He looked at the war-map, with which every staff-officer was furnished, and saw that the distance between Belgrade and the temporary head-quarters of Tchernaieff (who next day was to begin his march to Alexinatz) was, in all, about a hundred miles, as the crow flies, through a wild, disturbed, and rather lawless country, by steep, rough, and heavy roads; yet, if tolerably well mounted, he hoped to perform the duty, and overtake the army, in four days at the latest, and this he said laughingly to Pelham and Stanley as he bade them adieu, and, quitting the camp, disappeared on the road to Resna.
The army advanced ten miles to Alexinatz, where a daringalerte, culminating in a regular foray, was given to the Turks within their own lines; but several days passed on, and became weeks, without Cecil re-appearing at head-quarters. He left few behind him to surmise as to the cause of this—still fewer to regret him, though all believed that he must have been cut off on the way—but how?
'I shall be deuced sorry, if that poor fellow comes to grief,' said Pelham; 'he seemed a gallant soldier, and every inch a gentleman. Curiously reticent about his antecedents, though; he laughed seldom, and when he smiled, did so as if smiles belonged to his past rather than his present life; but that he was an army man was evident—he had all the cut of it.'
'Had—don't talk in the past tense yet,' replied Stanley; 'he told us he had been under fire in India.'
'Has left the service under a cloud, perhaps—was the scapegrace of the family, probably. My family has one: I was that evil spirit in mine.'
'Any way, I do wish we had him back.'
The two Englishmen eventually offered a handsome reward in Austrian ducats for some intelligence regarding their missing comrade; and it came, vaguely, to the effect that two wood-cutters, three weeks back, had seen a mounted officer, answering to the description of Cecil, attempting to ford the Morava near Palenka, about forty miles off, and struggling with its current just as the sun went down, an event in these lands followed by instant darkness.
'Near Palenka?' said Captain Guebhard, with a frown, and then a cunning smile, as if questioning himself.
'Did he fairly cross?' asked Pelham.
'Who can say?' replied Guebhard; 'and if so, why has he not returned?'
'Were the bodies of a man and horse found in the river?'
'The wood-cutters said no; but I'll ride to Palenka and make inquiries, if Tchernaeiff accords me leave,' he replied, turning away.
'Why isheso solicitous in the matter?' observed Pelham; 'his dislike of our absent friend has been pretty apparent to me.'
'The devil only knows his object; but I don't like his smile.'
'With his cunning black-beady eyes and bistre-hued visage, this Guebhard reminds me of a half-nigger fellow who was gazetted to the Dragoon Guards, when I was in them before joining the Coldstreams. We were anxious to get rid of him; but he was sly as old Nick, slippery as an eel, and cautious as a lawyer. At last one evening we all came to mess with our faces painted copper-colour or black, and with huge stick-up collars, to the astonishment of the waiters and of him too; but he took the hint, and sent his papers in to the Horse Guards next day.'
So Cecil's fate remained as yet involved in mystery.
But that Guebhard did get leave 'to search' was evident, as the two Englishmen saw him quitting the camp soon after, attended by two or three mounted Montenegrins, melo-dramatic looking cut-throats, armed with rifles, pistols, and yataghans, clad in tattered garments with sandals of cow-hide, unkemped, unwashed, black-bearded, and ferocious in aspect.
'By George!' said Pelham, 'I should not like mysafetyto be looked after by such fellows as these!'
After carefully loading his pistols, and scrutinising closely the trappings of his horse, a fine, fleet and active animal, Cecil bade adieu to the army of Tchernaeiff, and took his way westward on his lonely mission.
But for his forfeited position (forfeited, as he had always felt, by no fault of his own) and lost love—the lost life as it seemed—how exciting and joyous, to a young and ardent spirit, such a task as that he had in hand, with such adventures as it promised in wild Servia, would have been; for Servia, though nearly half the size of Scotland, is yet a kind ofterra incognitato the world of Europe generally.
'What will be the end of it all for me?' he thought, as he looked around him on the strange land to which he had come to begin life anew—the world again.
Yet his spirit began to rise in spite of himself, as he proceeded at a hand gallop in the pure morning breeze, and he felt that life was not without some zest after all.
Here and there great forests bordered the way, with little valleys opening between, wherein, as being warm and sheltered, the tobacco-plant is cultivated. The country seemed lonely generally; more than once, however, groups of wild-looking and well-armed peasantry and workers from the salt and copper-mines, passed him; but during this part of his journey he met with nothing exciting, save at the little town of Tjuprga, for so it figured on his map, though he utterly failed to pronounce it, and into which he rode just as the sun, a great round globe of fire, was sinking behind the hills.
On repairing to the onlycafaneor hotel in the place, he found a Russian dragoon officer taking his departure therefrom, and prior to doing so, about to lash with his heavy whip a pretty little waitress, whom he accused of cheating him out of two copper piastres.
This was more than Cecil could endure; he drew a pistol from his holsters and called to the Russian to face him; but, muttering something about 'an island cur,' the gallant Ruski spat at his feet in token of detestation, and galloped away.
'And I am the comrade of wretches such as this!' thought Cecil, as he dismounted and found that he had accomplished thirty-five miles of his journey.
After a repast of hashed duck and caviare (having, as usual there, to use his own clasp-knife and pocket-fork), and after a bumper or two of strong red wine with the natural soda-water, which comes from many springs in Servia, Cecil lit a cigar, and, divested of his arms and tunic, gave himself up to reflection—and, sooth to say, he had as usual plenty to ponder over—while watching the sunlight fading out in the little street of one-storeyed houses, mere huts built of white-washed clay, and which he knew were too probably without beds, tables, or chairs, and furnished with little more than an iron pot, in which the inhabitants cooked, and out of which they ate everything.
Carefully securing his door against intrusion when night fell, he slept on a divan with his rug and cloak over him and his sword and pistols under his head for a pillow; and next morning, after settling his bill for a few copper piastres (one hundred and twenty-eight of which go to one British sovereign), he was again in the saddle and pursuing the road to Bratisna.
The next day saw him without any incident—somewhat to his disappointment, certainly to his surprise, at least. After passing through Kolar, and then Semendria, as his horse was breaking down, he was compelled to halt there for the night, within twenty-four miles of his destination. But the halt was not without interest, as there for the first time he saw that river so famed in history, the magnificent and dark-blue Danube, the waves of which 'have witnessed the march of Attila, of Charlemagne, of the Lion of the North, and the armies of imperial France; and whose shores have echoed to the blast of the Roman trumpet, the hymn of the pilgrims of the Cross, the wild halloo of the sons of Islam, and whose name is equally dear to history and to fable.'
Reining up his horse upon a slope, he watched the river for a time, flowing there between mountains clothed with forest trees, its blue waters in the vista washing in some places beaches of yellow sand, with pretty, toy-like hamlets sleeping in the sunshine, and then rode in to Semendria, which occupies a low peninsula in the river and is overlooked by a quaint old castle, in remote ages the abode of the kings of Servia, and which has since been taken and retaken, battered and bombarded by Turks and Hungarians in turn.
