The two men thereupon shook hands and separated.
Uros went to the police, and, after a great ado, he managed to find one of the directors.
"What do you want?" said the officer, cross at being disturbed out of office hours.
"I've found the murderer at last," replied Uros.
"And what murderer, pray? Do you think there's only one murderer in the world?"
Uros explained himself.
"And who is he?"
"A certain Vassili, a Greek, on board a caique now lying at Gravosa."
"And how have you found out that he is the murderer, when we know nothing about it?"
"By intuition."
"Well, but you don't expect us to go about arresting people on intuition, do you?" asked the officer, huffishly.
Uros proceeded to relate all he knew; then he produced the knife which he had found.
"Well, there is some ground to your intuition; and if the murdered man happens to be the Slav sailor who disappeared from on board the ship you speak of, well, then, there is some probability that this one-eyed man is the murderer."
"Anyhow, could you give orders for the ship to be watched to-night?"
"Yes, I can do that."
"At once?"
"You are rather exacting, young man."
"Think of my friend, who has been in prison ten days——"
"I'll give orders at once. There, are you satisfied now?"
"Thank you."
Uros, frightened lest the murderer might escape, hastened down to Gravosa to keep watch on the caique. On his way thither he stopped at a baker's shop and bought some bread, as he had been fasting for many hours. Having got down to the shore, he eat his bread, had a glass of water and a cup of black coffee at the coffee-house, lit a cigarette, and then went to stretch himself down on a boat drawn up on the sand, from where he could see anyone who came out of the Greek ship.
Although there was no moon, still the air was so clear, and the stars shone so brightly, that the sky was of a deep transparent blue, and the night was anything but black. A number of little noises were heard, especially the many insects that awake and begin to chirp when all the birds are hushed. One of them near him was breathing in a see-saw, drilling tone, whilst another kept syncopating this song with a sharp and shrilltsit, tsit. In some farmyard, far off, the growl of an old dog was occasionally heard in the distance, like a bass-viol; but the pleasantest of all these noises was the plap-plap of the wavelets lapping the soft sand.
Presently, a custom-house guard came and sat down near Uros, and they began talking together; and then time passed a little quicker.
It must have been about half-past one when Uros saw a man quietly lower himself down from the caique into the sea, and make for the shore. He must have swum with one hand, for his other was holding a bundle of clothes on his head. Uros pointed out the swimming figure to the guard, who at once sprang up and ran to the edge of the shore. The man, startled, veered and swam farther off. The watchman whistled, and another guard appeared at fifty paces from there. The man jerked himself round, evidently intending to go back to his ship; but Uros, who was on the alert, had already pushed into the sea the boat on which he had been stretched, and began paddling with a board which was lying within it.
The man, evidently thinking that Uros was a custom-house officer, seeing now that he could not get back on board, put on a bold face and swam once more towards the shore, whither Uros followed him. Three custom-house guards had come up together, and were waiting for him to step out of the water. Uros landed almost at once, and pushing the boat on the sand, turned round and found himself face to face with the dripping, naked figure. It was the fiendish, pitted, single-eyed man he had seen in his visions. He was by no means startled at seeing him; for he would have been astonished, indeed, if it had been someone else.
Uros, grasping him by one of his arms and holding him fast for fear he might escape, exclaimed: "That's the man!—that's the murderer!"
"Leave him," said the watchman; "if he tries to escape he's dead."
"Oh! but I don't want him dead; do what you like with him, but don't kill him; tie him up, cut off his legs and his arms, but spare his life until he has confessed."
The guards gave another shrill whistle, and presently the policemen came running up.
The naked man, who did not know a word of Slav, and only very little Italian, was taking his oath in Greek that he was no smuggler. He at once opened his bundle, wrapped up in an oil-cloth jacket, and showed the guards that there was nothing in it but a few clothes. The Greek sailor was ordered to dress himself; then the policemen handcuffed him and led him off to the station, where Uros followed him.
On the morrow the Greek captain was sent for, and he stated that, having accused Vassili—who, for ten days, had been shamming illness—of having murdered the Slav, this sailor had threatened him to go to the Greek consulate on the morrow. The guilty man, however, had, on second thoughts, deemed it more advisable to seek his safety in flight, little thinking to what danger he was exposing himself. The knife was produced and identified as having belonged to the prisoner; then, being confronted with Milenko, who at once recognised him as the murderer, he—overwhelmed by so many damning proofs —confessed his guilt and pleaded for mercy, saying that he had only killed his antagonist in self-defence.
