, but he stumbled and fell. His screams evidently
frightened the old horse, which ran faster and ever faster, dragging
the poor boy through the bushes and briars, dashing him against the
stones of the roadside. When, at last, the horse was stopped, the boy
was only a bruised and bleeding mass.

"Oh," said Milenko to Peric, "I have had such a horrible vision!"

"I hope it is not about my little brother," replied the youth.

"Why?"

"I really don't know; but all at once the idea came into my head that
the poor boy must have died."

"Strange!" quoth Milenko, as he walked away, not to be questioned as
to his vision.

One evening, when the moon had gone below the horizon looking like a
reaping-hook steeped in blood, and nothing could be seen all around
but the broad expanse of the dark waters, reflecting the tiny stars
twinkling in the sky above, Milenko saw, all at once, the white walls
of St. George's Convent. The doors, usually shut, were now opened.
Uros appeared on the threshold. There he received the blessing of the
old monk who had tended him during his illness, and whose hands he
now kissed with even more affection and thankfulness than devotion;
then, hugged and kissed by all the other caloyers, who had got to be
as fond of him as of a son or a brother, he bade them all farewell.
Then, leaning on Milena's arm, and followed by his father and mother,
he wended his way down the mountain and towards the town. Uros was
still thin and pale, but all traces of suffering had disappeared from
his face. Though he and Milena were man and wife--having been married
_in extremis_--still they were lovers, and his weakness was a
plausible pretext to lean lovingly on her arm, and stop every now and
then to look lovingly within her lustrous eyes, and thus give vent to
the passion that lay heavy on his heart; and once, when his parents
had disappeared behind a corner, he stopped, put his arm round her
waist, then their lips met in a long, silent kiss, which brought the
blood up to their cheeks. Then the picture faded, and the waters were
again as black as night; only, his ears whistled, and he almost
fancied he could hear Uros' voice in a distance speaking of him.

Of course, Milenko knew that all this was but a delusion, a dream, a
hallucination of his fancy, and he tried to think of his friend lying
stiff and stark within his coffin; still, his imagination was unruly,
and showed him Uros at home alive and happy.

These visions about his friend were all the same; thus, nearly three
weeks after he had left Budua, one evening, when sad and gloomy, he
was thinking of Uros' funeral, to which he now regretted not to have
remained and assisted, he saw, within the depths of the dark blue
sea, Bellacic's house adorned as for a great festivity. Not only was
a banquet prepared; _guzlars_ played on their instruments, and guests
arrived in holiday attire, but Uros, who had almost regained his
former good looks, was, in his dress of the Kotor, as handsome as a
_Macic_. Milena, as beautiful as when, in bridal attire, she had come
from Montenegro, was standing by his side. Soon Danilo Kvekvic came,
wearing a rich stole. The guests lighted the tapers they were
holding; wreaths were placed on Milena's and Uros' heads. This was
the wedding ceremony that would have taken place had Uros recovered
from his wound, and of which Milenko had certainly not been thinking.

Milenko at last reached Trieste, where he found a letter waiting for
him. The news it contained would have made his heart beat rapidly
with joy had Uros only been with him. Now, reading this letter, he
only heaved a deep sigh. It was almost a sigh of forlorn hope. Fate
but too often, whilst granting us a most coveted boon, seems to feel
a malicious pleasure either in disappointing us entirely, or, at
least, in blunting the edge of our joy. This letter was from
Giulianic, who, having redeemed his pledge from his friend Bellacic,
was now but too glad to have him for his son-in-law. Moreover, he
urged him to come over to Nona.

Nothing, indeed, prevented Milenko from consigning the ship to the
captain, who was waiting for him at Trieste, and selling his share of
the brig. Still, he could not think of doing so, or engaging himself,
or settling any time for his marriage before Uros' death had been
avenged. He, therefore, wrote at once to Giulianic, thanking him for
his kindness to him, stating, nevertheless, the reasons which obliged
him to postpone his marriage until the vows of the _karvarina_ had
been fulfilled.

At Trieste, Milenko found out that the _Diana_, the ship on which
Vranic was embarked, was a Genoese brig, usually sailing to and from
the Adriatic and the Levant ports; occasionally, she would come as
far as Trieste or Venice, usually laden with boxes of oranges and
lemons, and sail back with a cargo of timber. It would have been easy
enough to have him apprehended by one of the Austrian consuls in the
ports where the _Diana_ might be bound to, but the vengeance of the
_karva tajstvo_ is not done by deputy nor confided to the police.

At the shipbroker's to which the _Spera in Dio_ was consigned,
Milenko also found a letter from the captain, his partner in the
ship, saying that, far from coming to take charge of the ship, he was
inclined to sell his share; and Milenko, who was very anxious to be
free and to sail for those ports where he might easier come across
the _Diana_, bought the other half, and soon afterwards, having
managed to get a cargo of timber for Pozzuoli, he set sail without
delay, hoping to be in time to catch Vranic in Naples.

Not far from the rocky island of Melada, which the Dalmatians say is
the Melita of the Scriptures, the _Spera in Dio_ met with very stormy
weather and baffling winds. Thereabouts one rough and cloudy night,
when not only Milenko but almost all the men were on deck, they all
at once saw a ship looming in the darkness at a short distance from
them. The captain had either forgotten to hoist a light, or else had
let it go out. When they perceived that dark shadow, only a little
darker than the surrounding night, they did their utmost to steer out
of her way. The other ship likewise seemed to try and tack about, but
driven as she was by a strong head-wind, it was quite impossible to
make her change her direction and avoid a collision.

A few moments after the dark phantom was seen a loud crash was heard;
it was the groan of a monster falling with a thud upon his adversary,
felling him with his ponderous mass. The unknown ship had
unexpectedly come and butted against the _Spera in Dio_ amidships,
like a huge battering-ram, breaking the beams, shivering the planks,
cutting the harmless ship nearly in two, and allowing the waters to
pour in through the huge cleft.

Some of the sailors managed to climb up the other ship; most of the
crew clung to the timber with which the ship was laden. Milenko
remained on the sinking wreck until dawn.

The other ship--an Italian schooner--cruised about, and tried to
remain as much as she possibly could on the same spot, till early in
the morning, so as to pick up all the men of the wreck. Three of the
crew, however, must have been washed away, for they were not seen
anywhere, or ever afterwards heard of.

The schooner, that had been also considerably damaged, sailed to
Trieste as well as she could. Fortunately for Milenko, the _Spera in
Dio_ had been insured for more than her value, and happening to find
another ship for sale, the _Giustizia di Dio_, he bought it, and, on
the whole, made a very good bargain. He soon got another cargo for
Naples, and, a month after his return, he once more sailed in search
of Vranic.




CHAPTER XXI

FLIGHT


Vranic, having stabbed Uros, remained for a moment rooted to the spot
where he stood. When he saw the red blood gush out of the wound and
dye the white shirt, he stared at the young man bewildered; he could
hardly understand what he had done. A strange feeling came over him.
He almost fancied he was awaking from a horrid dream, and that he was
witnessing a deed done, not by himself, but by some person quite
unknown to him. When he saw Uros put his hand up to the wound, then
stagger, he was about to help him; but Milenko having appeared, he
shuddered, came to his senses and ran off.

Vranic had always been cursed with a morbidly discontented
disposition, as peevish and as fretful as a porcupine. Although he
was superstitiously religious, and strictly kept all feasts and
fasts, still, at the same time, he felt a grudge--almost a hatred
--against God, who had made him so unlike other men; who, far from
granting him the boon of health to which he felt he had a right, had
stamped him with an indelible sign so that all might keep aloof from
him. He envied all the men he knew, for they laughed and were merry,
when he himself was as gloomy as a lonely spider in its dusty old
web. Still, as he vented the little energy that was in him in secret
rancour, he would never have harmed anybody. He had, it was true, cut
down Bellacic's vines, but had done so instigated by his friends, or
rather, by Bellacic's enemies. If he had stabbed Uros, it was really
done in a moment of madness, driven almost to despair by many
sleepless nights, by the shame and pain caused by the loss of his
ear.

Having done that dreadful deed, he understood that the Convent of St.
George was no shelter for him. Besides, seeing Uros fall lifeless,
his first impulse was flight. It mattered little whither he went. It
was only after a short time when, breathless and faint, he stumbled
against a stone and fell, that the thought of finding some
hiding-place came into his head.

He lurked amongst the rocks the whole of that day, terrified at the
slightest noise he heard, trembling with fear if a bird flew beside
him, startled at his own shadow. At times he almost fancied the
stones had eyes and were looking at him, and that weird, uncouth
shapes moved in the bushes below.

He was not hungry, but his lips were parched, his mouth felt clammy
with thirst; still, there was not a drop of water to be had, nothing
but the hot sun from the sky above, and the glow of the scorching
stones from below.

Then he asked himself again and again what he was to do and where he
was to go.

Fear evoked a terrible bugbear in every imaginary path he took. If he
went back to Budua he would be murdered by his foes or arrested by
the Austrian police; Montenegro was out of the question.

He had, by chance, seen during the day an Italian vessel ready to
sail. The ship was still at anchor in the bay, for he could see it
from his hiding-place. If he could only manage to get on board he
might be safe there. Once out of Budua, he cared but little
whithersoever chance sent him.

The best thing he could do was to wait till nightfall, then to creep
stealthily into town. It was not likely that the murder was known to
everybody; if he could only get unseen to the _marina_ without
crossing the town, he then might get some boatman to row him to the
Italian ship.

The day seemed to be an endless one, and even when the sun had set,
the red light of the after-glow struggled to keep night away.

At last, when the shades of night fell upon the country, he began to
scramble down, avoiding the path and the high road, shuddering
whenever he caught the sound of a footstep, feeling sick if a
rustling leaf was blown down against him. At last he reached the
gates of the town, but instead of going in, he followed the walls,
and thus managed to get to the port.

It was now quite dark; some fishermen were setting out for the night,
others were coming back home, laden with their prey. He kept aloof
from them all.

After some time, he found a sailor lad sleeping in his boat. He shook
him and woke him, then he asked him to row him to the Italian ship
that was about to sail.

The boy at first demurred, but the sight of a small silver coin
overcame all his drowsiness as well as his objections. He consented
to ferry him across.

"Do you know what boat she is?" asked Vranic.

"Yes."

"Well?"

"If you are going to her, I suppose you know her name, too."

"Can't you answer a question?" said Vranic, snappishly.

"She's the _Diana_."

"From?"

"Genoa, I believe."

"And bound?"

"To Naples; but Italian ships don't take Slavs on board," said the
lad.

Vranic did not give him any answer.

"Are you a sailor?" asked the boy, after a while.

"No. I--I have some business in Italy."

As soon as they were alongside the ship, Vranic called for the
captain.

The master, who was having his supper on deck, asked him what he
wanted.

"Are you bound for Naples?"

"Yes."

"Can you take me on board?"

"As?"

"As sailor? I'll work my way."

"No. I have no need of sailors."

"Then as a passenger?"

"We are a cargo ship."

"Still, if I make it worth your while?"

"Our accommodation might not be such as would suit you."

The captain suspected this man, who came to him in the midst of the
darkness asking for a passage, of having perpetrated some crime. He
felt sure that Budua was too hot a place for him, and that he was
anxious to get away.

"I can put up with anything--a sack on deck."

"Climb up," replied the captain.

Vranic managed to catch the rope ladder, and, after much difficulty,
he climbed on board.

The captain, seeing him and not liking his looks, felt confirmed in
his suspicions; therefore he asked him a rather large sum, at least
three times what he would have asked from anybody else.

Vranic tried to haggle, but at last he paid the money down. The lad
with the boat disappeared; still, he only felt safe when--a few hours
afterwards--the anchor having been heaved, the sails spread, the ship
began to glide on the waters, and the dim lights of Budua disappeared
in the distance.

The sea was calm, the breeze fair; the crossing of the Adriatic
seemed likely to be a prosperous one.

A bed having been made up for him in the cabin, Vranic, weary and
worn out, lay down; and, notwithstanding all his torturing thoughts,
his mind, by degrees, became clouded and he went off to sleep. It is
true, he had hardly closed his eyes when he woke up again, thinking
of Uros as he had seen him when the blood was gushing out of his
wound; then a spectre even more dreadful to behold rose before his
eyes. It was the _voukoudlak_, from which he was escaping. Still,
bodily and mental fatigue overcame all remorse, and, feeling safe
from his enemies, he went off to sleep, and, notwithstanding a series
of dreadful dreams, he slept more soundly than he had done for many a
night.