Next morning saw him approaching his destination, the stately city of Belgrade. Towering over its picturesque masses, over the spires and domes of more than a hundred Greek churches and Moslem mosques, steeped in the blaze of the morning sun on one side, and with deep shadows on the other, rose its citadel on the summit of a precipitous rock, surrounded by a lofty wall with flanking towers, a triple fosse, and a magnificent esplanade, four hundred yards in breadth.
On the summit waved the Servian tricolour, pale-blue and red together, with the white outside.
Around on every side spread lovely gardens. As he approached this famous frontier city, the scene of so many bloody sieges, Cecil could not but smile, in these our days of vast projectiles, at remembering how great a feat it was thought of the Scoto-Austrian Marshal Loudon, when in 1789 he opened his first parallel there, at one hundred yards from the glacis. That stately citadel was the scene of many awful atrocities perpetrated upon Christians, and Cecil ere he left it was shown the place where Rhigos the Greek was sawn asunder limb by limb; and so lately as 1815, thirty-six unhappy Servians, among them the grandfather of Count Palenka, were impaled alive, in violation of a pledge given for their safety.
Anxious to return and to be rid of his despatches, Cecil certainly did not loiter, and in a few minutes he found himself traversing the streets of timber-built houses, and those lines of open wooden stalls which compose the shops, the barber and coffee vendor alone having glazed fronts, and where the nationalities are so distinctly marked in the motley population, the laughing shopkeeper in his tiny Servian bonnet, the suave insinuating Greek banker or merchant in his red skullcap, and the haughty, sallow and bearded armourer, blacksmith, or baker, always Turks, as their white turbans show.
His national uniform, the time and the cause—news of battle—a great victory over the 'Turkish dogs' by the Morava, spread like wildfire, and Cecil had no difficulty in finding his way to the palace of the prince, or, as he was then universally named, King Milano, which is simply a handsome house with back and front gardens, near the War Office, on the boulevard leading to the Semendria road, which is bordered by double rows of trees.
As Cecil approached this edifice, important though his mission, some delay occurred in his presentation, as a Circassian Prince with six hundred horsemen—all wild-looking and picturesque Tcherkesses, had just come in to join the standard of King Milano. He was a very handsome young fellow, wearing a busby of black Astracan fur, with a coat of the same material (worn over a shirt of the finest linked mail), with a row of cartridge tubes across the breast of it; his sabre blazed with precious stones, and he wore a pair of white kid gloves that would have done credit to Regent Street.
Then came Cecil's turn, and by officers of the staff, wearing blue coats and red trousers, and French kepis with waving plumes, he was ushered into a stately apartment, and was graciously received by Milano, who gave him his hand to kiss, and read the despatches aloud to the group around him, with considerable emphasis and the most intense satisfaction.
Photographs have made all so familiar with pictures of the Servian King, that no description of him is necessary. Suffice it, that he was all the more warm in his reception of Cecil on discovering that he was a Briton, and learning the services he had performed in the recent battle. Milano was then in his twenty-second year, having been born at Jassy in 1854. He spoke French with fluency, having been educated at Paris, where his studies were interrupted by the assassination of Michail Obrenovitch in 1868, after which he was proclaimed Prince of Servia by the Council of Regency.
Replies to the despatches would be given Cecil forthwith, and meantime an aide-de-camp was desired to conduct him to the Krone Hotel. There, weak and weary with his long and rapid journey, Cecil gladly flung himself upon a divan, and after a repast, made terrible by the inordinate seasoning of red pepper and red capsicums, orpaprikas, with a bottle of Negotin claret, made from grapes that always grow on stony soil, he began to enjoy himself at an open window which faced the Gardens of Belgrade, which are certainly very beautiful.
Servian officers and Servian ladies were promenading there, or eating sweetmeats at marble tables, and reading the ServianIstok, while the band of the Royal Guard played in the gardens, and now and then the national air of 'La Belle Serbe' was called for and greeted with applause.
To Cecil, the people seemed pleasing in aspect; their eyes were blue or hazel, with chestnut hair and oval faces that were generally smiling. The men, tall, robust, and handsome; the women, slender, delicate, and all wearing graceful head-dresses.
Lovers were loitering there, and flirtations were in progress, as they are everywhere all over the world, and many were there who seemed happy as the yellow-throated bird that sung in a mulberry tree close by where Cecil lingered over a cup of coffee and a cigarette, and thought of the newness of his surroundings, and the strangeness of his fate, and his purpose in being there—if he had a purpose at all!
It was strange—passing strange! In that field by the Morava he set no store upon his life—not even for Mary's sake, as she was lost to him as completely as if she were dead—yet how many who had circles of relations and friends to deplore them, and who doubtless set all necessary store upon their own lives, had perished there, falling 'as the leaves fall when forests are rended.'
Was he the same Cecil Falconer, who, but four months before, had been marching to the drums of the Cameronians?
An end was put to his reverie by the appearance of the aide-de-camp, who brought him the king's despatches, and that evening he quitted Belgrade. As he gave a last glance at the wayfarers who loitered about the streets and at the doors of the cafes, cigarette in mouth, with their richly inlaid swords and long pistols stuck in their showy scarves, and with muskets slung behind them, looking very picturesque—he thought they would, at the same time, be unpleasant fellows to meet in some lonely place in a land where police are scarcely known.
He took a farewell glance of the Danube, studded with tiny villages, their churches and minarets, with Servians on one side fishing in curious little boats, Hungarians on the other tending their flocks, with vast mountains towering in the distance, and then rode quickly on what was now his homeward way.
Continuing his journey along the left bank of the Morava, the close of the second day found him, as he supposed, within thirty miles of Deligrad (from which General Tchernaieff had moved to fight his victorious battle), when it became painfully certain to Cecil that he had too evidently taken a wrong path and lost his way, in a very lonely district, where few persons were to be seen, and where neither his German nor Italian availed in making inquiries.
Of the Roman road he had been pursuing—a road old as the days of Trajan—all traces had disappeared, and he found himself in a narrow forest path, overshadowed by huge pines, where he would be certain of not finding a guide, as such places are avoided at night, as being the haunt or abode of thevilas, evil spirits who can assume all shapes, but especially that of the cuckoo, according to Servian superstition.
Hence it was, perhaps, that two wood-cutters whom he saw, fled at the approach of a mounted figure, looming tall in the forest—and these were the men who pocketed the Austrian ducats of Pelham and Stanley.
Fires glowed redly here and there upon the distant hills—doubtless from copper and iron mines; but twice, isolated rockets described their fiery arcs athwart the darkening sky; what this might indicate, he knew not; but urged his horse onward by the narrow path, which descended abruptly now.
He thought he could hear the murmur of a great current—the flow of a river; but could discern nothing then, between the stems of the trees, or in the starless sky overhead—for in Servia the twilight—the gloaming, as the Scots call it—is very brief, and when the sun goes down, utter darkness, with amazing rapidity, envelops all the scenery.
Now an involuntary cry escaped him, as his horse, though at a walk, toppled heavily forward, and before he could respire a second time, he and it were both immersed in the current of a dark and rapid stream, too evidently the Morava.