Milenko's innocence being thus proclaimed, he was at once set free, whilst Uros was heartily congratulated on his intuition, and the officer who had snubbed him the evening before, strongly advised him to leave the sea and become a detective, for if he had the same skill in finding the traces of criminals as he had displayed in this case, he would soon became a most valuable officer, whilst Milenko was told that he ought to think himself fortunate in having such a friend.
Though thepobratimwould have sailed with any ship rather than with the ill-fated green caique, still Uros had pledged his word to the Greek captain to go with him as far as Zara or Trieste, and, moreover, there was no other vessel sailing just then for either of these ports, and they were both anxious to catch up with theSpera in Diowithout further delay. The Greek captain, likewise—out of a kind of superstitious dread—would have preferred any other sailors to these two young men; still, as Dalmatians only sail with their own fellow-countrymen and never on Greek crafts, it was no easy matter to find two able-bodied men to go only for a short trip, for those were times when sailors were not as plentiful, nor ships so scarce, as they are now.
On the day after the one on which Milenko was set free, thepobratimset sail with the little caique, and they, as well as the captain, were thoroughly glad to shake the dust off their shoes on leaving Gravosa; Milenko especially hoped never to set his foot in Ragusa again.
The fresh breeze swelled out the broad white sails of the graceful little ship, which flew as fleetly as a halcyon, steered, as it was, with utmost care, in and out the narrow channels and through that archipelago of volcanic rocks which surround the Elaphite Islands, so dangerous to seamen. It soon left far behind the graceful mimosas, the dark cypress-trees and the feathery palms of the Ragusean coast.
After all the anxiety of the last days it was pleasant to be again on those blue waters, so limpid that the red fretted weeds could be seen growing on the grey rocks several fathoms below. It was a delight to breathe the balmy air, wafted across that little scented garden of La Croma. The world looked once more so beautiful, and life was again a pleasure. The sufferings thepobratimhad undergone only served to render them fonder of each other, so that if they had been twins—not only brothers—they could not have loved each other more than they did.
The sun went down, and soon afterwards the golden bow of the new moon was seen floating in the hyacinthine sky. At the sight of that slender aureate crescent—which always awakens in the mind of man a vision of a chaste and graceful maiden—all the crew crossed themselves and were happy to think that the past was dead and gone, for the new moon brings new fortune to mortals.
A frugal supper of salted cheese, fruit and olives gathered all the men together, and then those who were not keeping watch were about to retire, when a small fishing-boat with a lighted torch at its prow was seen not very far off. As it came nearer to them the light went out, and the dark boat, with two gaunt figures at the oars, was seen for an instant wrapped in a funereal darkness, and then all vanished. Thepobratimcrossed themselves, shuddering, and Milenko whispered something to Uros in Slav, who nodded without speaking.
"What is it?" asked the captain, astonished.
"It is the phantom fishing-boat," replied Uros, almost below his breath, apparently unwilling to utter these words, and Milenko added:
"It is seen on the first days of the new moon, as soon as darkness comes over the waters."
For a few moments everybody was silent. All looked towards the spot where the boat had disappeared, and then the captain asked Milenko who those two men were, and why they were condemned to ply their oars, and thereupon Milenko began to relate the story of
Some centuries ago, during the great days of the Republic, there lived a young patrician whose name was Theodor. He belonged to one of the wealthiest and oldest families of Ragusa, his father having been rector of the Commonwealth. Theodor was of a most serious disposition, possessing uncommon talents, and, therefore, taking no delight in the frivolities of his age. His learning was such that he was expected to become one of the glories of his native town.
Theodor, to flee from the bustle and mirth of the capital and to give himself entirely up to his studies, had taken up his abode in the Benedictine convent on the little island of St. Andrea.
Once he went to visit the island of Lopud—the middle one of the Elaphite group—and there passed the day; but in the evening, wishing to return to the brotherhood, he could not find his boat on the shore. Wandering on the beach, he happened to meet a young girl carrying home some baskets of fish. Theodor, stopping her, asked her, shyly, if she knew of anyone who would take him in his boat across to the island of St. Andrea. No, the young girl knew nobody, for the fishermen who had come back home were all very tired with their hard day's work; they were now smoking their pipes. Seeing Theodor's disappointed look, the young girl proffered her services, which the bashful patrician reluctantly accepted.