When he awoke the next morning, all trace of land had disappeared;
nothing was seen but the glittering waters of the blue sea and the
glowing sun overhead. He was safe; remorse had vanished with fear; he
only felt, not simply hungry, but famished.

Everything went on well for two or three days. The smacking breeze
blew persistently. In a day more they hoped to reach Naples. The crew
had nothing to do but to mend old sails, to eat and sleep. They were
a merry set of men, as easily amused as children; besides, all of
them were wonderfully musical and possessed splendid voices. Gennaro,
the youngest, especially might have made a great fortune as a tenor.
In the evening they would sing all in a chorus, accompanying
themselves with a guitar, a mandoline and a triangle.

Vranic, amongst them, was like an owl in an aviary of singing-birds;
besides, he knew but few words of Italian and could hardly understand
their dialect. Although his sleep was no more molested by vampires,
and he tried not to think of the crime he had committed, and almost
succeeded in driving away the visions that haunted him at times,
still he was anything but happy. Was he not an exile from his native
country, for, even if the Austrian law could be defeated, would not
the terrible _karvarina_ be exercised against him whenever he met one
of Bellacic's numerous friends?

In this mood--wrapped in his gloomy thoughts--Vranic kept aloof from
every man on board. To the captain's questions he ever answered in
monosyllables; nor was he more talkative with the sailors. Once they
asked him to tell them a story of his country, and he complied.

"Shall I tell you the story of the youth who was going to seek his
fortune?"

"Yes; it must be a very interesting one."

"Well--a youth was going to seek his fortune."

"And then?"

"The night before he was about to leave his village a storm destroyed
the bridge over which he had to pass."

"Well--and then?"

"He waited till they built another bridge."

"But go on."

"There is no going on, for the young man is waiting still," said he,
with a sneer.

After two or three days, Vranic was looked upon by all on board as a
peevish, sullen fellow, and he was left to his own dreary
meditations.

One of the sailors, besides, got it into his head that Vranic had the
gift of the evil eye, and it did not take very long to convince every
man on board of the truth of this assertion. Whenever he looked at
them, they invariably shut their two middle fingers, and pointed the
index and little finger at him, so as to counteract the effect of the
_jettatura_. The only man on board who did not fear Vranic was the
mate, for he possessed a charm far more potent than a crooked nail, a
horse-shoe, a bit of horned coral, or even a little silver
hump-backed man--this was a horse-chestnut, which he was once
fortunate enough to catch as it was falling from the tree, and before
it had touched the ground. He cherished it as a treasure, and kept it
constantly in his pocket. It was infallible against the evil eye, and
was powerful in many other circumstances. He was a most lucky man,
and, in fact, he felt sure he owed his good fortune to this talisman
of his.

Although the weather was delightful, still the captain and the crew
could not help feeling a kind of premonition of evil to come; all
were afraid that, sooner or later, Vranic would bring them ill-luck.
At last the coasts of Italy were in sight, but with the far-off
coasts, a small cloud, a mere speck of vapour, was seen on the
horizon. It was but a tiny white flake, a soft, silvery spray, torn
from some shrub blossoming in an unknown Eden, and blown by the west
wind in the sky. It also looked like a patch worn by coquettish
Nature to enhance the diaphanous watchet-blue of the atmosphere.
Still, the sailors frowned at it, and called the feathery cloudlet
--scudding lazily about--a squall, and they were all glad to be in
sight of the land. The breeze freshened, the sea changed its colour,
the waves rolled heavily; their tops were crested with foam. Still,
the ship made gallantly for the neighbouring coast.

The little cloud kept increasing in size; first it lengthened itself
in a wonderful way, like a snake spreading itself out; it also grew
of a darker, duller tint. Then it rolled itself together, piled
itself up, augmenting in volume, till it almost covered the whole of
the horizon. Finally, it began to droop downwards, tapering ever
lower, and losing itself in a mist. The sea underneath began to be
agitated, to boil and to bubble, seething with white foam; then a
dense smoke arose from the sea and mounted upwards as if to meet the
descending column of mist from the cloud just above it; both the
cloud and the upheaving waves moved with the greatest rapidity, and
seemed to be attracted by the ship, which endeavoured to tack about
and steer away from them.

All at once, the water overhead met the ascending mist, and then a
sparkling, silvery cloud arose in the spout, just like quicksilver in
a glass tube.

All the men were on deck, attending to the captain's directions; all
eyes were attracted by the weird, beautiful, yet terrifying sight.
The master, at the helm, did his best to avoid it, by changing the
ship's direction; still, the column of water advanced threateningly
in their course. It came nearer and ever nearer; now it was at a
gun-shot from the ship; if they had had a cannon on board, they might
have fired against it and dissolved it, but they had no firearms. The
atmosphere around them was getting dark with mist, the waterspout was
coming against them, and if that mass of water burst down on the ship
it would founder at once.

What was to be done?

"Leave the ship, and take to the boats," said some of the crew, but
it was already too late; they could not help being involved in the
cataclysm.

Some of the men had sunk on their knees, and were asking the Virgin
or St. Nicholas of Bari to come to their help.

"There is a remedy," said Vranic to the captain; "an infallible
remedy."

"What is it?" asked the master, with the eagerness of a drowning man
clutching at a straw.

"If a sailor amongst the crew happens to be the eldest of seven sons
he can at once dissolve that cursed column of water, the joint work
of the evil spirits of the air and those of the sea."

"How so?" asked the captain.

"Draw, at once, a pentagon, or five-pointed star, or King Solomon's
seal, on a piece of white paper, and let such a sailor, if he be on
board, stab it through the centre."

The captain called all the men together, and asked if anyone amongst
them happened to be, by chance, the eldest of seven brothers.

"My father has seven sons, and I am the eldest," said Gennaro, that
curly-headed, bright-eyed Sicilian youth, for whom life seemed all
sunshine. "Why, what am I to do?"

The waterspout was advancing rapidly, the sea was lashed by the
mighty waves, and the ship, like a nutshell, was being tossed against
it.

Vranic, who had drawn the cabalistic sign, handed it to the captain.

"Stab that star in the centre, quickly."

The Slav took out a little black dagger, and gave it to the youth.

"Be quick! there is no time to be lost."

The murmuring and hissing sound the column of water had been making
had changed into the deafening roar of a waterfall. It seemed to be
whirling round with vertiginous rapidity, as it came upon them.

"Make haste!" added the captain.

"But why?"

"Do it! this is no time to ask questions!" replied the master.

"And then?" quoth the youth, turning to Vranic.

"The waterspout will melt into rain."

"And what will happen to me?"

"To you? Why, nothing."

"I am frightened."

A vivid flash of lightning appeared, and the rumbling of the thunder
now mingled itself with the roaring of the waters.

"Frightened of what?" said the captain.

"That man has the _jettatura_; I am sure he means mischief."

"What a coward you are! Do what I order you, or, by the Madonna----"

"What harm can befall you for stabbing a bit of paper?" said some of
the sailors.

"Quick! it is the only chance of saving us all!" added the boatswain.

"Only, if you don't make haste, it'll be too late."

The abyss of the waters seemed to open before the ship, ready to
engulf it; the waves were rolling over it.

Gennaro crossed himself devoutly, then he muttered a prayer; at last
he took up the dagger and stabbed the pentagon in the very middle,
just where Vranic had pointed to him with his finger; still, he grew
ghastly pale as he did so.

"Holy Mother," said the youth, "forgive me if I have done wrong!"

All the eyes anxiously turned from the bit of paper to the
waterspout, whirling round and coming ever nearer.

All at once the whirling seemed to stop; then, as the motion relaxed,
the column of water snapped somewhat above the middle; the lower
portion, or base, relapsed and gradually fell; it was absorbed by the
rising waves and the bubbling and foaming waters. The higher portion
began to curl upwards and to disappear amidst the huge mass of
lowering clouds overhead.

"There," said Vranic, "I told you the spout would melt away and
vanish."

"Wonderful!" said the captain.

"Yes, indeed!" said Gennaro, as he again crossed himself and handed
the dagger to its owner, evidently glad to get rid of it.

"Well, you see that you were not struck dead," said the boatswain to
the youth.

"Nor carried away by the devil," said another of the sailors.

"The year is not yet out, nor the day either," thought Vranic to
himself; "and even if you live, you may rue this day and the deed
you've done."

"You have saved all our lives, and we thank you, Gennaro," added the
captain. "I shall never forget you; and I hope that, as long as I
command a ship, we'll never part."

Thereupon, he clasped him in his arms and kissed him fondly.

"Thank you, captain; and may San Gennaro, my patron saint, and the
blessed Virgin, grant you your wish and mine."

"We thank you, too," said the captain to Vranic, feeling himself
bound to say something; "you are really a magician, and you know the
secret of the elements."

"Oh! it is a thing that every child knows in our country, just like
pouring oil in the sea to calm the waves."

The men said nothing, but they were all glad the coasts were near,
and that they would soon get rid of this uncanny and uncouth man.

In the meanwhile, the sun had gone down, and dark night spread itself
like a pall over the sea. The storm then increased with the darkness.
The waterspout had vanished, but in its stead a pouring rain came
down; the wind also began to blow in fitful blasts, and as it came in
a contrary direction they were obliged to tack about, and to take in
the sails. The storm, however, kept increasing at a fearful rate; the
wind was blowing a real hurricane; all sails, even the jib, had to be
reefed. The sea, lashed by the wind, became ever more boisterous; the
waves rose in succession, uplifting themselves the one on top of the
other, and dashing against the ship, which ever seemed ready to
founder. All hands were now at the pumps, and Vranic, along with the
others, worked away with all his strength.

Steering--as the ship had done--to avoid the waterspout, she had been
continually altering her course, so that the captain did not exactly
know whereabouts they were. In the midst of the darkness and with the
torrents of rain that came pouring down, all traces of land had long
disappeared.

All at once a mightier gust of wind came down upon the ship, the
beams groaned, then there was a tremendous crash and one of the masts
came down. There was a moment of panic and confusion; Vranic fell
upon his knees and began to pray for help.

Soon after that a light was seen at no very great distance.

"We are saved," said the captain; "there is Cape Campanella
lighthouse."

All eyes were fixed upon that beacon.

"It is rather too low to be Cape Campanella," added the boatswain.

"Yes; and, besides, it flashes every two minutes," replied the
captain.

They thereupon concluded that it was the lighthouse on Carena Point,
the south-western extremity of the island of Capri.

Thinking it to be Cape Campanella, they had steered towards the
light--the only dangerous part of the island, on account of the reef,
which stretches out a long way into the sea. When they found out
their mistake it was too late to avoid the danger that threatened
them; the ship was dashed against the rocks, which were heard grating
under the keel and ripping open the sides, like the teeth of some
famished monster of the deep. Fortunately, the brig had got tightly
wedged between two rocks and kept fast there, so nothing was to be
done but work hard at the pumps, trying to keep out as much water as
they possibly could.

The night seemed everlasting. Still, by degrees, the storm subsided,
and at dawn the wind had gone down and the sea had grown calm.

At daybreak help came from the shore.

"The ship is very much damaged," said the captain, "and so is the
cargo, doubtless; but, at least, there are no lives lost," added he,
looking round.

A few moments afterwards, the boatswain, wanting something, called
Gennaro, but no answer came. He called again and again, cursed his
canine breed, but with no better success.

"Where is Gennaro?" asked the captain.

The youth was sought down below, but he was nowhere to be found. All
the men of the crew looked at one another enquiringly, and at last
the questions that everyone was afraid to ask were uttered.

Had the youth been swept away by one of the huge breakers that washed
over the deck? Had he been killed by the falling mast, or blown into
the deep by a sudden and unexpected gust of wind? No one had seen him
disappear; all looked around, expecting to see the handsome face of
the youth they loved so well rising above the waves; but the green
waters kept their secret. After that, all eyes turned towards Vranic,
as if asking for an answer.

"The last time I saw the youth was when he was working at the pumps
by me, just before the mast came down."

They all muttered some oath, unintelligible to him, and then a prayer
for the youth. After that Vranic was only too glad to leave the ship,
for every man on board seemed to look upon him as the cause of
Gennaro's mysterious disappearance.

