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 oldguzlarpassing 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 aguzlahanging 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!" repliedTripko, 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 theguzlar, 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 hisguzla, silence was re-established, and he began to sing the followingzdravica:
"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 azdravica."
"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, orpobratim.
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, thepobratimbeing 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, thepobratimrose 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 thepobratim.
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 thepobratim, 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 theKolo—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.
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 thepobratimhad 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 theguzlarichant 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 followingrastanak, 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 plainYou'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 hisopanke, 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 hisjacerma, he tugged at him and dragged him away from the door.
As the man struggled to free himself, Uros recognised him to beVranic—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?" askedVranic, 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 withVranic?"
"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. Thepobratim—though anxious to be off—hoped that the calm weather would last for a week longer, that they might pass thebadnji-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 becomepobratim, 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 thebucaraor 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 anepergne, 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. Thestarescina, 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 wildjunaske, took hisguzla, and gave the company the story of "Marko Kraglievic and the Moor of Primoryé," as follows:—
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 hissvatiwould 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 fainHave some fond tie so that the time might seemLess 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 CzarHas for his heir, a daughter meek and shy,Of beauty rare, just like the sparkling starThat 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,Thesvatireached at last their journey's end,Then straightway to the Russian King they boreSuch 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 understandThis strange request; he deemed it was in sport.A blackamoor to wed his daughter fair!"I had as lief," said he, "the meanest ladOf 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 nightDid 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 aweBy faithless Turks, who dreaded his great fame;And in her dream that night the Queen then sawThis mighty Serb come forth to save her child.Then did the Czarin to her lord relateThe vision which her senses had beguiled,And both upon it long did meditate.Upon the morrow, then, the Czar did writeTo Marko, asking him to come and slayThis haughty Moor, as not a Russian knightWould 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 undertakeTo free my daughter from such heinous fate,As that of having to become the brideOf 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 tryTo get the Serb to kill this man whose whimIs 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 devoteTo God and to St. John, come for the nonceTo 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 lordDoth order and decree that none shall dealIts bearer harm; no man shall ever slayYou in his wide domains. Come, then, with speedTo free me from the lord of Primoryé."To Prilipù the herald did proceedWith 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 outliveHer 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 brandOf 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 aloneCan wield his brand for me; but he eschewsTo fight.""A coward, then, is he.""'Tis knownThat he is brave.""His name?""He did enrichThe 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 brideUnto the Moor; then merry shall we makeIn somemehan, and there I shall abideThe coming of the lord of Primoryé."The Princess straightway told the Czar, and heAt once gave orders that they should obeyAll 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 becameMen 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 withinTheir homes; all fear the men of Primoryé."But, as they reached the door of themehan,The Arab, on his horse, would cross the gate,When, on the very sill, he saw a manUpon a steed. This sight seemed to amateThe Arab lord. But still he said: "Stand off!And let me pass.""For you, this is no place,Miscreant heathen dog!"At such a scoffEach angry liegeman lifted up his mace.Thereon 'twixt them and him ensued a fight,Where Marko dealt such blows that all aroundThe din was heard, like thunder in the night.He hacked and hewed them down, until a moundOf corpses lay amid a pool of blood,For trickling from each fearful gash it streamed,And wet the grass, and turned the earth in mudOf 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 ascertainIf all the blood that trickled down each limbWas 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 aloneAgainst 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 bendTo stab him through the heart. Then off he tookHis 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.