The sail was unfurled and managed with a strong and skilful hand; the boat went scudding over the waves like an albatross; the breeze was steady, and the sea quiet. The girl steered through the reefs like a pilot.
Those two human beings in the fishing-smack formed a strong contrast to one another. He, the aristocratic scion of a highly cultured race, pale with long study and nightly vigils, looked like a tenderly reared hot-house plant. She, belonging to a sturdy race of fishermen, tanned by the rays of the scorching sun and the exhilarating surf, was the very picture of a wild flower in full bloom.
Theodor, having got over the diffidence with which women usually inspired him, began to talk to the young girl; he questioned her about her house, her family, her way of living. She told him simply, artlessly, that she was an orphan; the hungry waves—that yearly devour so many fishermen's lives—had swallowed up her father; not long after this misfortune her mother died. Since that time she had lived with her three brothers, who, she said, took great care of her. She kept house for them, she cooked, she baked bread, she also helped them to repair their nets, which were always tearing. Sometimes she cleaned the boat, and she always carried the fish to market. Besides, she tilled the little field, and in the evening she spun the thread to make her brothers' shirts. But they were very kind to her, no brothers could be more so.
He could not help comparing this poor girl—the drudge of the family—with the grand ladies of his own caste, whose task in life was to dress up, to be rapidly witty in a saloon, to slander all their acquaintances, simply to kill the time, for whom life had no other aim than pleasure, and against whose love for sumptuary display the Republic had to devise laws and enforce old edicts.
For the young philosopher this unsophisticated girl soon became an object, first, of speculative, then of tender interest; whilst Margaret—this was the fishermaiden's name—felt for Theodor, so delicate and lovable, that motherly sympathy which a real womanly nature feels for every human being sickly and suffering.
They met again—haunted as he was by the flashing eyes of the young girl, it was impossible for him not to try and see her a second time, and from her own fair lips he heard that the passion which had been kindled in his heart had also roused her love. Then, instead of endeavouring to suppress their feelings, they yielded to the charms of this saintly affection, to the rapture of loving and being loved. In a few days his feelings had made so much progress that he promised to marry her, forgetting, however, that the strict laws of the aristocratic Republic forbade all marriages between patricians and plebeians. His noble character and his bold spirit prompted him to brave that proud society in which he lived, for those refined ladies and gentlemen, who would have shrugged their shoulders had he seduced the young girl and made her his mistress, would have been terribly scandalised had he taken her for his lawful wife.
His studies went on in a desultory way, his books were almost forsaken; love engrossed all his mind.
In the midst of his thoughtless happiness, the young lover was suddenly summoned back home, for whilst Theodor was supposed to be poring over his old volumes, the father, without consulting him, not anticipating any opposition, promised his son in marriage to the daughter of one of his friends, a young lady of great wealth and beauty. This union had, it is true, been concerted when the children were mere babes, and it had from that time been a bond between the two families. The whole town, nay, the Commonwealth itself, rejoiced at this auspicious event. The young lady, being now of a marriageable age, and having duly concentrated all her affections upon the man she had always been taught to regard as her future husband, looked forward with joy to the day that would remove her from the thraldom in which young girls were kept. Henceforth she would take her due share in all festivities, and not only be cooped up in a balcony or a gallery to witness those enjoyments of which she could not take part.
Theodor was, therefore, summoned back home to assist at a great festivity given in honour of his betrothal. This order came upon him as a thunderbolt; still, as soon as he recovered from the shock, he hastened back to break off the engagement contracted for him. He tried to remonstrate, first with his father, and then with his mother; but his eloquence was put to scorn. He pleaded in vain that he had no inclination for matrimony, that, moreover, he only felt for this young lady a mere brotherly affection, that could never ripen into love; still, both his parents were deaf to all his arguments. Now that the wedding day was settled, that the father had pledged his word to his friend, it was too late to retreat. A refusal would be insulting; it would provoke a rupture between the two families—a feud in the town. No option was left but to obey.
Theodor thereupon retired to his own room, where he remained in strict confinement, refusing to see anyone. The evening of that eventful day the guests were assembled, the bride and her family had arrived; the bridegroom, nevertheless, was missing. This was, indeed, a strange breach of good manners, and numerous comments were whispered from ear to ear. The father sent, at last, a peremptory order to his undutiful son to come down at once.