Having remained a week in Naples, seeing his money, the only thing he
loved, dwindle away, Vranic did his best to find some employment. He
for a few days got a living as a porter, helping to unload sacks from
an English ship. Still, that was but a very precarious living, and he
decided to follow a seafaring life, not because he was fond of it,
but only to keep clear from his enemies and the laws of his country,
and the vampire that had haunted him there every night.

He happened to find employment, as cook, on the very ship he had
helped to discharge. It was an English schooner, bound for Glasgow.
The captain, a crusty old bachelor, was a real hermit-crab; the men,
a most ruffianly set. Vranic, being hardly able to speak with anyone,
indulged in his morose way of living, and, except for being kicked
about every now and then, he was left very much to himself.

From Glasgow the schooner sailed for Genoa, where she arrived just as
the _Giustizia di Dio_ was about to set sail. The two ships came so
close together that Vranic, who kept a sharp look-out whenever he saw
an Austrian flag, recognised Milenko standing on the deck and
ordering some manoeuvres.

Although the young man could not perceive him, hidden as he was in the
darkness of the galley, and bending over the stove, still Vranic felt
a shock that for a few moments almost deprived him of his senses, and
made him feel quite sick.

That day the dinner was quite a failure. The roast was burnt; the
potatoes, instead, were raw; the cauliflower was uneatable, and salt
had been put in the pudding instead of sugar.

If there is anything trying to human patience, it is a spoilt dinner,
especially the first one gets in port. It is, therefore, not to be
wondered at that the captain, never very forbearing at the best of
times, got so angry that he kicked Vranic down the hatchway and
almost crippled him.

Although the Dalmatian ship sailed away, bound probably towards the
East, and he would perhaps never see her captain again, still the
shock he felt had quite unnerved him. From that day matters began to
go on from bad to worse. Sailing from Genoa, they first met with
contrary winds, and much time was lost cruising about; after that
came a spell of calm weather, and for long weeks they remained in
sight of the bold promontory and of the lighthouse of Cape Bearn, not
far from the port of Vendres. At last a fair wind arose, the sails
were made taut, and the schooner flew on the crested waves. A new
life seemed to have come over the crew, tired of their listless
inactivity; the captain cursed Vranic and kicked him a little less
than he had done on the previous days.

It was to be hoped that the wind would continue fair; otherwise their
provisions would begin falling short. Ill-luck, however, was awaiting
them in another direction.

Opening a keg of salted meat a few days later, the stench was so
loathsome, that it reminded Vranic of that awful night when he had
stabbed the vampire; besides, big worms were crawling and wriggling
at the top. Vranic at once called the mate and showed him the rotten
meat, and the mate reported the fact to the captain. He only answered
with a few oaths, then shrugged his shoulders, and said that dogs
would lick their chops at such dainty morsels, and were his men any
better than dogs?

"Wash it well, clean it, and put some vinegar with it," said the
mate, who was the best man on board. "There is no other meat, and
that is better than starving."

Vranic did as he was bid; he put more pepper than usual. Still, he
himself did not taste it, but lived on biscuit, for even the potatoes
had been all eaten up.

A few days afterwards, taking out another piece from the cask, he
drew out a sinewy human arm, hacked in several places, and with the
fingers chopped off. Shuddering, and seized with a feeling of
loathsomeness, he stood for a moment bewildered. Then he almost
fancied he had touched something hairy in the cask, and looking in,
he saw a disfigured and bearded man's head. Sickening at the gruesome
sight, he dropped the arm into the cask and hastened to the mate,
trying to explain to him what the barrel contained.

The mate could hardly understand and would not believe him, but soon
he had to yield to the evidence of his own senses. The mate, in his
turn, reported the horrible fact to the captain, who asked both men
not to divulge the secret to the crew. When night came on, the cask
and its contents were thrown overboard. The captain was not to blame
for what the cask contained, nor were the ship-chandlers, who had
supplied him at other times upon leaving Scotland. The cask bore the
trade-mark of a well-known foreign house trading in preserved meat.

The provisions, which had been scarce, now began to fall short; but
in a day or two they would have reached their destination. The wind,
however, was contrary, and some delay ensued. Hunger was now
beginning to be felt. The crew, overworked and badly fed, first grew
sullen; the foremost of them, with scowling looks, began to utter
threatening words. Orders given were badly obeyed, or not obeyed at
all. Long pent-up anger seemed every moment ready to break out--first
against the captain, then against the mate, finally against Vranic,
who, they said, was leagued against them.

The boatswain especially hated him.

"Since that cursed foreigner has come on board," said he, "everything
has been going from bad to worse. Even the provisions seem to dwindle
and waste away."

"I'd not be surprised," added one of the sailors, "that he is leagued
with the captain to poison the whole lot of us, for, in fact, the
meat tasted like carrion, and I don't know what's up with me."

"Nonsense! Why poison us? Starving is much better," quoth another.

A trifle soon brought on a quarrel, which ended in a tussle. Vranic
got cuffed and kicked about; he had been born in an unlucky moment,
and everyone hated him without really understanding why or wherefore.

Why do most people dislike toads or blind-worms?

The mate, seeing the poor cook unfairly used, interfered on his
behalf, and tried to put an end to the fight. This only made matters
worse. The captain, hearing the noise, appeared on deck, and a mutiny
at once broke out.

The boatswain, who was at the head of the revolted crew, snatching up
a hatchet which happened to be there within his reach, advanced and
demanded a distribution of provisions.

The captain, for all answer, knocked him down with a crow-bar; at the
same time he showed the crew the coast of England, which was faintly
visible at a distance, as well as a man-of-war coming full sail
towards them.

A day after this incident, the ship had landed her rebellious crew at
Cardiff. The boatswain was sent to jail, where, if he had been a man
of a philosophical turn of mind, he might have meditated on the
difference between right and might.

As for Vranic, he was but too glad to quit a ship where he was hated
by everybody, even by the captain, who had treated him more like a
galley slave than a fellow-creature.

After having earned a pittance as a porter for a short time, he again
embarked on board the _Ave Maria_, an Austrian ship bound for
Marseilles. This ship had had a remarkably prosperous voyage from the
Levant. The captain had received a handsome gratuity, and now a cargo
had been taken at a very high freight; therefore, from the captain to
the cabin-boy, every man on board was merry and worked with a good
will.

Although the weather was bleak, rainy and foggy, still the wind blew
steadily; moreover, the _Ave Maria_ was a good ship, and a fast
sailer, withal she laboured under a great disadvantage, that of being
overladen, and was, consequently, always shipping heavy seas.

On leaving Cardiff, the captain found that two of the sailors, who
had been indulging in excesses of every kind whilst on shore, were in
a bad state of health. A third sickened a few days afterwards, and
for a long time all three were quite unfit for work. Still, the ship
managed to reach Marseilles without any mishap.

The cargo was unloaded, a fresh one was taken on board; the men
received medical assistance, and seemed to be recovering. On leaving
Marseilles, matters went from bad to worse; the captain, his mate,
and two other sailors fell ill.

"It seems," said the captain, "as if someone has the gift of the evil
eye, for, since we left England, ill-luck follows in our wake."

The crew was, therefore, greatly diminished, for the three men, who
had been recovering, were now, on account of improper food and
overwork, quite ill again.

On leaving Marseilles they met with heavy gales and baffling squalls
of wind; the ship began to pitch heavily, then to labour and strain
in such a way that, overladen as she was, the pestilence-stricken
crew could hardly manage her. For three days the wind blew with such
violence that two men had to be constantly kept at the helm.
Moreover, she shipped so many seas that hands had to be always at the
pumps. The very first day the waves had washed away the coops; then,
at last, the jib-boom and the bowsprit shrouds had been broken loose
and torn away by the grasp of the storm.

At last the storm subsided, and then the captain ascertained that the
ship had sustained such damage as to render her unsafe. In such a
predicament, with the crew all ailing, the captain deemed it
necessary to go back to Marseilles for repairs.

After a short stay there, the _Ave Maria_ set sail again for Palermo,
where she arrived without further mishap; only the sick sailors,
having had to work hard during the storm, were rather worse than
better. On leaving Palermo two other men of the crew had to be put on
the sick-list, so that by the time they reached the Adriatic the ship
was not much better than a pestiferous floating hospital. In fact,
the only ones who had escaped the loathsome contagion were Vranic and
the two boys, and they had to do the work of the whole crew.

It was fortunate that, notwithstanding the stormy season of the year,
the weather kept steadily fair, for, in case of a hurricane, the crew
would have been almost helpless. At last land was within sight; the
hills of Istria were seen, towards evening, as a faint greyish line
on the dark grey sky. The captain and the men heaved a sigh of
relief; that very night they would cast anchor in the port of
Trieste. There some had their homes; all, at least, had relations or
friends. Vranic alone hoped to meet no one he knew.

That evening they made a hearty meal, for, as their provisions had
slightly begun to fall short, they had scarcely satisfied their
hunger for several days; but now--almost within sight of the
welcoming, flashing rays of the Trieste lighthouse--they could,
indeed, be somewhat prodigal.

The sirocco, which had accompanied them all the way from Palermo, now
fell all at once, just as they had reached the neighbourhood of Cape
Salvore. That sudden quietness boded nothing good. Soon, the captain
perceived that the wind was shifting in the Gulf of Trieste. By
certain well-known signs, he argued that the north-easterly wind was
rising; and soon afterwards, a fierce _bora_, the scourge of all the
neighbourhood, began to blow.

Orders were at once given to reef the topsails; then they began to
tack about, so as to come to an anchorage in the roads of Trieste as
soon as possible.

With the want of hands, the work proceeded very slowly and clumsily.
Night came on--dark, dismal night--amidst a howling wind and raging
billows dashing furiously against the little ship. It was a comfort
on the next morning to see the white houses and the naked hills of
Trieste; for they were not far from the port. Every means was tried
to get near the land without being dashed against it and stranded, or
split against the rocks; but the fierce wind baffled all their
efforts. And the whole of the day was passed in uselessly tacking
about and ever being driven farther off in the offing. Still, late in
the afternoon, they managed to get nearer the port, and at sunset
both anchors were dropped, not far from the jetty; still, the violence
of the wind was such that all communication with the land was
rendered impossible. That evening the last provisions were eaten, for
they had spent the whole day fasting. The strength of the gale
increased with the night. More chain was then added; but still the
anchors began to come home. By degrees, all the chains were paid out;
and, nevertheless, the ship was drifting. In so doing, she struck her
helm against a buoy. The shock caused one of the chains, which was
old and rusty, to snap. After that, the _Ave Maria_ was driven back
bodily towards the coasts of Istria, till finding, at last, a better
bottom, the anchor held and the ship was stopped at about a mile from
Punta Grossa, not far from Capo d'Istria. There was no moon; the sky
was overcast; the darkness all around was oppressive. The huge
surges, dashing against the bows and the forecastle, washed away
everything on deck. The boats themselves were rendered unserviceable.
The thermometer had fallen eighteen degrees in two days, and the
keen, sharp wind blowing rendered the cold most intense. A fringe of
icicles was hanging down from the sides of the ship, the spray froze
on the tackle, and rendered the ropes as hard as iron cables.

Then the ship sprung a leak, and the pumps had to be worked to
prevent her from sinking. To keep the men alive, the captain opened a
pipe of Marsala which had been destined for the shippers. That night,
which seemed everlasting, finally wore away, dawn came, and the
signal of distress was hoisted; a ship passed at no great distance,
but took no notice of them. Anyhow, help could be expected from
Trieste; the coastguards must have seen them struggling against the
storm. That day the wind increased; not a ship, not a sailing-boat
was to be seen in the offing; what a long, dreary day of baffled hope
that was. When evening came on, the fasting crew, now completely
fagged out, began to lose courage, and yet they were but a few miles
from the coast. That night Vranic had a dreadful vision. When he took
his place at the pump, opposite him, at the other handle, stood the
vampire grinning at him, with the horrible gash in his cheek. That
gruesome sight was too dreadful to be borne; he felt his arms getting
stiff, and he fell fainting on the deck. He only recovered his senses
when a huge wave came breaking against the deck and almost washed him
overboard.

In the morning the wind began to abate; but now all the sailors were
not only thoroughly exhausted, but all more or less in a state of
intoxication. The pumps could hardly be worked any more; even Vranic,
the boys and the captain, who had worked to the last, hoping to save
their lives, were obliged to leave the vessel to sink.