The bank over which they had fallen was too steep to make the least attempt to return that way possible. He took his feet from his stirrups, held up his horse's head, and guiding it gently with the stream and towards the other side, uttered an exclamation of joy, as he felt its feet touching the ground. But ere he left the stream, the trunk of a tree that came surging past, struck him from the saddle; yet he clutched his reins, and stumbled ashore, bringing the horse with him.
He was safe, but, after a brave man's natural emotion of gratitude to God for that safety, a cry of dismay escaped him, on finding that his sword-arm hung powerless by his side.
It had been dislocated by the force with which the tree had struck him. In a wild and unknown place, he was now helpless as a child, and something very much akin to consternation fell upon him.
While his heart sank within him, at the idea of being so suddenly rendered helpless and unfit for active exertion, in such a place and at such a time, his first thought was to ascertain that Milano's despatches were safe and dry. With difficulty he found that they were so, in his sabretache, and after putting fresh cartridges in his pistols, to be ready (though one handed now) for any emergency, he took his horse by the bridle, and somewhat disconsolately led it up a slope, towards where some lights were twinkling, high in the air above him, to all appearance, and about a mile distant.
Up, up the steep slope he struggled, by a path that led through an open gateway, and pursued a winding direction, till he reached a terrace or plateau, before a castellated edifice of striking outline and considerable dimensions, to all appearance the abode of some Servian magnate or landholder; but he was so faint with pain and exertion, that all he looked on seemed to be whirling around him.
An appeal to the knocker, a huge ring in the mouth of a grotesque face, brought a servant, a tall and robust fellow, in a species of livery, to the door, and by the lights in the vestibule that opened beyond, he stared with equal surprise and alarm upon the dripping visitor, who in a somewhat polyglot language, stated the predicament he was in. Another and another came, and ere long they made out that Cecil was an officer of the Servian cavalry—a messenger from the king, who had met with an accident; and as such he found himself rather abruptly ushered into an apartment of palatial aspect, where two ladies, an elder and a younger, were intent upon a game of chess, by the light of a large shaded lamp, the globe of which was supported on the shoulders of a silver statuette of Atlas; but both now arose with astonishment expressed in their faces.
Cecil at that time felt himself as if in a dream, or only half conscious of what was passing around him; he remembered afterwards his words of explanation, the commiseration of their replies in the most softly modulated Servian (a soft language at all times) and he found himself committed to the care of 'Theodore,' the man whom he had first seen, and who proved to have been an old soldier, who had seen many broken bones in his time.
Cecil's sodden uniform was removed, and his hurt at once seen to, by the valet and an attendant of the lady of the house, who had been for a time one of the good sisters of theSantas Kreuz Militar, and knew precisely what to do, so fortunately for Cecil he was in good hands.
By them, gently, but firmly, the partial dislocation of the arm at the shoulder—fortunately it was only a partial one—was speedily reduced, a process during which Cecil nearly fainted. Cloths dipped in vinegar were then applied; some wine was given him, and soon after he was left to repose; but he, who had slept on the bare ground for months past—though now in a charming room and luxurious bed, with a coverlet of rich silk lace, lined with pale blue silk, surrounded by luxuries to him unknown since he quitted Britain—felt sleepless, and as the hours passed by they were hours of pain and anxiety—pain to endure, and anxiety to be gone on his duty.
Great weariness weighed down his eyelids, and pain would be exchanged for what he thought at times was a dream, or sound sleep; and as parts of the dream, he saw the walls of a handsome room, a little Greek oratory with aprie dieubefore it; and therein the figure of some saint, with a gilt halo of horseshoe-shape around the head, and a tiny pink lamp burning before it, and the girl, Ottilie, for such was her name, watching and flitting about it noiselessly.
She was more than pretty, with a violet-coloured velvet jacket, embroidered with gold, under which she wore a habit-shirt of the softest white cambric; and her dark sheeny hair was braided close round her small head, not under, but over a skull-cap of crimson cloth.
These, and other details, Cecil took note of next day, rather than on the night in question; and closing his eyes, he strove to collect his thoughts and think—think of what, or of whom, but Mary Montgomerie?
He was now to deem as past and gone for ever the love that made his veins to tingle and his heart to thrill in his bosom; yet he could not but remember with intense tenderness the last kiss she had given him, and the time—one of those, so some one says, that are given us by God to help us by the sweetness of their memory, in weary days to come.
She was so far away—so far away! It seemed he could but think of her as the living do of the dead—perhaps as the dead may do of the living.
To him the slow hours were passed restlessly—almost without repose. 'There is,' says a writer, 'a strong contrast between a sleepless night and the first hours that follow it. Everything appears from so different a point of view! The phantoms of night become again familiar objects, in the same way as in the region of ideas things gigantic reassume ordinary proportions. We fancy we are contending with the impossible, and find ourselves in presence of paltry difficulties. We believed that heroism was demanded of us, and find that it is simple duty we have to accomplish.'
So it was with Cecil when day dawned, and brought with it ideas that were practical.
Betimes came Theodore with hot coffee on a silver salver, which he proffered with a military salute, and the information that 'his excellency's' horse had been attended to at the stables, and there was his uniform, dry and brushed to perfection, with his pistols and sword, burnished as only an old soldier could burnish them, for Theodore had served with the Austrian army in Bohemia, and been twice wounded at Sadowa, where his regiment was that remarkable one which perished nearly to a man under the new and terrible fire of the Prussian needle-gun; with all of which facts he informed Cecil, while re-dressing his hurt and assisting him to attire.
He also informed him of something else—that he was in the family residence of Michail, Count Palenka; and so, by mid-day, with his arm in a sling, Cecil expressed his anxiety to thank his hostess, the widowed mother of the count, for her kindness to him.
He announced himself as 'Sub-Lieutenant Cecil Falconer, of "Tchernaieff's Own," aide-de-camp on the staff,' and was ushered into the presence of the ladies whom he had seen on the preceding night.
'The preserver of my son's life in the battle by the Morava!' exclaimed the countess, coming forward and taking his left hand between both of hers, and gazing upon his face with humid yet beaming eyes.
'I only did my duty, madam, though the count was pleased to think I did more,' replied Cecil, 'and bestowed this ring upon me.'
'My birthday gift to my dear brother!' said the younger lady, laughingly.
'Your hand has worn it, then?' asked Cecil.
'Since I was a little girl in Vienna.'
'That enhances the value of it to me,' said Cecil gallantly, with a bow; 'but surely it must have been a world too wide for one of your fingers.'
'True; but I had it enlarged for Michail.'
Now, during the natural well-bred inquiries concerning his injury, and so forth, Cecil had opportunity for observing his hostess and her daughter Margarita.
The countess, though verging on fifty, was still very handsome, for the Servian women, by their mode of life, can prolong their beauty beyond the average climacteric. She wore a long flowing dress of black cashmere, with a train behind, and confined at the waist by a silver girdle; a frill of softest muslin was round her throat, and a square of fine white lace arranged like a widow's cap was pinned over her head, with the ends falling on her shoulders. She had clearly cut features, soft dark hair lined with silver, fine eyes, and a shapely figure still.