The young man at last made his appearance dressed in a suit of deep mourning, whilst his hair—which a little while before had fallen in long ringlets over his shoulders—was clipped short. In this strange dress he came to inform his father—before the whole assembly—that he had decided to forego the pleasures, the pomp and vanity of this world, and to take up his abode in a convent, where he intended to pass his days in study and meditation.
The scene of confusion which followed this unexpected declaration can easily be imagined. The guests thought it advisable to retire; still, the first person to leave the house was Theodor himself, bearing with him his father's curse. The discarded bride was borne away by her parents, and her delicate health never recovered from that unexpected disappointment.
That very night the young man went back to the Benedictine convent, and, although the prior received him kindly, he still advised him to yield to his father's wishes; but Theodor was firm in his resolution of passing his life in holy seclusion.
After a few days, the fire which love had kindled within his veins was so strong that he could not resist the temptation of going to see Margaret to inform her of all that had happened. Driven as he was from house and home, unable to go against the unjust laws of his country, he had made up his mind to spend his life in holy celibacy, in the convent where he had taken shelter. The sight of the young girl, however, made him forget all his wise resolutions; he only swore to her that he would brave the laws of his country, the wrath of his parents, and that he would marry her in spite of his family and of the whole world.
He thus continued to see the young girl, stealthily at first, then oftener and without so many precautions, till at last Margaret's brothers were informed of his visits. They—jealous of the honour of their family, as all Slavs are—threatened their sister to kill her lover if ever they found him with her. Then—almost at the same time—the prior of the Benedictines, happening to hear of Theodor's love for the fair fisher-girl of Lopud, expressed his intention of expelling him, should he not discontinue his visits to the neighbouring island.
Every new difficulty only seemed to give greater courage to the lovers. They would have fled from their native country had it not been for the fear of being soon overtaken, brought back and punished; they, therefore, decided to wait for some time, until the wrath of their persecutors had abated, and the storm that always threatened them had blown over.
As Theodor could not go to see the young girl, Margaret now came to visit her lover. Not to excite any suspicion, they only met in the middle of the night; and, as they always changed their trysting-place, a lighted torch was the signal where the young girl was to steer her boat. Sometimes—as not a skiff was to be got—the young girl swam across the channel, for nothing could daunt her heroic heart.
These ill-fated lovers were happy in spite of their adverse fortune; the love they bore one another made amends for all their woes. They only lived in expectation of that hour they were to pass together every night. Then, clasped in each other's arms, the world and its inhabitants did not exist for them. Those were moments of such ineffable rapture, that it seemed impossible for them ever to drain the whole chalice of happiness. In those moments Time and Eternity were confounded, and nothing was worth living for except the bliss of loving and being loved. The dangers which surrounded them, their loneliness upon those rocky shores, the stillness of the night, and the swiftness of time, only rendered the pleasure they felt more intense, for joy dearly bought is always more deeply felt.
Their happiness, however, was not to last long. Margaret's brothers, having watched her, soon found out that when the young nobleman had ceased coming to Lopud, it was she who visited her lover by night, and, like honourable men, they resolved to be avenged upon her. They bided their time, and upon a dark and stormy night the fishermen, knowing that their sister would not be intimidated by the heavy sea, went off with the boat and left her to the mercy of the waves. Theodor, not to entice her to expose herself rashly to the fury of the sea, had not lighted his torch; still, unable to remain shut up within his cell, he roamed about the desolate shore, listening to the roaring billows. All at once he saw a light—not far from the rocks. No fisherman could be out in the storm at that hour. His heart sank within him for fear Margaret should see the light and take it for his signal. In a fever of anxiety he walked about the shore and watched the fluttering light—now almost extinguished, and then burning brightly.
The young girl seeing the light, and unable to resist the promptings of her heart, made the sign of the Cross, recommended herself to the mercy of the Almighty, and bravely plunged into the waters. She struggled against the fury of the wind, and buffeted against the waves, swimming towards that beacon-light of love. That night, however, all her efforts seemed useless; she never could reach the shore; thatignis-fatuuslight always receded from her. Still, she took courage, hoping soon to reach that blessed goal; in fact, she was now getting quite near it.