The _Ave Maria_ was going down rapidly, and now, even if the men
could have worked, it was impossible to think of saving her; she was
to be the prey of the waves. As for help from Trieste, it was useless
looking out for it. Still, the titled gentlemen, in their warm and
cosy offices of the _See-Behörde_, which fronted the harbour, had
seen the ship fighting against the wind and the waves. They knew, or,
at least, ought to have known, of her distress; but it was carnival
time, and their thoughts were surely not with the ships at sea.

At last, at eight o'clock, a ship was seen, and signals of distress
were made. The ship answered, and began tacking about and trying to
come near the sinking craft. When within reach of hearing, the whole
crew of the _Ave Maria_ summoned up all their strength and shouted
that they were starving.




CHAPTER XXII

THE "GIUSTIZIA DI DIO"


Since his departure, Milenko had never received any letters from his
parents, for, in those times of sailing-ships, captains got news from
home casually, by means of such fellow-countrymen as they chanced to
meet, rather than through the post. Lately they had happened to come
across a Ragusian ship at Brindisi, but, as this ship had left Budua
only a short time after Milenko himself had sailed, all the
information the captain could give was rather stale. As for Vranic,
nothing had been heard of him these many months.

Peric (the youth sailing with Milenko) heard, however, that the
forebodings he had had concerning his brother were but too well
founded; the poor boy had been killed while taking care of his
father's horse. Still, the man who told him the news did not know, or
had partly forgotten, all the details of the dreadful accident, for
all he remembered was that the poor child had been brought home to
his mother a mangled, bleeding corpse.

Milenko then seemed again to see the vision he had witnessed within
the waters, and he could thus relate to the poor boy all the
particulars of the tragic event.

Poor Peric cried bitterly, thinking of the poor boy he had been so
fond of, and whom he would never see again; then, having somewhat
recovered from his grief:

"It is very strange," said he, "that, on the very night on which you
saw my brother dragged by the horse, I heard a voice whispering in my
ear: 'Jurye is dead!' and then I fancied that the wind whistling in
the rigging repeated: 'Jurye is dead!' and that same phrase was
afterwards lisped by the rushing waters. Just then, to crown it all,
I looked within the palm of my hand--why, I really do not know; but
that, as you are aware, brings about the death of the person we love
most. At that same moment a cold shivering came over me, and I felt
sure that my poor brother was dead. All this is very strange, is it
not?"

"Not so very strange, either," replied Milenko; "the saints allow us
to have an inkling of what is to happen, so that when misfortune does
come, we are not crushed by it."

"Oh! we all knew that one of our family would die during the year;
only, as I was going to sea, I thought that I might be the one
who----"

"How did you know?" asked Milenko.

"Because, when our grandmother died, her left eye remained open; and,
although they tried to shut it, still, after a while, the lids parted
again, and that, you well know, is a sure sign that someone of the
house would follow her during the year."

The youth remained thoughtful for a little while, and then he added:

"I wonder how my poor mother is, now that she has lost both her
sons."

"We shall soon have news from home, for, if the weather does not
change, to-morrow we shall be in Trieste, where letters are surely
awaiting us."

"Do you ever have voices whispering in your ears?" asked Peric.

"No, never; do you?"

"Very often, especially when I keep very still and try to think of
nothing at all, just as if I were not my own self, but someone else."

"Try and see if you can hear a voice now."

The youth remained for some time perfectly still, looking as if he
were going off into a trance; when he came to himself again:

"I did hear a voice," said he.

"What did it say?"

"That to-morrow you will meet the man you have been looking for."

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing."

"Is it not imagination?"

"Oh, no! besides, poets often hear the voice of the moon, who tells
them all the stories they write in their books."

"Do they?" quoth Milenko, smiling.

"Yes; do you not know the story of 'The Snowdrop,' that Igo Kas heard
whilst he was seated by a newly-dug grave?"

"No, I never heard it."

"Then I'll read it to you, if you like."

Milenko having nothing better to do, listened attentively to the
youth's tale.


THE SNOWDROP.

A Slav Story.

The last feathery flakes of snow, fallen in the night, had not yet
melted away, when the first snowdrop, which had sprung up in the
dark, glinted at the dawning sun. A drop of dew, glistening on the
edge of its half-opened leaves, looked like a sparkling tear. That
dainty little flower, as white as the surrounding snow, had sprouted
up beside a newly-dug grave. As I stooped down to pick the little
snowdrop, I saw the words inscribed on the white marble slab, and
then sorrow's heavy hand was laid upon my heart. The name was that of
the Countess Anya Yarnova, a frail flower of early spring, as
spotless as the little snowdrop.

What had been the cause of her sudden death? Was it some secret
sorrow? Was it her love for that handsome stranger whose flashing
eyes revealed the hunger of his heart?

At gloaming I was again beside the newly-opened grave. The sun had
set, the birds in the bushes were hushed; the breeze, that before
seemed to be the mild breath of spring, began to blow in fitful, cold
blasts.

The round disc of the moon now rose beyond the verge of the horizon,
and its mild, amber light fell upon the marble monument of the
Yarnova family, almost hidden under a mass of white roses, camellias
and daffodils, made up in huge wreaths.

Mute and motionless, I sat for some time musing by the tomb; then at
last, looking up at

  "That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
  Whom mortals call the Moon,"

I said:

  "Tell me, Moon, thou pale and grey
  Pilgrim of Heaven's homeless way,"

didst thou know young Countess Yarnova, so full of life a few days
ago, and now lying there in the cold bosom of the earth? Tell me what
bitter and unbearable grief broke that young heart; speak to me, and
I shall listen to thy words as to the voice of my mother, when, in
the evening, she whispered weird tales to me while putting me to
sleep.

A loud moan seemed to arise from the tomb, and then I heard a voice
as silvery sweet as the music of the spheres, lisp softly in my
ear:--


Passing by the Yarnova Castle three days ago, I peeped within its
casements, and, in a dimly-lighted hall, I saw Countess Yadviga, who
had just returned from Paris. She wore a black velvet dress, and her
head was muffled in a lace mantilla; although her features twitched
and she was sad and careworn, still she looked almost as young and
even handsomer than her fair daughter.

Presently, as she sat in the dark room, the door was opened; a page
stepped in, drew aside the gilt morocco portière emblazoned with the
Yarnova arms, and ushered in the handsome stranger, Aleksij Orsinski.

The Baron looked round the dimly-lighted room for a while. At last he
perceived the figure of the Countess as she sat in the shadow of the
huge fire-place; then he went up to her and bowed.

"Thank you, Countess Yarnova, for snatching yourself away from
beautiful Paris and coming in this dismal place."

The figure in the high-backed arm-chair bowed slightly, and without
uttering a single word, motioned the stranger to a seat at a short
distance. The Baron sat down.

"Thank you especially for at last giving your consent to my marriage
with the beautiful Anya."

The Baron waited for a reply, but as none came, he went on:

"Although her guardian hinted that Anya was somewhat too young for
me, still I know she loves me; and as for myself, I swear that
henceforth the aim of my life will be that of making her happy."

The Baron, though sixteen years older than his childlike bride, was
himself barely thirty; he was, moreover, a most handsome man--tall,
stalwart, with dark flashing eyes, a long flowing moustache, a mass
of black hair, and a remarkably youthful appearance. He waited again
a little while for an answer, but the mother did not speak.

The large and lofty hall in which they were, with its carved stalls
jutting out of the wainscot, looked far more like a church than a
habitable room; the few fantastic oil lamps seemed like stars shining
in the darkness, while the mellow light of the moon, pouring in from
the mullioned windows, fell on the Baron's manly figure, and left the
Countess in the dark.

As no answer came, the stranger, at a loss what to say, repeated his
own words:

"Yes, all my days will be devoted to the happiness of our child."

"Our child?" said the Countess at last, with a slight tremor in her
voice.

The Baron started like a man roused in the midst of a dream.

"Your daughter I mean, Countess."

Seized by a strange feeling of oppression, which he was unable to
control, the Baron, in his endeavour to overcome it, began to relate
to the mother how he had met Anya by chance, how he had fallen in
love with her the very moment he had seen her, how from that day she
had engrossed all his thoughts, for, from their first meeting, her
image had haunted him day and night.

"In fact," added he, "it was the first time I had loved, the very
first."

"The first?" echoed the voice in the dark.

The strong man trembled like an aspen leaf. Those two words coming
from that dark, motionless figure, sitting at some distance, seemed
to be a voice from the tomb, an echo from the past; that past which
never buries its dead. To get over his increasing nervousness the
Baron began to speak with greater volubility:

"In my early youth, or rather in my childhood I should say," added
he, "I did love once----"

"Once?" repeated the voice.

The Baron started again and stopped. Was it Anya's mother who spoke,
or was there an echo in that room? Still, he went on:

"Yes, once I loved, or, at least, thought myself in love."

"Thought?" added the voice.

That repetition was getting unbearable; anyhow, he tried not to heed
it.

"Well, Countess, it was only a childish fancy, a boy's infatuation;
at sixteen, I was spoony on a girl two years younger than myself,
just about the age my Anya is now. Fate parted us; I grieved a while;
but, since I saw your daughter, I understood that I had never loved
before, no, never!"

"Never before--no, never!" uttered the woman in the dark.

The Baron almost started to his feet; that voice so silvery clear, so
mournfully sweet, actually seemed to come from the far-off regions
from where the dead do not return. After a short silence, only
interrupted by two sighs, he went on:

"There were, of course, other loves between the first and the last
--swift, evanescent shadows, leaving no traces behind them. And now
that I have made a full confession of my sins, Countess, can I not
see my Anya?"

"Your Anya?"

This was carrying a joke rather too far.

"Well, my fiancee?" said he, rather abruptly.

"No, Aleksij Orsinski, not yet. You have spoken, and I have listened
to you; it is my turn to speak. I, too, have something to say about
Anya's father."

The Baron had always been considered as a brave man, but now either
the darkness oppressed him, or the past arose in front of him
threateningly, or else the strange and almost weird behaviour of his
future mother-in-law awed him; but, somehow or other, he had never
felt so uncomfortable before. Not only a disagreeable feeling of
creepiness had come over him, but even a slight perspiration had
gathered on his brow. He almost fancied that, instead of a woman, a
ghost was sitting there in front of him echoing his words. Who was
that ghost? Perhaps, he would not--probably, he dared not recognise
it. He tried, however, to shake off his nervousness, and said, with
forced lightness:

"I have had the honour of knowing Count Yarnova personally; he was
somewhat eccentric, it is true; still, a more honourable man
never----"

"He was simply mad," interrupted the Countess; "anyhow, it is not of
Count Yarnova, but of Anya'a father of whom I wish to speak." Then,
after a slight pause, as if nerving herself to the painful task, the
woman in the dark added: "For you must know that not a drop of the
Count's blood flows in my daughter's veins."

There was another awkward pause; Aleksij's heart began to beat much
faster, the perspiration was gathering on his brow in much bigger
drops.

"Count Yarnova was not your daughter's father, you say?" He would
have liked to add: "Who was, then?" but he durst not.

"No, Aleksij Orsinski, he was not."

A feeling of sickness came over the Baron; he hardly knew whether he
was awake, or asleep and dreaming. Who was that woman in the dark?

The Countess, after a while, resumed her story: "I was born in St.
Petersburg, of a wealthy and honourable, but not of a noble family.
I, too, was but a child when I fell in love, deeply in love, with a
neighbour's son. Unlike yours, Baron, and I suppose all men's, a
woman's first love is the only real one. I was then somewhat younger
than my daughter now is, for I had barely reached my thirteenth year,
and as for my lover, he was fifteen. We often met, unknown to our
parents, in our garden; I saw no harm in it--I was too young, too
guileless, not to trust him----"

She stopped.

"And he?" asked the Baron, as if called upon to say something.

"He, like Romeo, whispered vows of love, of eternal fidelity. He
believed in his vows just then, as you did, Aleksij Orsinski; for I
daresay that with you, as with all men, the last love is the only
true one."

"Then?" asked the Baron.

"Once we stepped out of the garden together; a carriage was waiting
for us; we drove to a lonely chapel not far from our house; a priest
there blessed us and made us man and wife. Our marriage, however, was
to be kept a secret till we grew older, or, at least, till my husband
was master of his actions, for he knew that his parents would never
consent to our union."

There was another pause; but now the Baron could not trust himself to
speak, his teeth were almost chattering as if with intense cold.