Margarita was a womanly-looking girl of more than middle height, having a full and rounded figure of remarkable grace and elegance of bearing, set off by quantities of delicate lace and flowing drapery. Stately in walk and in every movement, she was a brilliant, flashing, and imperial-like beauty, with large and liquid eyes, a clear-cut aquiline profile, masses of rich, dark hair, and a small mobile mouth, with pouting, red and rather sensuous lips; and she was self-possessed, refined, and highly-bred.
Educated at Vienna—for Servia was long a province of Austria (after being shuffled backward and forward between the Emperor and the Porte)—she was highly accomplished, according to the European standard, and it was but too evident that she welcomed the advent of Cecil's visit—especially as a young Briton—for the women in Servia are reckoned as being quite inferior to the men, fit only to be the plaything of youth and the nurse of old age; a peculiarity of manners that has not arisen from four centuries of tyrant Turkish rule, but seems to be inherent in old Slavic custom, such as still appertains in Russia. But European ideas and fashions are now the rule at Belgrade, thus the country must change fast; and Margarita had been the reigning beauty when there as a maid of honour to the Princess Natalie, the wife of Milano, and daughter of a wealthy banker in Odessa.
The conversation soon drifted back to the great Servian victory, and the narrow escape of Count Palenka and the general.
'How courageous it was of you to risk your life to save theirs; how self-devoted to give Tchernaieff your horse!' said the countess.
'It is not often a soldier has two such strokes of good luck at once,' replied Cecil.
'Had you no fear for your own life—no dread of dying?' asked the countess.
'No, madam.'
'Why?' asked Margarita, who had scarcely spoken yet.
'Because it is as natural to die as to live—to die as to be born; and life has now not many charms for me,' he added, with involuntary sadness or bitterness.
'Now—had it more once?' asked Margarita.
'Yes—many—nearly all that I could desire, contrasted with it now.'
'I grieve to hear you say so—you, with life before you still,' said she, eyeing him with growing interest, while slowly fanning herself with a great round feather fan, though the atmosphere was cool enough.
'You cannot leave this place for days yet,' said the countess, after a pause. 'Margarita shall write to the count and request him to tell General Tchernaieff of your accident. Meantime she and I will nurse you,' she added, with a kind motherly smile, 'and make you well and strong.'
Cecil sighed as he thanked her, and feared that his sword-arm would be useless for many a day; and indeed he was incapable of mounting a horse as yet.
Though named the castle of Palenka, the abode of the count of that name partook more of the character of a fortified house, as it had been built by his grandfather, an old heyduc, on the basement of a Roman or other ancient fortress, and had a legend connected with it, similar to that told of the castle of Skadra, that to propitiate thevilas, a beautiful young girl had been built up alive in the foundation of one of the towers; and Margarita, one day, showed Cecil the identical place in question.
All the rooms had parqueted floors, polished like a coach-panel. In the dining-room, or hall, was a large round table of massive form and baronial aspect, and a lofty oak buffet, full of shining plate, quaint crystal goblets, and quainter china.
The drawing-room was fitted up somewhat in the Turkish style or taste, for though it had a grand piano and orthodox European chairs, a low divan of yellow satin ran all round it, and many of the most beautiful objects of art that Vienna could produce adorned it. Trophies of arms hung everywhere, many of them very old, many of them collected perhaps by the veteran heyduc, who fought often in battle under Kara George, and who was impaled at Belgrade; for here we may mention that these heyducs were outlawed and deemed robbers by the Turks, and like the Scottish caterans, imagined that in setting law at defiance they were only combating for a principle of independence, and not acting dishonourably; and most of them, like old Michail, the Heyduc of Palenka, made it their boast that they robbed only the rich Moslem invaders, but were generous to the Servian poor; and for military services to the House of Austria, his son was created a count by Francis I., the ally of Britain against Napoleon.
Cecil's mind was made comparatively easy by the fact that Margarita had written to her brother the count, detailing the mishap which detained him at Palenka; but the letter was never received, so he knew nothing of the mystery that enveloped his disappearance at headquarters: and day followed day very quietly in that sequestered abode among the forests, and so far from any town.
The old countess, who had a truly Servian and holy horror of all strangers, thawed speedily to Cecil, and declared him one of the most delightful companions she had ever met, even in Vienna.
A thorough Servian of the old school, she was full alike of religion and superstition, and observed most scrupulously the numerous fasts of the Greek Church—the four annual terms of abstinence, and every Wednesday and Friday, and never uttered a holy name without crossing herself.
She was never tired of telling her beads, and if she awoke in the night when the wind was high, she trembled as she thought of the traditional vampire—a body which the Serbs supposed to be possessed by an evil spirit, which comes forth from the tomb of death to suck the blood of the living, till traced, taken, and burned to ashes. She believed in the existence of old Servian witches, who could steal away men's hearts, and close the wounds through which they had drawn them.
'I fear there are young witches in Servia who steal away men's hearts and leave the wound an open one,' said Cecil, who, but for the presence of Margarita, would soon have become intensely bored at Palenka, as the chief, if not only, visitor there was the pope or priest of the nearest village, a blue-eyed and long-bearded old man, who could only speak Serb, and whose demigod was the Archbishop of Belgrade.
Accustomed for months past to the misery and wretchedness of the Servian camp, to Cecil, the dinner-table with shining white cloth, plate, crystal and ivory knives, under a flood of light from a rose-coloured chandelier, seemed the luxury of Sybaris; and for several days he had his food cut for him by old Theodore, or by the pretty hands of the girl Ottilie.
Both mother and daughter were intensely loyal in the cause of Milano and Servia, and hated the Turks as bitterly as ever the old heyduc himself could have done.
'It was my brother Michail who recaptured the cross at Belina last year, as no doubt you know?' said Margarita.
'I was not in Servia then—what was the episode?' asked Cecil.
'It was in the famous battle of July. When the Turks ravaged Belina in Servia, they carried off a great cross from the altar of the church, and came on to the assault of our Servian troops, bearing it in front, and shouting, "You cannot fire on your God—you dare not fire upon your Prophet!"'
'And our poor Servians, rather than commit sacrilege, dared not fire, and stood perishing in their ranks!' said the countess.
'Till our Michail, at the head of a chosen band, burst, sword in hand, among the dense mass of red fezzes, recaptured the cross, and brought it into the lines of Milano, over heaps of dead and dying; and then—but not till then—did the Servians pour in a dreadful fire of shot, shell and rockets, beneath which the columns of the infidels melted away.'
When Margarita spoke, even with energy, as she often did, there was always something sweet and innocent about her, with a certain quiet dignity, and a touch of softness in her expression, which, when taken with the bright and lofty character of her beauty, rendered her wonderfully attractive.