A flash of lightning, which illumined the dark expanse of the waters, showed her that the torch, towards which she had been swimming, was tied to the prow of her brothers' boat. She also perceived that the Island of St. Andrea, towards which she thought she had been swimming, was far behind her. A moment afterwards the torch was thrown into the sea, and the boat rowed off. She at once turned towards the island, and there, in the midst of the darkness, she struggled with the huge breakers that dashed themselves in foam against the reefs; but soon, overpowered with weariness, she gave up every hope of rejoining her lover, and sank down in the briny deep.
The sea that separated the lovers was, however, less cruel than man, for upon the morrow the waves themselves laid the lifeless body of the young girl upon the soft sand of the beach.
The young patrician, who had passed a night of most terrible anxiety, wandering on the strand, found the corpse of the girl he so dearly loved. He caused it to be committed to the earth, after which he re-entered the walls of the convent, took the Benedictine dress, and spent the rest of his life praying for her soul and pining in grief.
Milenko did not exactly relate this story in these words, for to be intelligible he had to make use of a mixture of Italian, Slav and even Greek, and even then Captain Panajotti was often puzzled to understand what he meant; therefore, he had to express himself in a kind of dumb show, or in those onomatopoetic sounds rather difficult to be transcribed.
As soon as he had finished, the captain said:
"We, too, have a story like that, and, on the whole, ours is a much prettier one; for it was the man who swam across the Straits of the Dardanelles to meet the girl he loved, and, on a stormy night, he was drowned."
"Only ours is a true story; you yourself have seen, just now, the hard-hearted brothers rowing in the dark."
"Ours is also true."
"And when did it happen?"
"More than a thousand years ago, when we Greeks were the masters of all the world."
TheSpera in Dio, having met with contrary winds and a storm in the rough sea of the Quarnero, had been obliged to cruise about and shift her sails every now and then, thus losing a great deal of time, and she only reached Trieste after a week's delay. The caique instead had a steady, strong wind, and less than twenty-four hours after they left Ragusa they cast their anchor in front of the white walls of Zara.
To thepobratim's regret the boat was only to remain there two or three days at most, just time enough to take some bales of hides, and then set sail for Trieste; so, although they were so near Nona, it was impossible for them to go and pay a visit to Ivanka. The two young sailors had, however, no need of going to Nona to see their friends, for no sooner had the ship dropped her anchor than Giulianic himself came on board, for he was the Sciot merchant about whom Captain Panajotti had often spoken to them, and who was to give them the extra cargo.
"What! you here?" said Giulianic, opening his eyes with astonishment. "Well, this is an unexpected pleasure; but I thought you were in Trieste." Then, turning to Milenko, he added: "I had a letter from your father only a few days ago informing me that your ship would be there now. You have not been shipwrecked, I hope?"
"No, no," replied Uros, at once; "we were detained at Ragusa; but we are on our way to Trieste, aren't we, captain?"
"If God grants us a fair wind, we are."
Milenko thereupon opened his mouth to speak, but his friend forestalled him.
"So you had a letter from his father? Well, what news from home? Are they all in good health? And how are the crops getting on?" Thereupon he stepped on his friend's foot to make him keep quiet.
"Yes, all are well. Amongst other things, he says that your father has gone to Montenegro."
"My father?" asked Uros, with a sly wink at Milenko.
"Yes; on account of a murder that had been committed at Budua." Then, turning to the captain: "By-the-bye, you knew Radonic, didn't you?"
"Yes, I did."
"Well, it appears he's gone and murdered the only friend he had."
"That's not astonishing. The only thing that surprises me is that he ever had a friend to murder. He was one of the most unsociable men I ever met."
Afterwards they spoke of the accident that had kept the two young men at Ragusa, at which Giulianic seemed greatly concerned.
"Anyhow," said he, "it's lucky that my wife and Ivanka have come with me from Nona. They'll be so glad to see you again; for you must know, Captain Panajotti, that my bones, and those of my wife and daughter, would now be lying at the bottom of the sea, had it not been for the courage of these two young men."
"Oh! you must thank him," said Uros, pointing to Milenko. "I only helped so as not to leave him to risk his life alone."
"They never told me anything about it; but, of course, they did not know that I was acquainted with you." Then, laughing, the captain added: "Fancy, I have been warning them not to lose their hearts on seeing your beautiful daughter."
"And didn't I tell you that my friend had already left his heart atNona?"