"A time of sickness and sorrow reigned over our country; the people
were dying by hundreds and by thousands. The plague was raging in St.
Petersburg. My husband's family were the first to flee from the
contagion. We remained. The scourge had just abated, when, to my
horror and dismay, I understood that I should in a few months become
a mother. I wrote to my husband, but I received no answer; still, I
knew he was alive and in good health. I wrote again, but with no
better success. The day came when, at last, I had to disclose my
terrible secret to my parents."

The Countess stopped, passed her hands over her brow as if to drive
away the remembrance of those dreadful days.

"It is useless to try and relate their anger and my shame. My parents
would not believe in my marriage; besides, the priest that had
married us, even the witnesses, had all been swept away by that weird
scavenger, the plague. I had no paper, no certificate, not even a
ring to show that I was married. Contumely was not enough; I was not
only treated by my parents with pitiless scorn, but I was, moreover,
turned out of their house. When our own parents shut their doors
against us, is it a wonder if the world is ruthless?

"What was I to do? where was I to go? With the few roubles I had I
could not travel very far or live very long. I wandered to the castle
where my husband was living; I asked for him, but I was told that he
was ill."

"But he was ill," said the Baron, "was he not?"

"Perhaps his watery love had already flowed away, and he had given
orders not to receive me if I should present myself. For a moment I
stood rooted on the doorstep, bewildered, not knowing what to do;
then I asked to see his mother. This was only exposing myself to one
humiliation more. She came out in the hall; there she called me
bitter names, and when I told her that I had not a bed whereon to lie
that night, she replied that the Neva was always an available bed for
girls like me; then she ordered her servants to cast me out.

"Houseless, homeless, almost penniless; my husband's mother was
right--the Neva was the only place where I could find rest. In its
fast-fleeting waters I might indeed find shelter.

"With my thoughts all of suicide I directed myself towards the open
country, hoping soon to reach the banks of the broad river, for I was
not only tired out, but weak and faint for want of food. My legs at
last began to give way; weary, disheartened, I sank down by the
roadside and began to sob aloud. All at once I heard a creaking noise
of wheels, the tramp of horses, and merry human voices singing in
chorus. As I lifted up my head I saw two carts passing, wherein a
band of gipsies were all huddled together. Seeing my grief and
hearing my sobs, the driver stopped; a number of boys and young men,
girls and women jumped, crawled or scrambled down from the carts, as
crabs do out of a basket; then they all crowded around me to find out
what had befallen me. I would not answer their questions, nor could I
have done so even if I had wanted. I was almost too faint to speak.
An elderly woman, the chief's wife, pushed all the others aside, came
up to me, took my hand and examined it carefully; then she began to
speak in a language I did not understand.

"'Poor child!' said she at last, patting my hair and kissing me on my
eyes; 'you are indeed in trouble; still, bright days are in store for
you; take courage, cheer up, live, for you will soon be a grand lady,
and then you will trample over all your enemies--yes, over every one
of them. You have no home,' said she, as if answering my own
thoughts; 'What does it matter? Have we a home? Have the little birds
that nestle in the leafy boughs a home? No, all the world is their
home. Come with us. You have no family; well, you will be our child.'

"Saying this she gave an order to the men around her, and almost
before I was aware of it, half-a-dozen brawny arms lifted me tenderly
and placed me on a heap of clothes in one of the carts. Soon my
protectress was by my side whispering words of endearment in my ear;
and as for myself, weak and starving, forlorn and dejected as I was,
I cared very little what became of me.

"The gipsy woman, who was versed in medicine, poured me out some kind
of cordial or sleeping draught and made me drink it; a few minutes
afterwards a pleasant drowsiness came over me, then I fell fast
asleep. I only awoke some hours later, and I found myself lying on a
mattress in a tent. I remained for some time bewildered, unable to
understand where and with whom I was; still, when I came to my senses
the keen edge of my grief was blunted. The gipsy woman, my
protectress, kissed me in a fond, mother-like way; then she brought
me a plate of food.

"'Eat,' said she, 'grief has a much greater hold on an empty stomach
than on a satiated one.'

"I was young and hungry; the smell of the food was good; I did not
wait to be asked twice. I never remembered to have tasted anything so
delicious. It was not soup, but a kind of savoury stew, containing
vegetables and meat--an _olla-podrida_ of ham, beef and poultry.
After that, they offered me some fragrant drink, which soon made me
feel drowsy, and then sent me off to sleep again. I woke early the
next morning, when they were about to start on their daily
wanderings. With my head still muddled with sleep, I was helped into
the cart, and sat down between my new friend and her husband.

"That life in the open air, the kindness and good-humour of the
people amongst whom I lived, soothed and quieted me. All ideas of
suicide vanished entirely from my mind. Self-murder is an unknown
thing amongst gipsies. Besides, my friend assured me, again and
again, that I should soon become a very great lady, and then all my
enemies would be at my mercy.

"'But how shall I ever repay you for your kindness?' I asked.

"'The day will come when the hand of persecution will be uplifted
against us; then you alone will protect us.'

"In the meanwhile I was treated like a queen by all of them.
Moreover, they were a wealthy band, possessing not only horses, carts
and tents, but also money. They might have lived comfortably in some
town, or settled as farmers somewhere; but their life was by far too
pleasant to give it up. Heedless, jovial, contented people, their
only care seemed to be where they were to have their next meal.

"A few months afterwards, my daughter was born in a tent, not far
from Warsaw."

"She must have been a great comfort to you," quoth the Baron,
thinking he ought to say something appropriate.

"A comfort? The unwished-for child of a man that had blighted my
life, a comfort? No, indeed, Baron. In fact, I saw very little of
this daughter of mine; a young gipsy nursed her and took care of her.
My own parents had taught me what love was. My husband's mother--a
grand lady--thought that the Neva was the best cradle for her unborn
grandchild. Besides, other work was waiting for me than nursing and
rearing Anya.

"Count Yarnova one day met our band of gipsies on the road, and he
stretched his ungloved hand to have his fate read and explained. My
friend--no ordinary fortune-teller--was well versed in palmistry, and
a most lucid thought-reader; she told him that before the year was
out he would be a married man.

"'In a few days,' added she, 'on Christmas Eve, you will see your
young bride in your own mirror; you will see her again after a few
days, and she will tend upon you and cure you from a fever when the
doctor's help will be worse than useless. As soon as you get well you
will start on a journey; then you will stop for some days in two
large towns, both of which begin with the same letter; there you will
see again that beautiful child you saw on Christmas Eve.'

"'But when and where shall I meet her, not as a vision, but as a real
person?'

"The Baron wore on the forefinger of his right hand a kind of magic
ring, in which a little crystal ball was set. The gipsy lifted the
Baron's hand to her eyes and looked at the crystal ball for a few
seconds.

"'It is spring,' said she; 'the trees are in bloom, and Nature wears
her festive garb. In a splendid saloon, where all the furniture is of
gold and the walls are covered with rich silks, I see a handsome
young girl dressed in spotless white, holding a guitar and singing;
behind her there is a mass of flowers; around her gentlemen and
ladies are listening to the sound of her sweet voice.'

"Count Yarnova was a Swedenborgian, and he not only believed in the
occult art, but had dabbled himself in magic, until his rather weak
mind was somewhat unhinged. He, of course, did not doubt the truth of
what the gipsy had foretold him; moreover, he was right, because
everything happened exactly as she had predicted.

"On Christmas Eve the Count was alone in his room sitting at a little
table reading, and glancing every now and then, first at a clock,
afterwards at a huge cheval-glass opposite the alcove. All the
servants of the house, except his valet--a young gipsy of our band
--had gone to Mass, according to the custom of the place. At half-past
eleven my friends accompanied me to the Count's palace; the valet
opened the door noiselessly and led me unseen, unheard, in the
alcove. I was dressed in white and shrouded in a mass of silvery
veils. On the stroke of twelve I appeared between the two draped
columns which formed the opening of the alcove; the light hanging in
the middle of the room was streaming on me, and my image, reflected
in the glass, looked, in fact, like a vision. The Count, seeing it,
heaved a deep breath, started to his feet, drew back, stood still for
an instant, uttered an exclamation of surprise, then made a step
towards the looking-glass. At that moment the valet opened the door
as if in answer to his master's summons. The Count looked round,
thus giving me time to slip away; when he glanced again at the mirror
I had disappeared. Then the thought came to him that the image he had
seen within the glass was only the reflection of some one standing in
the alcove; he ordered the valet to look within the inner part of the
room, and when the servant man assured him that there was nobody, he
ventured to look in it himself. The valet swore that nobody had come
in the house, and by the time the servants returned from midnight
Mass I was already far away.

"The Count had not been well for some days, and the shock he received
upset his nerves in such a way that he took to his bed with a kind of
brain fever. I attended him during his illness whilst he was
delirious, and when he recovered he had a slight remembrance of me,
just as of a vision we happen to see in a dream. He asked if a young
girl had not tended him during his illness; his valet and the other
servants told him that a mysterious stranger had come to take care of
him, and that she had soothed him much more by placing her hand upon
his brow, than all the doctor's stuff had done; still, no one had
ever seen her before, or knew where she had come from.

"As soon as the Count was strong enough to travel, he decided to go
and visit some of the large towns of Europe, thus hoping to find me.

"The vigilant eye of the police had long suspected Yarnova of being
an agitator; some letters addressed to him, and some of his own
writings on occult lore, had been strangely misinterpreted, and from
that time a constant watch had been held over him. No sooner had he
started than information was sent to the police that he was
conspiring against the Government, and thus I managed to be sent
after him and watch over him. Money, passports, and letters of
introduction to the ambassadors were handed to me.

"Vienna was one of the towns where he stopped for a few days. A
follower of Cagliostro's was at that time showing there the phantoms
of the living, and those of the dead--not for money, of course, but
for any slight donation the visitors were pleased to give. The gipsy,
who accompanied Yarnova as valet, came to inform me that the Count
intended to go to this spiritualistic séance. The medium was also
acquainted of the fact, and for a slight consideration I was allowed
to appear before the public as my own materialised spirit. How most
of the ghosts were shown to the public, I cannot tell; I only know
that I appeared on a dimly-lighted stage, behind a thick gauze
curtain, wrapped up in a cloud of tulle, whilst harps and viols were
playing some weird funereal dirges. The people--huddled all together
in a dark corner--saw, I fancy, nothing but vague, dim forms passing
or floating by; but they were so anxious to be deceived that they
would have taken the wizard at his word, even if he had shown them an
ape and told them it was their grandmother.

"When Yarnova saw me, he got so excited that it was with the greatest
difficulty that he could be kept quiet.

"On the morrow the Count started for Venice, this being the nearest
town the name of which began with the same letter as Vienna. We got
there on the last days of the Carnival; an excellent time for the
purpose I had in hand, as the whole town seemed to have gone stark
mad. The Piazza San Marco was like a vast pandemonium, where dominoes
of every hue glided about, and masks of every kind walked, ran and
capered, or pushed their way through the dense crowd, chattering,
laughing, shouting. Bands of music were playing in front of several
coffee-houses, people were blowing horns; in fact, the uproar was
deafening. Dressed up as a Russian gipsy, and masked, I met the Count
on the square, and I told him all that had happened to him from the
day he had met the gipsies on the road. I only managed to escape from
him when he was stopped by a wizard--his own valet--who told him he
would see again that evening, at the masked ball of the Venice
theatre, the beautiful girl whose vision he had seen in his own
castle on Christmas Eve.

"The Count, of course, went to the masked ball, followed by his valet
and myself, both in dominoes. Seeing a box empty, I went in it,
remained rather in the background, took off my hood and appeared in
the white veils, as he had already seen me twice. As soon as I
appeared, the valet, who was standing behind his master, laid his
hand on the Count's shoulder and whispered to him: 'Yarnova, look at
that lady in that box on the second tier--the third from the stage.'
The Count saw me, uttered an exclamation of surprise, turned round to
find out who had spoken to him; but the black domino had slipped away
amongst the crowd. I remained in the same position for a few moments,
then I put on my domino and mask and left the box. I met the Count
coming up, but, in the crowd, he, of course, did not notice me.

"A few days afterwards, we left Venice; even before the Carnival was
quite over."

"I suppose you were sorry to leave that beautiful town of pleasure?"
said the Baron.

"Very sorry indeed; still, there was something to me sweeter than
pleasure, young as I was."

"What was it, Countess?"