She soon discovered that he was musical, and they sang frequently together, while she played the accompaniment; and when he gave forth the notes of the Master of Ravenswood's farewell to his lost love, and gave it with a power and pathos that, though she had heard many of the best tenors at Vienna sing the same air, yet none had seemed to do so with such tenderness and heart-broken despair—and when their eyes met, her heart began to thrill beneath the ardour of his gaze, for Cecil, when he sung thus, gave his whole soul to it, and thought of Mary—Mary Montgomerie only, or it might be the memory of the mother that taught him; but to the ear of Margarita every note seemed, as she once said, 'to be a lover's wail over a lost love.'
On one of these occasions, Cecil saw some pieces of dance music lying about, inscribed with the name of Captain Mattei Guebhard.
'The captain—he is a friend of yours?' he remarked.
'He was here on a visit to Michail once—yes,' she replied, with a shrug of her shoulders, and dismissed the subject. 'I grew weary of him; he was jealous as Jelitza!'
But Cecil observed next day, that all those particular pieces of music had disappeared.
Always fond of female society, Cecil found the daily association with this accomplished girl a source of the purest pleasure, and he strove, but in vain, to find traces and resemblances in her to Mary Montgomerie; for Margarita was larger, darker, more brilliant and colossal in her beauty, if we may use such a term.
She had quite a repertory of Servian legends, to which she recurred from time to time, and told with a piquancy which her foreign accent and foreign graces of manner enhanced; and one day she took him to a little lake—a dark and stagnant tarn, overshadowed by great trees, and near the Morava, which she affirmed to mark the grave of the jealous Jelitza, so famed in Servian song.
Remembering her reference to this personage when she spoke of Guebhard, he asked who she was.
'Oh, the very incarnation of jealousy!' said Margarita; 'she could not bear even the brotherly tenderness of her husband Paul for his young sister, and in order to alienate him, slew his favourite courser, and charged her with the act. But Paul gave credit to his sister's denial. Then she slew his falcon, and blamed his sister therefor; but Paul would not believe her. And at last she killed her little baby, and left in its tender body a knife which Paul had given his sister, whom he now slew in the wildness of his fury, by having her torn asunder by wild horses. But in the end, the jealous Jelitza perished by the same fate; and then we are told, "that wheresoever a drop of blood fell from her, there sprang up the rankest thorns and nettles. Where her body fell, when dead, the waters rushed and formed this lake so still and stagnant. O'er the lake there swam a small black courser; by his side a golden cradle floated; on the cradle sat a grey young falcon. In the cradle, slumbering, lay an infant: on its throat the white hand of its mother; and that hand a golden knife was holding." All these apparitions were visible here, once yearly, on this stagnant lake, till the days of my father, who had it blessed by the Archbishop of Belgrade, since when they have been seen no more.'
All the legends Margarita told him were wild and gloomy; yet the Servians seemed to Cecil a lively people, and together they often watched the reapers singing merrily in the fields, and dancing, to the fiddle and native bagpipe, when work was over, thekolo, the national dance of the people.
Both were young and both were handsome; the acquaintance so suddenly begun ripened rapidly: but Cecil, unmoved by the brilliant attractions of Margarita, and by the perilous influences of propinquity, never for a moment felt his heart waver in its loyalty to Mary, though he deemed her lost to him, and all other human love was dead in him now.
When the September evenings closed in, and the old lady, clad in costly velvet trimmed with beautiful fur from the Balkans, was reading her missal in a corner, Cecil and Margarita, if not at the piano, were generally seated close together—very close, an observer might have thought—at a tripod table of green marble, playing chess, he with his left hand, for the right was yet in a sling; and watching, which he could not fail to do, her lovely little hand, so white and delicate, a very model for a sculptor, pushing the pawns and knights about, while all was still without, save the flow of the Morava on its way to join the Danube.
Between these two, when the countess was not present, we are compelled to admit that the conversation sometimes waxed perilous, notwithstanding Cecil's resolute platonism, when the large liquid eyes of Margarita, under their thick dark fringes, met his, and her scarlet lips, which we have said were rather sensuous, quivered and smiled, with an expression all their own; and one of those perilous times was when, somehow, they fell on the subject of love—a natural one enough between a handsome young fellow and a beautiful woman.
'There are times,' said Cecil, after a pause, in reply to something Margarita had said, 'when men dare not love.'
'Dare not—when?' asked Margarita, as she made a false move, and had to play her king.
'I mean when to love is rashness, or would be presumption,' said he, thinking, as no doubt he was, of Mary and her vain old guardian.
'There may be rashness, but there is no presumption in any man offering his true and honest love to any woman—even a princess.'
'But would the princess accept it?' said Cecil.
'Perhaps,' replied Margarita, looking at him with one of her smiles, and then drooping her lashes; 'love is romance,' she added.
'Then I have lived the romance of my life,' said Cecil, a little bitterly, and perhaps unwisely, 'and have only its grim realities before me now.'
'Already—and you so young?' she asked, with dilated eyes.
'Already!'
'I trust you mistake, and that romance may come again,' said she, softly.
'It is utterly past, so far as hope goes now.'
'Does the grass of the grave grow above it?' she asked after a pause.
'In one sense—for my hope is buried.'
'I do not think any grave is so deep that we can bury in it all hope of another love and other happiness,' said Margarita, perhaps misunderstanding him, and making a rather leading remark, which Cecil—though not obtuse on such matters—failed, in his utter preoccupation, to perceive. Margarita bit her lip, and shoved her pawns about. She, accustomed to adulation and much admiration, was rather piqued by Cecil's coldness.
'All the world is alike to me now,' said he, rather absently; but she gathered the conviction that he was neither married nor engaged.
'Are you so much of a misogynist that you cannot even be the friend of a woman?' she asked.
'I have not said so,' said he; 'nor am I in any degree a misogynist,' he added, with animation.
'Then you can conceive a friendship?'
'Yes, and a most tender one—and go where I may,' he added, coming rather to the point, as Margarita thought, 'I shall never forget the friendship I have conceived for you.'
'That emotion is not always a lasting one.'
'Why—how?' he asked.
'Because it often ends where—love begins,' she replied, with a laugh and a downcast smile.
Cecil felt his heart beat quicker.
'Oh, by Jove!' thought he, 'this sort of thing won't do—what must I say next? This is making awful running, and I have only been a fortnight here!'
But at that moment the countess, who had dropped asleep over her missal, awoke, and the conversation changed.
Truth to tell, Cecil was beginning to be somewhat scared, rather than flattered, by the brilliant œillades and rash speeches of Margarita. He did not quite understand the romantic impulses that came of her half-wild Servian blood, though partly tamed and tempered by a fashionable European education. She was totally unlike any other woman he had met before, and he could not determine to his own satisfaction whether she had conceived a secret fancy for him, or was only seeking to entangle him in a flirtation, for her own amusement, as she had perhaps entangled Mattei Guebhard and others before him.
When Cecil thought of the despatches with which he had been entrusted by Royal hands, of the approved plans of the campaign which Tchernaieff anxiously and eagerly awaited; when he reflected, too, how he, a foreigner, a stranger, a humble and nameless volunteer, had been promoted, decorated, and honoured with high trust; and when he thought of the ready suspicion, jealousy, and mistrust of the Russians and half-oriental Servians of whom he was now the comrade, he groaned in agony of spirit over the helplessness which caused his detention at Palenka, and neither the society, the rare beauty, nor the blandishments, for it was fast amounting to blandishment—of the dazzling Margarita could console or wean him from the path of duty, or drown the sense of peril, perhaps, involved.