Saying this, Uros pinched his friend's arm. Milenko blushed, and was about to say something, but Giulianic began to speak about business; then added:
"And now I must leave you; but suppose you all three come and meet us at the Cappello in about an hour's time, and have some dinner with us? I'll not say a word either to my wife or Ivanka, and you may fancy how surprised they'll be to see you."
Captain Panajotti seemed undecided.
"No, I'll not have any excuse; you captains are little tyrants the moment the anchor is weighed, but the moment it's dropped you are all smiles and affability. Come, I'll have a dish ofscordaliato whet your appetite; now, you can't resist that; so ta-ta for the present."
The moment Giulianic disappeared Milenko looked at his friend, whose eyes were twinkling with merriment.
"It's done," said Uros, smiling.
"But what made you take the poor fellow in as you did?"
"Itake him in? Well, I like that."
"Well, but——"
"If he deceived himself, am I to be held responsible for his mistakes?"
"Still——"
"Besides, if there was any deception, I must say you did your best to let it go on."
"Of course, I did; but who made me do it?"
"I did."
"And now is it to continue?"
"Of course."
"But why?"
"Milenko, you're a good fellow, but in some things you are a great ninny. You ask me why? Well, because, for two days, you can make love to the daughter under the father's very nose; in the meantime I'll devote myself to the father and mother, and make myself pleasant to them."
"Yes, but what'll be the upshot of all this?"
"'Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof,' the proverb says; why will you make yourself wretched, thinking of the future, when you can be so happy? If I only had the opportunity of spending two long days with——"
Uros did not finish his phrase; his merry face grew dark, and he sighed deeply; then he added: "There is usually some way out of all difficulties; see how you got out of prison."
"Still, look in what a predicament you've placed me."
"Well, if you feel qualmish, we can tell the old man that he's a goose, for he really doesn't know who his son-in-law is; then I'll make love to fair Ivanka, and you'll look on. Now are you satisfied?"
"What are you wrangling about?" said Captain Panajotti, appearing out of the hatchway in his best clothes, his baggy trowsers more voluminous than those that Mrs. Bloomer tried to set in fashion a few years afterwards.
"Oh! nothing," said Uros, laughing; "only you must know that every first quarter of the moon I suffer from lunacy. I'm not at all dangerous, quite the contrary; especially if I'm not contradicted. So you might try and bear with me for a day or two; by the time we sail again I'll be all right; it's only a flow of exuberant animal spirits, that must vent themselves. But, how fine you are, captain; I'm afraid you are trying to out-do my friend, and if it wasn't that you are married, I'd have thought that all your warnings for us not to fall in love with the Sciot's daughter——"
"I see that the lunacy is beginning, so I'll not contradict; but hadn't you better go and dress?"
"All right," quoth Uros, and in a twinkling the two young men disappeared down the hatchway.
Half-an-hour afterwards they were at the Albergo Cappello, the only inn of the town, where they found Giulianic awaiting them. The two women were very much astonished to see them. Ivanitza's eyes flashed with unrestrained delight on perceiving her lover, but then she looked down demurely—as every well-bred damsel should—and blushed like a pomegranate flower. Only, when she heard her father address him by his friend's name, she looked up astonished; but seeing Uros slily wink at her, she again cast down her eyes, wondering what it all meant.
After a while the mother whispered to her husband that she had always mistaken one of the young men for the other.
"Did you?" said he, laughing. "Well, I am astonished, for you women are so much keener in knowing people than we men are; for, to tell you the truth, I've often been puzzled myself; they are both the same age, they are like brothers, they are dressed alike, so it's easy to mistake them."
"Anyhow," added she, "I'm glad to have been mistaken, because, although I like both of them, still I prefer our future son-in-law to young Bellacic; he's more earnest and sedate than his friend."
"Yes, I think you are right; the other one is such a chatterbox."
"And, then, he displayed so much courage at the time of our shipwreck; indeed, had it not been for his bravery, we should all have been drowned."
"Yes, I remember; he was the first one to come to our rescue. Still, we must be just towards the other one, for he is a brave and a plucky fellow to boot."
"And so lively!"
"That's it; rather too much so; anyhow, I'm glad that Ivanka has fallen in love with the right man; because it would have been exactly like the perverseness of the gentle sex for her to have liked the other one better."