"Revenge, so sweet to all Slavs."

"And you revenged yourself?"

"I have bided my time, Baron; every knot comes to the comb, they
say."

"Did they all come?"

"Sooner or later, all, to the very last; some of my enemies even
rotted in the mines of Siberia----"

The Baron shivered, thinking of his father.

"Others----" The Countess, for a moment, seemed to be thinking of the
past.

"Well?"

"But it is my own story I am telling you, not theirs. Count Yarnova
and I reached Paris almost at the same time. On my arrival, I
presented myself at the Russian Embassy. As the Ambassadress happened
to be looking for a companion or reader, the place was offered to me;
I accepted it most willingly. A few days afterwards, I was informed
by the gipsy, that the Count was to call on the Ambassadress the next
day. I remembered the prediction; I did my best to bring it about.
The room was exactly like the one described by my friend the gipsy;
the furniture was gilt, the walls were covered over with old damask;
as the Ambassadress was fond of flowers, the room looked like a
hot-house. I had put on the same white dress in which he had already
seen me three times, and knowing the very moment the Count would
come, I spoke of Russian peasant songs; I mentioned the one I was to
sing, and being requested to sing it, I did so. Before I ended it,
the door was opened and Count Yarnova was announced.

"I do not know whether his could be called love at first sight, but
surely everybody in the room thought that his sudden passion for me
had almost deprived him of his reason.

"The Count called on the morrow, and asked if I could receive him; I
did so, and he at once confessed his love for me. He told me that
although he was old enough to be my father, still, he felt sure I
should in time be fond of him, for marriages being made in heaven, I
was ordained to be his wife.

"I tried to explain the plight in which I found myself, but he
interrupted me at once, telling me that he knew everything.

"'I am aware that you have been forsaken by a cruel-hearted man,'
said he, 'but henceforth I shall be everything to you.'

"I summoned my courage, I spoke to him of my child.

"'The child that was born on Christmas night?'

"'Yes,' I answered below my breath.

"'It is my own spiritual child,' said he.

"I looked at him astonished.

"'I know all about it,' he continued. 'On that night I saw you in a
vision, just as it had been predicted to me; I saw you just as I see
you now. That very night I had, moreover, a vision. I was married to
you, and---- but never mind about that dream. I have seen you after
that--first in this magic ring; then I saw you materialised at
Vienna, and again in Venice. Of course, it was not you, but your
double, for you were at that time here in Paris, quite unconscious,
quietly asleep, having, perhaps, a dream of what your other self was
seeing.'

"Then he began to speak of materialisation, of the influence of
planets, in fact, of many chaotic and uninteresting things to which
I, apparently at least, listened with the greatest attention. I was
well repaid for my trouble, for a few weeks afterwards we were
married."

"And your former husband?"

"Was dead to me."

"Did not the Government give you any trouble?"

"The Russian Government knew that Countess Yarnova could be of great
help."

"And was she?"

"Even more than had been expected."

The Countess paused a moment. "It happened that my enemies, Aleksij
Orsinski, were also those of my country, so I crushed them."

The Baron trembled perceptibly.

"But that is their own tale, not mine. We came back to Russia, my
husband worshipping me as a superhuman creature."

"And you loved him?"

"I loved but once."

"Then you still loved the man who----"

"Love either flows away like water, or it rankles in a festering
heart and changes into gall. At St. Petersburg I saw again my
parents. Their curse had fallen on their own heads; fortune's wheel
had turned--their wealth was all gone--they were paupers. How
despicable people are who, having once been rich, cannot get
reconciled to the idea of being poor! How mean all their little
makeshifts are! how cringing they get to be! You can even make them
swallow any amount of dirt for a dinner you give them. They are all
loathsome parasites. I might have ignored my parents--left them to
their fate, or else helped them anonymously. I went to see them; it
was so pleasant to heap burning coals on their heads. I doled out a
pittance to them, received their thanks, allowed them to kiss my
hands, knowing how they cursed me within their hearts. Gratitude is
the bitterest of all virtues; it sours the very milk of human
kindness."

The Countess laughed a harsh, bitter, shrill laugh, and her guest
wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

"I shall tell you all about them some other time, in the long winter
evenings when the wind howls outside and the country is all covered
with its pall of snow. It will be pleasant to sit by the fire and
tell you all these old family stories, Aleksij Orsinski."

And the dark figure buried in the big arm-chair laughed again in a
mocking, discordant way.

"After some years the Count died, and then I was left sole mistress
of all his wealth."

"And Anya?"

"Why, I hardly ever saw her. She was brought up here, in this dreary
old castle, like a sleeping beauty; you, like Prince Charming, came
to waken her up. You found her here by chance, did you not?"

"Yes, Countess; I happened----"

"Count Yarnova, likewise, found me by chance," said the woman in the
dark, jeeringly, and interrupting him.

"What do you mean?" asked the Baron, breathing hard.

"I mean that the last knot has come to the comb." Aleksij Orsinski
covered his face with his hands.

"Perhaps, after all," he thought, "this is nothing but a hideous
dream."

"Do you not find, Baron, that Anya, _your_ Anya as you call her,
reminds you of another girl, the girl you----"

"Countess, for mercy's sake, I can bear this no longer; who are you?"

The Baron, trembling, panting, sprang to his feet and went up to the
Countess. She thereupon threw off her mantilla, and appeared in the
bright light of the full moon, which was streaming through the
mullioned windows.

The Baron stretched out his arms.

"Jadviga!" he said, in a low, muffled tone; then he again covered his
face with his hands.

"And now, Aleksij Orsinski, now that my story is at an end," said the
Countess, in a jeering tone; "now that, at last, you have wakened
from your day-dream, whom am I to call--Anya your fiancée, or Anya
your own daughter?"

A low moan was the only answer.

"Speak, man, speak!" said the Countess, sneeringly.

Another moan was heard; not from the Baron, but from behind one of
the thick Arras portières. Then it moved, and Anya appeared within
the room. She advanced a few steps, stretched out her arms, just as
if she were walking in the dark; then, at last, she sank senseless
on the floor. The father ran to her, caught her up in his arms,
pressed her to his heart, tried to bring her back from her
fainting-fit, called her by the most endearing names; but, alas! she
was already beyond hearing him.

"You have killed your daughter!" cried Aleksij, beside himself with
grief.

"I?" said the Countess.

"Yes, and you have blasted my life!"

"Have you not blasted mine?" replied the Countess, laughing, and yet
looking as scared as a ghost.

The Baron was moaning over his daughter's lifeless body.

"You are happy, my Anya; but what is to become of me?"

"Aleksij, rest can always be found within the waters of the Neva; its
bed is as soft as down, whilst the breeze blowing in the sedges sings
such a soft lullaby."

Orsinski looked up at his wife.

"I think you are right, Jadviga," said he.

"Oh! I know I am," replied the Countess, bursting into a loud,
croaking, jarring fit of hysterical laughter. The Baron shuddered,
but the Countess laughed louder and ever louder, until the lofty room
resounded with that horrible, untimely merriment.

And now, if you pass by the dreary and deserted old Yarnova Castle,
you will, perhaps, hear in the dead of the night those dreadful,
discordant peals of laughter, whilst the belated peasant who passes
by crosses himself devoutly on hearing that sound of fiendish mirth.


The southerly wind which had accompanied the _Giustizia di Dio_ to
Cape Salvore suddenly shifted, and a smacking northeasterly breeze
began to blow. The whole of that night was a most stormy one; still,
the ship bravely weathered the gale. At dawn the wind began to abate,
still the sea was very heavy.

At about eight o'clock they perceived a ship, not only in distress,
but sinking fast. Milenko at once gave orders to reef the topsails
and tack about, so as to be able to approach the wreck, for the sea
was by far too heavy to allow them to use their boats.

When they managed to get near enough to hear the shouts of the
starving crew, they found out that the sinking ship was the _Ave
Maria_, an Austrian barque. After much manoeuvring they got as close
to the stern of the sinking ship as they possibly could. Ropes were
then thrown across, so that the sailors might catch and tie them
around their bodies and jump into the sea. The weakest were first
helped to leap overboard, and then they were hauled into the
_Giustizia di Dio_, where they received all the help their state
required.

Five men were thus saved, and then the two ships were driven apart by
the gale. A scene of despair at once ensued on board the _Ave Maria_,
which was sinking lower and lower. By dint of tacking about, the
_Giustizia di Dio_ was once more brought by the side of the wreck,
and then the captain and boatswain were saved; one of the men, who
was drunk, when about to be tied, reeled back to the wine, which,
apparently, was sweeter to him than life itself.

Milenko, who had remained at the helm, now came to the prow. It was
just then that Vranic caught the rope that had been flung to him, and
tied it round his waist. He stood on the stern and was about to leap
into the foaming waves below. Milenko, who perceived him, uttered a
loud cry, almost a raucous cry of joy, just as mews do as they pounce
upon their prey.

"Vranic at last!" said he.

Vranic heard himself called; but, when he recognised his foe, it was
too late to keep back--he had already sprung into the sea.

Milenko had snatched the rope from the hands of the sailor who had
thrown it. His first impulse was to cut the rope and leave his
friend's murderer to the mercy of the waves.

Vranic, who had disappeared for an instant within the abyss of the
waters, was seen again, struggling in the midst of the whirling foam.
He looked up, and saw one of the _pobratim_ holding the rope. Milenko
remained for a moment undecided as to what he was to do.

"Let me help you to pull up," said the boatswain.

The young captain almost mechanically heaved up the rope, and was
astonished to find it so light. The rope came home; evidently it had
got undone, for Vranic was presently seen battling against the huge
billows, trying to regain the sinking ship.

"What has happened?"

"Did the rope get loose?"

"Why did he not hold on?"

"Why does he not try to catch it?"

"Look, he is swimming back towards the wreck."

"He must have cut the rope."

These were the many exclamations of the astonished sailors.

"Thank Heaven, he is guilty of his own blood," replied Milenko, "for
this is, after all, the justice of God."

In fact, as soon as Vranic saw that it was Milenko himself who was
holding the rope that was tied round his waist, he pulled out the
black dagger that he always carried about him, and freed himself;
then he turned round and began to swim back towards the _Ave Maria_.
At the same time, a big wave came rolling over him; it uplifted and
dashed him against the sharp icicles hanging from the wrecked ship,
and which looked so many _chevaux de frise_. He tried to catch hold,
to cling to the frozen ropes, but they slipped from his grasp, and
the retreating surges carried him off and he disappeared for ever.

The two vessels were parted once more, and Milenko, perceiving that
it was useless to remain there any longer and try and save the three
drunken sailors who had remained on board, thought it far more
advisable to proceed on to Trieste and send them help from there.

When the _Giustizia di Dio_ reached Trieste, the storm had abated,
the wind had gone down, and the sea was almost calm. Help was at once
sent to the shipwrecked vessel, but, alas! all that could be seen of
the _Ave Maria_ was the utmost tops of her masts.




CHAPTER XXIII

THE WEDDING


Milenko had been most lucky in his voyages, and had reaped a golden
harvest. As steamers had not yet come into any practical use, and the
Adriatic trade was still a most prosperous one, ship-owners and
captains had a good time of it. In fact, his share of the profits was
such as to enable him to buy the ship on his own account. Still, now
that the _karvarina_ business was settled and Uros' death was
avenged, he did not care any more for a seafaring life; and,
moreover, his heart was at Nona with the girl he loved.

The time he had been away had seemed to him everlastingly long, and,
besides, he had been all these months without any news from his
family. He was, therefore, overjoyed upon reaching Trieste to find a
whole packet awaiting him.

The very first letter that caught his sight was one in a handwriting
which, although familiar, he could not recognise. Could it be from
Ivanka? Now that they were engaged, she, perhaps, had written to him;
still, it hardly seemed probable. Perhaps it was from Giulianic, for,
indeed, it was more of a man's than a woman's handwriting. Looking at
it closer, he thought, with a sigh, that if poor Uros were alive, he
would surely believe it came from him. At last he tore the letter
open. It began:

"_Ljubi moj brati._"

"Can it be possible," said Milenko to himself, "that Uros is still
alive?"