All the young men of Belgrade, and all the 'eligibles' of elsewhere, were with the army of Milano as officers or volunteers, all fighting the infidel Turks 'for freedom and Servia;' consequently, save the old pope, Palenka was without male visitors just now; and in the adjacent village, a place with a name not easily pronounced, it was 'noised abroad' that the strange officer who had so suddenly appeared at Palenka had succeeded in winning the heart of the beautiful Margarita, who had been hitherto deemed so unimpressionable by all, and it was thought not to redound much to the credit of the old countess, or to that of the youth ofLa Belle Serbe, that such a prize should be carried off without a struggle.
'The young Herr Lieutenant is playing with fire here!' said the grey-moustached Theodore to Ottilie, gloomily.
'How so?' responded the girl, gaily; 'is not youth the season for love? and our mistress is beautiful.'
'And manhood is the season for marriage, girl; but he dare not marry her, and she dare not marry him,' he added grimly, twitching his beard; 'and I wish him well away from Palenka!'
'Why?'
'Because he is a fine fellow—every inch a soldier—and I would not see evil come to him.'
'Evil?'
'I said evil, and I know—well, what I know.'
The curiosity of Ottilie was piqued, but Theodore was in no mood to gratify it.
To Margarita, Cecil was a species of interesting enigma. He had some sorrowful past, which he carefully kept from her; she felt that instinctively, and she was never weary of hearing him tell of the places he had been in—India, Scotland, England, and Italy—and smiled sweetly and softly at his descriptions of distant lands, that she had only heard of at school. She knew that he was accomplished, and the superior in education and ideas of any man she had yet met; thus, she admired and evidently liked him very much: but the villagers and the household were adopting conclusions too abruptly.
She had a perfect consciousness of her own beauty—a beauty of that remarkable type and quality which seems to belong to no country, so rare and striking was it—and, to enhance it, she had already decided that a few of her most becoming toilettes might be necessary for her purpose, which was no doubt to attract and dazzle, as she felt that his presence at Palenka would greatly brighten the hours she deemed lost, by a temporary exile from Vienna, in consequence of her brother's presence with the army.
Preoccupied though he was by thoughts of another, and only anxious to take his departure, as he now hoped to do in a day or so, her coquetry became one day very apparent to Cecil, and it amused while it flattered him, as she invited his attendance on her at the piano.
On this day she had arrayed herself for conquest; and whether it was the well-assorted costume she wore and the subtle perfume of some fragrant flowers she held in a white and ungloved hand, or the soft light in her dark and liquid eyes, but Cecil thought certainly that he had never seen her look so piquante, brilliant, and lovely, with a loveliness picturesque and all her own.
She began to run her fingers over the keys, and then suddenly exclaimed, with a little laugh:
'Oh, this will never do!'
'What?' asked Cecil, as he hung over her.
'I have been playing with one glove on—how absurd! Please to help me off with it,' she added coquettishly, holding out her hand to him in a pretty, helpless way.
Such a tiny, lavender-tinted glove she held forth to him to unbutton. Faultlessly it fitted the white dimpled hand, and reached far up the arm, with many little white buttons, the undoing of which was now the task assigned to him; and as he felt in his hand the firm, white, tapered arm, he saw a little mocking smile about her beautiful mouth; and, as their eyes met, something he read in hers made Cecil feel inexpressibly foolish. He must, he thought, say something tender—but why?
He was just undoing the last button, when Theodore came in with a card on a silver salver, announcing 'der Herr Capitan Guebhard;' and the figure of the latter was now seen looming darkly in the doorway, as he took in the whole situation and advanced slowly, with his spurs and sabre clanking.
'Playing with hearts, as usual,' said he, with a laugh that had no sound in it, as he took her hand and bowed curtly to Cecil.
'How dare you say so!' she replied, while a flush crossed her face, and an expression of irritation came into it for a moment.
After a little pause, the visitor said, after she requested him to be seated:
'I have just heard from old Theodore of what had befallen the Herr Lieutenant. I have also heard, but at head-quarters, that he has important despatches from the King to General Tchernaieff. There was a fear that you had lost your way, or fallen into the enemy's hands, and I volunteered to come in search of you.'
'For that I thank you, Captain Guebhard; and as for the despatches——
'You will please to hand them over to me.'
'Pardon me,' said Cecil, and paused, while a dark gleam crossed the eyes of Guebhard.
'How is your arm—well, I suppose?' he asked, with the slightest approach to a sneer.
'If well, I should not be loitering at Palenka.'
'You are nearly able to handle your sword, I presume?' he continued, in a more marked tone, while playing alternately with the tassel of his sabre and his long black moustache.
'Very nearly, Captain Guebhard; but it is not the habit with British officers to bring their swords into a drawing-room among ladies.'
'Very likely; but I am a Servian officer, and I hope you consider yourself one now.'
There was something quietly offensive in the tone and bearing of Guebhard that irritated Cecil. The latter remembered the pieces of music inscribed with the monogram of the captain, and their disappearance too. He also remembered that Margarita had spoken of Guebhard's jealousy—that he was jealous as Jelitza, of the Servian legend and proverb; and Cecil thought there could be no jealousy without some love, or what passed as such.
What were, or had been, the relations between Margarita and Guebhard in past time—and how were they situated now? That he came freely and installed himself as a privilegedami du maisonwas evident, and as such he was warmly welcomed by the countess. But on what footing—as a friend of the absent count, as thefiancéof Margarita, or as a relation of the family?
So Cecil felt puzzled as well as irritated, and when again asked for his despatches, he plainly and firmly declined to give them up to Guebhard, though a superior officer.
'I fear I have interrupted your performance,' said the latter, abruptly changing the subject; 'does the Herr Lieutenant sing?' he asked of Margarita.
'Yes—with power and skill,' she replied promptly; 'but when you entered I was just about to sing to him.'
'What?'
'"The Wishes."'
Cecil urged her to begin, and placed the music before her, on which she sang both sweetly and effectively the little Servian song so-called, and of which the first verse runs thus, and is peculiar in its idea:
'"Oh that I were a little stream,That I might flow—my love—to him!How should I dance with joy when knowingTo whom my sparkling wave was flowing!Beneath his window would I glide,And linger there till morning-tide;When first he rouses him to dress,In graceful garb, his manliness—Then should he weak or thirsty be,Oh, might he stoop to drink of me!Or baring then his bosom, laveThat bosom in my rippling wave!Oh, what a bliss if I could bearThe cooling power of quiet there!"'
And as she sang, Guebhard, who doubted whether these six wishes referred to himself, listened and looked on with a visage, the lowering expression of which reminded Cecil of Hew Montgomerie under somewhat similar circumstances.