He gave a glance at the signature; there was no more doubt about it,
the writer was Uros himself. In his joy, he pressed the letter to his
lips; then he ran over its contents, which were as follows:


"MY BELOVED BROTHER,--You will, doubtless, be very much surprised to
get this letter from me, as I do not think anybody has, as yet,
written to you; nor is it likely that you have met anyone from Budua
giving you our news. Therefore, as I think you believe me in my
coffin, it will be just like receiving a letter from beyond the
grave. Anyhow, if I am still alive, it is to you, my dear Milenko,
that I owe my life, nay, more than my life, my happiness.

"The day you went away I remained for several hours in a
fainting-fit, just like a dead man. My heart had ceased to beat, my
limbs had grown stiff and cold; in fact, they say I was exactly like
a corpse. I think that, for a little while, I even lost the use of
all my senses. At last, when I came to myself, I could neither feel,
nor speak, nor move; I could only hear. I lived, as it were, rather
out of my body than within it. I heard weeping and wailing, and the
prayers for the dead were being said over me. My mother and Milena
were kissing my face and hands, and their tears trickled down on my
cold lips and eyelids. It was a moment of bitter anguish and
maddening terror. Should I lie stiff and stark, like a corpse, and
allow myself to be buried? The idea was so dreadful that it quite
paralysed me. I again, for a little while, lost all consciousness.
Little by little I recovered my senses; I could even open my eyes; I
uttered a few faint words. In fact, I was alive. From that moment I
began to recover my strength. In less than a fortnight I was able to
rise from my bed. From that day my mother's visits not only were
shorter, but Milena ceased to come. They told me that the monks had
objected to her presence. I was afraid this was an excuse, and, in
fact, I soon found out that she had been at the point of death, and,
as she was at our house now, my mother was taking care of her. Her
illness protracted my own, and my strength seemed once more to pass
away. But Milena returned to me, and soon afterwards I was able to
leave the convent.

"Can I describe my happiness to you, friend of my heart? You yourself
will shortly be married to the girl you are fond of, and then you
will know all the bliss of loving and being loved.

"But enough of this, for you will say that either my illness or my
stay in the convent has made me maudlin, sentimental--and, perhaps,
you will not be quite wrong.

"Let me rather ask you, captain, how you have been faring, and on
what seas you have been tossing. Oh! how I long to hear from you, and
to see you. I hope you will soon be back amongst us, where a great
happiness is in store for you; but more than that I cannot say.

"I sincerely trust you have not met with my enemy, and that your
hands are not stained with blood. God has dealt mercifully towards
me; He has raised me, as it were, from the dead. Let us leave that
wretched wanderer to his fate. Moreover, the first day I was able to
leave my cell I walked, or rather I should say I crawled, to church
to hear Mass. It was on Rose Sunday, which, as you know, is a week
after Easter, and the convent garden was in all its youthful beauty.
The priest recited the Scriptures for the day, and amongst the other
beautiful things that he read were these words, which seemed
addressed to me; they were: 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.'
Hearing them in church, I almost fancied it was God Himself speaking;
and they made such an impression upon me, that I swore to forego all
thoughts of _karvarina_, feeling sure that the Almighty will, sooner
or later, keep the promise He made to me.

"If I did not know you, my dear Milenko, I might imagine you saying
to yourself: 'His illness has crushed all manly spirit out of him.'
Still, I feel sure you will not say that of me.

"How often I have been thinking of you, especially the day I left the
convent; and on my wedding-day my thoughts were more with you than at
home.

"Have your ventures been prosperous? Anyhow, do not invest more money
in new ships, for our fathers have just bought a very large schooner.
It had been built for a ship-owner, who, having laid out more money
in his trade than he could afford, was only too glad to dispose of
it. The christening will take place as soon as you come back. Of
course, the name chosen is _The Pobratim_.

"I do not write to you anything about your family, for your father
has written to you several times, although, by the letters we have
from you, none of them seem to have reached you as yet.     "UROS."


Milenko hastened to open his father's letters, and he found there the
"happiness which was in store for him," to which Uros alluded, for
Bellacic wrote:

"You will be surprised to hear that we have a new addition to our
circle of friends, a family you are well acquainted with. I do not
ask you to guess who these people are, for you would never do so.
Therefore, I shall tell you Giulianic has come to settle in Budua.
The country round Nona, which, as you know, is rather marshy and
consequently unhealthy, never agreed with any of them; for reasons
best known to themselves they have chosen Budua as their residence. I
had known Giulianic years ago, and I was very glad to renew his
acquaintance; your mother is greatly taken up with his daughter, who
seems to cling to her as to a mother. It appears that when Uros met
them last, he played some practical kind of joke upon them and
rendered himself rather obnoxious; but his marriage has settled the
matter to everybody's satisfaction, especially to Ivanka's, for she
and Milena are already great friends. I need not tell you how much
your mother longs to have you back."

Milenko, after reading all his letters, could hardly master his
impatience any longer; a feeling of home-sickness oppressed him to
such a degree that, in his longing, he almost felt tempted to leave
his ship and run away. But as ill-luck would have it he could not
find a cargo either for Cattaro or Budua; therefore, having unloaded
his ship, he bought a cargo of timber, which then found a ready
market everywhere, and sailed at once for his native town.

"The north-easterly wind 'll just last all the way out of the
Adriatic," said Janovic, the new boatswain they had engaged in
Trieste, "and we'll get to Budua in three days, so we'll have just
time to unload and go to Cattaro for the feast of San Trifone and the
grand doings of the _marinerezza_, that is, if the captain 'll give
us leave."

"Oh, that 'll be delightful," replied Peric, "for I've not seen it
yet. What is it like?"

"The feast of the _marinerezza_," said Janovic, sententiously, "is
more beautiful than any kind of pageantry I've seen; why, the
carnival of Benetke" (Venice), "the procession of _Corpus Domini_ in
Trst" (Trieste), "or the feast of the _Ramazan_, at Carigrad"
(Constantinople), "cannot be compared to it. So it's useless my
describing it to you; it's a thing you must see for yourself."

Five days after their departure from Trieste, the _Giustizia di Dio_
was casting her anchor in the roads of Budua. Although winter was not
yet over, spring seemed already to have set in; the sky was of a
fathomless blue, the sun was warm and of an effulgent brightness, the
brown almond-trees were covered with white blossoms; Nature had
already put on her festive garb.

His two fathers, his brother of adoption, Giulianic, Danko Kvekvic,
and a host of friends, were waiting on the shore to welcome him back.
Then they accompanied him all in a body to his house. His mother,
Mara Bellacic and Milena were waiting for him on the threshold.
Presently, Giulianic went to fetch his wife and daughter. Ivanka came
trying to hide her blushes; nay, to appear indifferent and demure. In
front of so many people, Milenko himself felt awkward, and still
there was such a wistful, longing look of pent-up love in his
searching glances as he bashfully shook hands with her, that, in her
maidenly coyness, her eyelids drooped down, so that their long dark
lashes kissed her blushing cheeks.

That day seemed quite a festivity for the little town. The _pobratim_
had many friends; and besides, all the persons who had taken the
awful oath of the _karva tajstvo_ were anxious to know if Captain
Milenko had met Vranic during the many months that he had been away;
therefore, Markovic's house was, till late at night, always crowded
with people.

When Milenko related to them how he had tried to save Vranic, and how
miserably the poor wretch had perished, everybody crossed himself
devoutly, and extolled the God of the Orthodox faith as the true God
of the _karvarina_.

A few days after Milenko's arrival, his father went to Giulianic and
asked him for Ivanka's hand.

"I am only too happy to give her to the man of her choice," said
Giulianic, "for although I had, indeed, accepted Uros for my
son-in-law, still I did so only in mistake. Not only was it Milenko
who first gallantly exposed his life to save us, but Ivanka, as she
confessed to her mother, fell in love with him the very moment she
awoke from her fainting-fit and found herself in his arms. Of course,
she ought never to have done so, for no proper girl ought ever to
fall in love but with the man chosen by her parents; still, young
people are young people all the world over, you know," said
Giulianic, apologisingly.

After that, the fathers discussed the dower, and the mothers talked
about the outfit, the kitchen utensils, and the furnishing of the
house.

Then followed a month of perfect bliss. During that time, they went
occasionally to look after the schooner, which was being fitted up
with far more luxury than sailing ships usually were; they visited
their fields and their vineyards; but most of their time was spent in
merry-making.

One day they all went on a pilgrimage to the Convent of St. George,
where they left rich gifts to the holy caloyers for Uros' recovery;
another day they visited the famous subterranean chapel of Pod-Maini,
adorned with beautiful Byzantine frescoes. They also showed Ivanka
the tower where Boskovic, the great magician, lived; but she, being a
stranger, had never heard of him; and so they told her that he was an
astrologer who possessed a telescope with which he read all the names
of the stars.

Another time they went for a sail on the blue, translucent waters,
and Milenko showed his bride that high rock jutting over the sea,
which is situated half-way between Castel Lastua and Castel Stefano,
and known as the Skoce Djevojka (The Young Girl's Leap).

"Did a young girl jump down from that height?" asked Ivanka,
shuddering.

"Yes. She was a young girl of exceeding beauty, from the neighbouring
territory of Pastiovic, and to escape from a Turk who was pursuing
her she threw herself down into the abyss beneath. But I'll tell you
her story at full length some other time."

Although the hand of time seemed to move very slowly, still the month
of courtship came to an end. Now all the preparations for the wedding
were ready, for the nuptials were to be solemnised with great pomp
and splendour.

On the morning of that eventful day, everyone connected with the
wedding had risen at daybreak to attend to the numerous preparations
required. The principal room in Giulianic's house had been cleared of
all the furniture, so as to make room for the breakfast table, which
was to be spread there. At that early hour, already the lady of the
house was presiding over the women in the kitchen, who were cooking a
number of young lambs and kids, roasting huge pieces of beef,
numberless fowls on spits, or baking _pojace_ (unleavened bread) on
heated stones.

The men, as a rule, fussed about, creating much confusion, as men
usually do on such occasions. They fidgeted and worried lest
everything should not be ready in time. They delayed everything, and,
moreover, kept wanting and asking for all kinds of impossible things.
The barbers' shops were all crowded. At a certain hour--when the
bridegroom was expected--a number of people had gathered round about
the house to see him come. At the gate, for Giulianic's villa was out
of the town walls, two sentinels were placed to keep watch. The elder
was Zwillievic, Milena's father, who had come from Montenegro for the
purpose; tall and stalwart, with his huge moustache and his
glittering weapons at his belt, he was a fierce guard, indeed. The
other was Lilic, only a youth, who for self-defence had but a strong
stick.

Both of them were very merry, withal they seemed to be expecting some
powerful foe against whose assault they were well prepared. The
youth, especially, was so full of his mission, that he hardly dared
to take any notice of the loungers who crowded thereabouts.

At last there was a bustle, and the guards were on the alert.

"Here they are, here they are!" shouted the children.

The persons expected were in sight, and, except for their rich
festive attire, they looked, indeed, as if they were bent upon some
predatory expedition, so manly and warlike was their gait.

The persons expected were about twelve in number; that is to say, the
bridegroom and his followers--the _svati_, or knights.

Milenko wore the beautiful dress of the Kotor. Like his train, he had
splendid bejewelled daggers and pistols stuck in his leather girdle,
and a gun slung across his shoulder.

They all walked gravely, two by two, up to the garden-gate of
Giulianic's house; there they were stopped by the sentinels.

"Who are you?" said Zwillievic. "Who are you, who, armed to the
teeth, dare to come up to this peaceful dwelling?"

"We are," answered the _voivoda_, the head of the _svati_, "all men
from this beautiful town of Budua."

"And what is your motive for coming here?"

"We are in search of a beautiful bird that inhabits this
neighbourhood."

"And what do you wish to do with the beautiful bird?"

"We wish to take it away with us."

"And supposing you succeeded in finding it, are you clever enough to
capture it?"

"All men of the Kotor are clever hunters," answered the _voivoda_,
proudly, and showing Milenko. "This one is the cleverest of all."

"If you are not only clever in words, show us your skill."

An old red cap was brought forth and placed upon a stone--it
represented the allegorical bird--and the young men fired at it. As
almost all of them were excellent marksmen, the cap was soon
afterwards but a burning rag.

Having thus shown their skill, they were allowed to enter within the
yard, where more questioning took place. At the door of the house
they were met by Giulianic and his wife, by whom they were
cross-examined for the last time.

Having once more proved themselves to be a party of honest hunters,
they were all welcomed and allowed to go into the house to see if
they could find the beautiful bird.