The captain of Servian Lancers had, as elsewhere stated, a silent manner and an unpleasant expression on his usually pale face, and analysis—not necessarily a very keen one—detected several defects in it. Among these, apart from his cunning black beady eyes, were thin cruel lips, and a general aspect of the face being perpetually a mask. He was not appearing quite to advantage just then, for if his manners were quiet, and generally polished, he had the stealthy gentleness and grace of a cat, and his bearing was suggestive of the adage that 'still waters run deep.'
He was a man of mixed race, and not a pleasant one to have, as Cecil felt him to be, a secret enemy; for he was half Italian and half Bulgarian, with a considerable dash of the Ruski. Cecil could little conceive how far his secret enmity was yet to carry him; but he did not relish being reminded of his duty by Captain Guebhard, and still less to have hints given that he should soon leave Palenka behind him.
To allow the unexpected visitor to approach Margarita, and freely converse with her if he wished to do so, Cecil drew near to the countess and joined her in watching the reapers in a field, but he could not help overhearing, though saidsotto voce, something that had reference to himself.
'Playing with hearts again, as I said before?' whispered the captain.
'Don't be absurd!'
'I remember what mademoiselle was at Vienna.'
'Then your memory, like your sex, is—is——'
'What?' asked the captain, softly.
'Treacherous.'
'And so the Herr Lieutenant has been idling here,' said Guebhard, 'while we were enjoying ourselves by the Morava?'
'Enjoying yourselves?' asked Margarita.
'Yes—cutting up the Turkish dogs. Life is too short to let slip any opportunity nowadays.'
'Especially life in Servia—it is full of perils; and so you were solicitous for his safety? How kind!'
'I was solicitous to see you. I heard that he had been seen in the vicinity of Palenka.'
'By whom.'
'Some wood-cutters—so I made the excuse and came here.'
'Thus shunning your duties in the field?'
'Not more than he does.'
'With a disabled arm?'
'For you to nurse,' replied Guebhard, with a smile on his lips and a glitter in his eye, that, had Cecil seen it, might have warned him of mischief to come; and low though they spoke, he heard his despatches referred to more than once: thus he was scarcely surprised when he changed places with Guebhard and rejoined Margarita at the piano, that, under cover of a very brilliant sonata, she questioned him about them.
'Where are those despatches about which Mattei Guebhard seems so anxious?' she asked.
'In my sabretache.'
'And it?'
'Is in my apartment,' he replied, with surprise.
'As you cannot wear it constantly, take them therefrom,' she said, in an emphatic whisper.
'Why?'
'They may be abstracted.'
'By whom?'
'I do not—cannot say by whom,' she replied, with half-averted face.
'Do you suspect?'
'Yes.'
And a crash on the instrument closed a conversation, on which Cecil resolved not to lose a moment in acting, and repairing to his own room, transferred the packet from the sabretache attached to his sword-belt to the breast-pocket of his uniform tunic.
He felt grateful to her for the interest Margarita had thus evinced in him, but he was sorely puzzled to know why Guebhard was so anxious to obtain the documents committed to his care; and he was soon convinced that her suggestion had not come too soon, when about two hours after he discovered the Servian captain in the act of quitting his—Cecil's—apartment.
'You here, Captain Guebhard?' he exclaimed, with surprise and indignation in his tone, all the more so that he read a baffled and confused expression in the face of the other.
'Pardon me,' said he, bowing and passing on, 'but the dressing-bell has rung for dinner—I was in haste, and mistook your apartment for mine.'
It might be so; but Cecil thought it a curious circumstance that his belt and sabretache, which he had left hanging on the wall, were now lying on a sofa, and he smiled as he felt the packet safe in his breast, and resolved to secure his door for that night, the last he meant to spend in Palenka.
Cecil resolved to be in every way on his guard against this man Guebhard, and yet ere the night passed he was very nearly having a quarrel with him—a quarrel which, but for some forbearance on the part of the former, might have ended in a resort to pistols between them, after the ladies had retired and he and the captain were left to their cigars and wine; but the latter preferred raki, and under its influence he lost much of his subtle suavity and oily politeness, and the real Bulgar in his blood came out.
And, sooth to say, Cecil was not sorry when the ladies did retire, for Margarita, either to please and amuse herself, or to tease and anger Guebhard, had addressed the whole, or nearly the whole, of her conversation to him, though it ran chiefly on the progress of the war.
Lying or half-reclining on a divan, with a rummer of raki and water at hand, a cigar between his lips, and his cunning almond-shaped eyes half-closed, though they glittered brightly, Guebhard, after some remarks about Margarita and her singing, to all of which Cecil listened silently, said:
'She is a dazzling girl—don't you think so?'
Cordially, Cecil admitted she was so.
'I wonder blood has not been shed about her long ere this!' he exclaimed, in a curiously suave yet vicious tone.
'Bah!' said Cecil, 'people don't fight duels nowadays.'
'In your cold-blooded country, perhaps,' was the quietly scornful interruption.
'And we shall have daily blood enough spilt in other ways,' continued Cecil, without heeding him.
Guebhard drained his rummer, refilled it, and was not long in thinking of something else offensive to say, and gave each long, black, lanky moustache a vigorous twist, as if he gathered courage from the performance.
'You have not been idle while here, apparently, Herr Lieutenant,' said he, with one of his curious smiles, while carefully selecting a cigar from his case and proffering Cecil one.
'I do not understand you, Captain Guebhard,' replied the latter.
'You will understand this, that I heard your names—yours and Margarita's—bandied about in the commoncafaneof the next village.'
Cecil coloured with anger, but said quietly: 'We are not accountable for the gossip of the vulgar or the ignorant.'
'It is a pity, however, to compromise a young lady by your attentions, Herr Lieutenant.'
'Whodoyou mean?' asked Cecil, angrily.
'Who but Margarita Palenka?' replied Guebhard, suavely, but decidedly, emitting great circles of smoke from his lips.
'Compromise her?'
'I have said so, Herr.'
'With whom?' asked Cecil, endeavouring to suppress his annoyance; 'her mother or—you? I am here, like yourself, as a guest, and I do not recognise your right, Captain Guebhard, either to advise me, or suggest to me any line of conduct.'
'If I attempted to do so, it would be as your friend, and still more as the friend of Count Palenka's sister.'
Guebhard's voice was becoming thick under the influence of the fiery raki, and he sat for half-a-minute glaring at Cecil in a curious half-defiant and half-stolid manner, especially when the latter was not looking at him.
'At all events,' he said bluntly, 'General Tchernaieff expects you to report yourself in due course at Alexinatz.'
'Did he send you to me with this message?'
'No.'
'Then I require no advice from you, sir, as to any course I may choose to adopt.'
Guebhard's eyes glittered like those of a rattlesnake beneath their half-closed lids, and Cecil began to eye him back steadily and sternly.
'Captain Guebhard,' said he, 'to recur to the first matter in hand, the rumours at thecafane, what is your peculiar interest in the matter?'
'What matter?' stammered Guebhard.
'My intimacy—friendship—what you will, with the sister of Count Palenka?'
'Simply that I love her!' exclaimed Guebhard abruptly, with all the impulse of his really passionate nature; 'that I love her, and will brook no rival!'
'Then you need not fear me as one,' said Cecil, laughing aloud; 'and if it will ease your mind, be assured that I had already arranged to leave this place to-morrow; my arm is so nearly well now, that I shall be able to reach my saddle with ease. And to end this rather absurd conversation,' he added, as he rose to retire for the night, 'be assured, I repeat, that on my honour you need fear no rival in me!'
'He lies, in his heart—the English dog!' thought Guebhard, as he silently gave Cecil his hand; 'and there are no lunatics like women, when an interesting foreigner comes their way. But I'll mar his wooing, between this and headquarters—by all the devils I will!'
'And you leave this to-morrow for the front?' said he.
'To-morrow, by noon, at latest; and you, Herr Captain?'
'I—I go on to Belgrade; but you ride by Resna?'
'Yes.'
The captain, whose voice and steps were alike unsteady, withdrew, and Cecil was not ill-pleased that they had parted without the quarrel which the other seemed anxious to provoke.
Next morning he found that the captain had quitted Palenka at an early hour, and soon after he was further to learn that Guebhard had not taken the road to Belgrade.
Ere noon next day, old Theodore was leading Cecil's horse, accoutred, to and fro before the door.
'We are so sorry that Palenka is about to lose you,' said Margarita, in her softest tone to Cecil, who had been saying some well-bred things, but in the genuine fulness of his heart, for the hospitality he had received.
'It is most kind of you to say so,' he replied, doubtful of how she might lead him on, for her eyes and manner were full of coquetry at the time.
'Don't you regret it?' she asked, with a would-be shy, upward glance.
'After all your kindness to me, a stranger, I should be most ungrateful not to do so!'
'But we may meet again,' said the countess, joining in the conversation.
'Perhaps,' said Cecil, with one of his sad smiles; 'but considering the chances of war, of life and events here, too probably never.'
Margarita stood by fanning herself, as she usually did. She knew that a fan suited well the style of her beauty, and she seldom neglected to display her skill in the use of one, and she had fans of all colours to suit her dresses.
So his sojourn at Palenka was ended now.
Intelligent and well read, Cecil was also master of that kind of small talk which marks a man of the world; and he had pleasantly wiled away many an hour with Margarita, the memory of which would haunt her in the time to come. It was a companionship, brief but pleasant, which she would be sure to miss, and to recall with genuine regret.
'She has been trying to lure me into a flirtationpour passer le temps,' thought Cecil, as he rode down the slope on the summit of which Palenka stood; 'and I am well rid—well clear of her alluring meshes.'
At a turn of the path he waved his cap in farewell, as he knew that her soft bright eyes were watching him from a window; but he knew not that from another point eyes were watching his departure in which a less pleasant expression might have been read.
The path by which he proceeded was narrow, rugged, often ascending rocky steeps and descending into rapid water-courses; thus his progress was slow and devious. It was often bordered by forests of oak, ash and yew—the latter imparting a great gloom to the scenery; it was overshadowed by hills, particularly those of Mount Mezlanie, with alpine peaks that were covered with thyme, rosemary, and other aromatic plants. Here and there he saw goats perched upon fragments of rock, their long beards waving in the wind; and occasionally when the country became open, he passed bare fields whereon the oats and millet had been reaped.
So he was once again in his saddle, with his sword by his side, his pistols in his holsters, and the world of wild life before him! His pistols? He thought it as well to look to them, and on doing so, found that the cartridges had been withdrawn from the chambers of both!
By whom had this been done, and why? He could not suspect the old soldier Theodore; but he did suspect Guebhard of tampering with some of the grooms. Forewarned thus, he at once proceeded to examine and reload them carefully.
As he rode on, he thought with more amazement than irritation of his conversation with the captain over-night, and of that personage's declaration of his regard for Margarita—his open jealousy, and threat of brooking no rivalry. Whether she had loved Guebhard in the past time, or whether she loved him still, was a matter of such little consequence to Cecil, that he scarcely thought about it at all.
'Could I,' he reflected—'could I but forget my own past, with its brightness and gloom—though the brightness was Mary, the gloom my mysterious disgrace—I might yet have some hope in the future here—even here! My foot is already on the first step of the ladder, and military rank, perhaps glory itself, may yet be mine. I may yet gather one leaf of laurel, and who can say but that a corner in the Temple of Fame may await me too!'
He laughed at the thought. He was, in fact, too young to feel quite despairing yet. His spirit rose with the exhilaration induced by a rapid ride; and he at last began to think with ardour of the mess of the old corps, seeing his name in the public prints—the exultation and commendation of his pluck and bravery by Leslie Fotheringhame, Dick Freeport, and others—even his story going the round of the men's barrack; and more than all, of what would be the emotions of Mary Montgomerie!
Then, at the thought of her, he let his reins drop on the mane of his horse, and sinking into reverie—a reverie induced by the stillness around him—left the animal to proceed at its own pace, and even to pause, and crop the herbage by the wayside.
Never again, too probably, would the threads of their life cross, even for a moment, for Mary seemed as far removed from him now as heaven from earth. Then it would seem difficult to realise the idea that his life could pass on, unto the end, without Mary in it; and vaguely there would spring up in his heart the wild tumultuous hope that if he strove, even in this new and barbarous land, she might yet be his.
How often in the wretched Servian bivouac, through the long hours of weary night, had he lain under the stars communing in bitterness with his own soul, if we may say so; and out of the starlight Mary seemed to come to him vividly in fancy—Mary in her sweetness and loveliness, with all her gentle, soft, and winning little ways—her grace of movement, her tenderness of tone—the Mary that, too probably, he should never meet more.
Yet they had been so happy in their secret love of each other—the love that in its flush needs nothing more than to be mutual, 'though marriage seemed distant as death;' and as distant as that the former seemed now, though the risk of death was nearer than he thought.
Lost in reverie, he had proceeded thus a few miles, ere he became aware of the unpleasant fact that he had too probably lost his way, for the road tracks diverged and crossed each other so frequently, and he met no one of whom he could make inquiries, till at a turn of the path he came suddenly upon two Montenegrins, who were on foot, under a tree, against which their muskets rested, and who were in the act of taking some food, each with the bridle of his horse over one arm.
Both were as repulsive-like men as one could meet, especially in a place so lonely, and the sudden appearance of Cecil seemed to afford them considerable interest. They were evidently two of the 'Black Mountaineers,' belonging to the body which served in the army of Servia, and they bore those arms which their race are never without, even in their most peaceful occupation: a musket, pistols, and yataghan—a short and sharply-curved flat sword, without a guard. They wore old and tattered garments of no particular colour, sandals of raw hide, were black-bearded, cunning, and forbidding in aspect—looking every inch like what the Montenegrins are in reality, savage barbarians, who in battle mutilate the fallen, and who never crave mercy, nor yield it, for when one is severely wounded, to save him from the enemy, his own comrades cut off his head.
As the language of these pleasant people is a dialect of the Servian, Cecil had not very much difficulty in making them comprehend the dilemma in which he found himself. They exchanged curious smiles, and then pointed out the way which led, they averred, to Resna.