The _svati_ were led into the principal room, where the table was
laid, and there begged to sit down and partake of some refreshments.
All the young men sat down, each one according to his rank, all
keeping precisely the same order as they had done in marching.

Milenko alone did not join his friends at table, for he had at once
gone off in search of the allegorical bird. The breakfast having at
last reached its end, and the company seeing that, apparently, the
hunter had not been very fortunate in his search, two of the
_svati_--the _bariactar_ and the _ciaus_--volunteered to go to his
assistance; and soon afterwards they reappeared, bringing back with
them the beautiful, blushing girl decked out in her wedding attire.
Her clothes were of red velvet, brocade and satin, richly embroidered
in gold, heirlooms which had been in the family for, perhaps, more
than a century, and worn by the grandmother and the mother on similar
occasions.

For the first time Ivanka now appeared without her red cap, which in
Dalmatia is only worn by girls as the badge of maidenhood. Her long
tresses formed a natural coronet; they were interwoven with ribbons
of many colours, and adorned with sprays of fresh flowers.

A universal shout greeted her appearance, and when the
congratulations came to an end, the bride got ready to leave her
home. Before going away she went to receive her father's blessing;
then her mother clasped her in her arms and kissed her repeatedly.
Then, after having expressed her wishes for her future happiness in
homely though pathetic words, she reminded her of her duties as a
wife and as a bride.

"Remember, my daughter," said she, "that you must love your husband
as the turtle-dove loves her mate, for the poor bird pines away and
dies in widowhood rather than be unfaithful. Milenko might have many
defects--what man is perfect?--but you should be the first to
extenuate them, the last to proclaim them to the world; moreover,
whatever be his conduct to you, bear in mind that you must never
render evil for evil. The heart of a man is moved by patience and
long-suffering, just as huge rocks are moved by drops of rain falling
from the sky. When a husband comes back to his senses, then he is
grateful to his wife, and cherishes her more than before."

Ivanka was afterwards reminded of her duties to her near relations,
for, in those times, and amongst those primitive people, the wit of a
nation did not consist in turning mothers-in-law into ridicule.

She then finished her short speech, drawing tears, not only from her
daughter, but even from the eyes of many a swarthy, long-whiskered
bystander.

Before starting, however, another ceremony had to be performed. It
was that of taking possession of the chest containing all the bride's
worldly goods, and on which were displayed the beautiful presents the
bride had received. Amongst these were, as usual, two distaffs and a
spindle, for spinning had not yet entirely gone out of fashion.
Still, these were only the signs of the bride's industry.

A little imp of a boy,

  "Hardi comme un coq sur son propre fumier,"

was seated on the chest, and he kept a strict watch over it. He had
been told to fight whosoever attempted to lay hands on it, and he,
therefore, took his part seriously. He scratched, bit, kicked and
pummelled all those who attempted to come near it. At last, having
received some cakes and a piece of silver money, he was induced to
give up the trunk to the _svati_, who carried it off.

The bride then left the house amongst the shouting and the firing of
the multitude, and the whole train, walking two by two, proceeded to
church.

Lilic and Zwillievic likewise joined the train, for now that the bird
had flown away from the nest their task was over.

As they walked along together, the youth said to the old man:

"I am sorry for poor Milenko, after all."

"Why?" asked Zwillievic.

"Eh! because Ivanka 'll bury him."

"How do you know that?" quoth the Montenegrin, astonished.

"Because, you see, Ivanka's name has an even number of letters;
therefore, she'll outlive her husband."

"I see," replied Zwillievic; "I had never thought of that."

After the lengthy Orthodox service, and its chorographic-like
evolutions, Danilo Kvekvic made a short speech to the newly-married
couple, whom he blessed, and then the wedding ceremony came to an
end.

The nuptial party finally arrived at Milenko's house, followed by an
ever-increasing crowd, and when the shouting and the firing began
anew, the whole town knew that the bride had arrived at her new home.

Ivanka was received at the door of Milenko's house by his father and
mother, and there, after the usual welcome, she was presented with
two distaffs, two spindles, and a baby-boy, borrowed for the
occasion. The child is to remind her that she is expected to be the
mother of many boys, for children are still, in Dalmatia, considered
as blessings.

Here, also, the principal apartment had been cleared of all its
furniture to make room for the wedding table. At this feast, the
givers being people who had seen a great deal of the world and who
had adopted new-fangled ideas, married women were also invited.

The banquet, if not exactly choice, was certainly copious, and it
reminded one more of the grand Homeric feasts than the modern
dinner-parties. It was composed chiefly of huge dishes of rice, whole
lambs roasted, fish and fowl; and it was a great joy for the givers
of the feast to see that host of friends eating with a good appetite
and enjoying themselves.

Before they had sat down a _dolibasa_, or head-drinker, had been
chosen. His functions corresponded, in some degree, with those of the
symposiarch of the ancient Greeks. He now presided over the table as
an autocrat, and ordered the number of toasts which he thought fit
should be drunk.

No sooner had they sat down than the _dolibasa_ uttered a loud
"_Zivio!_" in honour of the beautiful bride; pistols were fired, and
forthwith all the guests emptied their glasses. The ladies, however,
were excluded from the drinking, for, whenever a "Hip, hip, hurrah!"
was uttered, the guests had to drain the contents of their tumblers,
and not simply to lift them up to their lips, or, at most, sip a few
drops of the wine. As for the poor wretch who could not comply with
the _dolibasa_'s orders, he had to leave the table, and some
humiliating punishment was invented for him.

As the feast lasted for several days, the dinner did not really come
to an end at once. The eating and drinking were, however, interrupted
for a short time by the _Kolo_, which took place in the yard,
festively decorated with lanterns, flags and greenery. The ball, of
course, was opened by Ivanka and Milenko. The _Kolo_ they danced this
time was the graceful _skocci-gorri_, or the jumping step, which is
something like a _Varsovienne_, only that the couples, instead of
clasping hands, dance it holding the ends of a twisted kerchief.

As the newly-married couple danced, the _bariactar_, or flag-bearer,
followed every step they made, waving his banner, holding a decanter
of wine upon his head, and performing behind them various antics to
amuse the crowd.

When the _Kolo_ had lasted long enough--for, as the proverb says,
"Even a fine dance wearies"--the bride and bridegroom retired into
the house, and eating and drinking began again with renewed mirth. At
last, when the merriment had become uproarious, the young couple rose
and left the table. They went and knelt down before Janko Markovic,
who blessed them, holding a small loaf of bread over their heads;
then, having given it to them, he bade them begone, in the name of
God.

They were then accompanied to their bridal chamber by Uros and
Milena, who helped them to undress, though, according to the
traditional custom, this office belonged to the _voivoda_, the
_bariactar_, and several of the other _svati_.

The _dolibasa_ thereupon uttered a loud "_Zivio!_" which was echoed
by everyone in the room, and bumpers were again quaffed down.

The _bariactar_ thereupon made some appropriate and spicy jokes, the
_svati_ did their best to outwit him, the youths winked at the girls,
who tried to blush and look demure.

The music played, the _guzlars_ sang an epithalamium, to which
everyone present joined in chorus. At last the _voivoda_ and the
principal _svati_ went and knocked at the door of the bridal chamber,
and asked the hunter to relate his adventures and his success. Then
the proofs of the _consummatum est_ having been brought forth,
pistols, blunderbusses, and guns were fired, to announce the happy
event to the whole town, and the drinking began again.

Eight days of festivities ensued, during which time--although the
eating and drinking continued in the same way--the scene varied from
one house to the other.

At last, the new ship being christened and launched, it was soon
rigged out, all decked with flags and streamers. Then Milenko and
Uros embarked with their wives, delighted at the prospect of seeing
something of the world. On a beautiful May morning the white sails
were unfurled, the anchor was heaved, and the beautiful vessel began
to glide slowly on the smooth, glassy waters, like a snowy swan. The
crowd gathered on the beach fired off their pistols and shouted with
joy. The women waved their handkerchiefs.

Soon, nothing more was seen but a dim speck in the grey distance.
Then the crowd wended their way homewards, for they had seen the last
of the _pobratim_.

THE END.


H. S. NICHOLS, PRINTER, 3, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.




Transcriber's Changes:

Chapter 1

Uros and Milenko, therefore, begged the good old woman
was originally
Ivo and Milenko, therefore, begged the good old woman


Chapter 2

"Oh, I see, you don't want to tell me;
was originally
"Oh, I see, you dont want to tell me;

your wife is honest,"
was originally
your wife is honest,'

The bard thereupon scraped his _guzla_,
was originally
The bard thereupon scraped his _guzlar_,

and stop him on his way. Uros in the meanwhile took to his heels.
was originally
and stop him on his way Uros in the meanwhile took to his heels.

stop talking," said Radonic, sullenly.
was originally
stop talking," said Radonic, sullenly,


Chapter 3

the yule-log, the huge bole of an olive tree,
was originally
the yule-log, the huge bowl of an olive tree,

Whilst their own curses were their only knell!
was originally
Whilst their owh curses were their only knell!


Chapter 4

related to his hosts the story of his adventures,
was originally
related to his guests the story of his adventures,

"'I thought you were a Slav;
was originally
"I thought you were a Slav;


Chapter 6

Once she is in my stronghold of Stermizza
was originally
Once she is in my stronghold of Sternizza

"The father looked at his child, astonished.
was originally
The father looked at his child, astonished.

"Sarè heaved a deep sigh of relief.
was originally
Sarè heaved a deep sigh of relief.


Chapter 7

and other such omens of ill-luck.
was originally
and other such omens o ill-luck.


I can tell you; will you have some more?'
was originally
I can tell you; will you have some more?

You hear, madam? you hear, darling?
was originally
You hear, madam? you hear darling?


Chapter 8

I have lulled all his suspicions,
was originally
I have lulled all his susspicions,

                                 "'Tis well,
But on the holy Cross now take an oath."
was originally
                                 "'Tis well,
"But on the holy Cross now take an oath."

Then, waking up as from some frightful dream:
was originally
Then, waking up as from some frightful dream .

"Here," said Bellacic, "have a glass
was originally
"Here," said Bellacic. "have a glass

"There! listen," said he, staring vacantly; "did you not hear?"
was originally
"There! listen, said he," staring vacantly; "did you not hear?"

"I heard a loud voice; didn't you hear it?"
was originally
"I heard a loud voice; did'nt you hear it?"


Chapter 10

"I was marvelled to hear how you fell in with the Giulianics,
was originally
"I was marvelled to hear how you fell in with the Giulanics,

not having heard of the Giulianics for so many years,
was originally
not having heard of the Giulanics for so many years,


Chapter 12

Milenko was set free, the _pobratim_ set sail
was originally
Milenko was set free the _pobratim_ set sail

about whom Captain Panajotti had often spoken
was originally
about whom Captain Vassili had often spoken

I told you I'd not brook contradiction to-day.
was originally
I told you I'd not brook contradiction to day.

Milos Bellacic, I'm quite satisfied."
was originally
Milos Bellacic, I'm quite satisfied.'


Chapter 13

she would have to keep away from the sight
was originally
she would have keep to away from the sight


Chapter 15

Sit down and rest," said she, "and let me give you
was originally
Sit down and rest," said she, and let me give you



Chapter 18

turning to Milenko
was originally
turning to Milos

And then he said: "My daughter, as thy suite,
was originally
And then he said: "My daughter as thy suite,

And as she crossed the squares, the crowded streets,
was originally
And as she crossed the squares, the crowded streets

As well as every lady of her suite,
was originally
As well as every lady of her suite

She hastened to reply unto the saint,
was originally
She hastened to reply unto the saint


Chapter 19

young man"--pointing to Milenko--"were also
was originally
young man--pointing to Milenko--"were also

I, Milenko Markovic, his _pobratim_;
was originally
I, Milos Markovic, his _pobratim_;


Chapter 21

at least three times what he would have asked
was originally
as least three times what he would have asked

That evening they made a hearty meal,
was originally
"That evening they made a hearty meal,


Chapter 22

seated by a newly-dug grave?"
was originally
seated by a newly dug-grave?"

the Count was to call on the Ambassadress
was originally
the Count was to call on the Ambrssadress

for a few weeks afterwards we were married."
was originally
for a few week's afterwards we were married."

"After some years the Count died,
was originally
"After some years the Baron died,


Chapter 23

Danilo Kvekvic made a short speech to the newly-married couple
was originally
Danilo Kvekvic made a short speech to the newly-married coupled