"Oh, my daughter has been too well brought up to make any objection!Just fancy a girl choosing for herself; it would be preposterous!"
"Yes, of course it would; still, she might have moped and threatened to have gone into a decline. Oh, I know the ways of your model girls!"
In the meanwhile, Milenko explained to the young girl how the mistake had originated, and how her father had, from the first, believed him to be Uros.
Dinner was soon served in a private room of the hotel; and Uros, who, to keep up the buoyancy of his spirits, and act the part he had undertaken to play brilliantly, had swallowed several glasses ofslivovitz, and had induced Captain Panajotti to follow his example, was now indulging freely with the strong Dalmatian wine. Still, he only took enough to be talkative and merry; but, as he exaggerated the effects of the wine, everybody at table believed him to be quite tipsy.
No sooner had the dish of macaroni been taken away than he began to insist upon Captain Panajotti telling them a story.
"Oh, to-morrow you'll be master on board again; but now, you know, you must do what I like, just as if you were my wife!"
"What! Your wife——"
But Uros did not let Mrs. Giulianic finish her question, for he insisted upon doing all the talking himself.
"My wife," said he, sententiously, "my wife'll have to dance to the tune I play; for I intend to wear the breeches and the skirts, too, in my house; so I hope you've brought up your daughter to jump through paper hoops, like a well-trained horse—no, I mean a girl!"
"My daughter——"
"Oh, I daresay that your daughter's like you, turning up her nose; but I say, D——n it! I'll not have a wife whose nose turns up."
Giulianic looked put out; his wife's face lengthened by several inches, whilst Ivanka did her best to look scared.
"Come, captain," continued Uros, "spout us one of your stories. Now listen, for he'll make you split with laughter. Come, give us one of your spicy ones; tell us your tale about the lack of wit, but without omitting the——"
"I'm afraid that the ladies——"
"Oh, rot the ladies! Now, all this comes from this new-fangled notion of having women at table; if they are to be squeamish and spoil all the fun, let them stop up their ears. Come, I told you I'd not brook contradiction to-day."
"Well, by-and-by; let me have my dinner now."
"What's the matter with him?" asked Mrs. Giulianic of the captain; "is he drunk?"
"Oh, worse! he's moon-struck; he's like that for a few days at every new moon."
Mrs. Giulianic made the sign of the Cross, and whispered something to her husband.
"Then, if you'll not tell us a story, our guest must sing us a song. Come, father-in-law, sing us a song, a merry, rollicking one, for when I'm on shore I like to laugh."
"No, not here; we are not in our own house, you know."
"Do you pay for the dinner, or don't you?"
"I do, but there are gentlemen dining in the next room."
"If they don't like your song, don't let them listen."
Thereupon the waiter came in.
"I say, you, fellow, isn't it true that we can sing in this stinking hole of an old tub?"
"Oh! if you like; only this isn't a tavern, and there are two judges dining in the next room."
"And you think I'm not going to sing for two paltry judges! I'll howl, then."
"No; let's have some riddles," said Giulianic, soothingly; "I'm very fond of riddles, aren't you? Now, tell me, captain, who was it that killed the fourth part of mankind?"
"Why, that's as old as your wife," quoth Uros, at once; "why, Cain, of course. But as you like riddles, I'll tell you one that suits you, though, as the proverb says, a bald pate needs no comb."
Giulianic winced, for his bald head was his sore point, but then he added, with a forced smile:
"Come, let's have your riddle."
"Well, you ought to know what makes a man bald, if anyone does."
"Sorrow," answered the bald man.
"Rot, I say!"
"What is it, then?"
"The loss of hair, of course," and he poked Giulianic in the ribs."That was good, wasn't it, father-in-law?"
"Well, I don't see much of a joke in it," answered the host, snappishly.
"No; I didn't expect you would; that's the joke, you see." Then, turning to Ivanka, with a slight wink: "Now, here's one for you."
"Let's hear it."
"Why are there in this world more women than men?"
"Because they are more necessary."
"That's your conceit; but you're wrong."
"What is it, then?" asked the young girl.
"Because the evil in this world is always greater than the good."
"So," said she, with a pretty smile, "then, women ought to be called men's worse halves."
"Of course, they ought—though there are exceptions to all rules." Then, after drinking very slowly half a glass of wine: "Now, one for you,babica. This is the very best of the lot; I didn't invent it myself, though I, too, can say a smart thing now and then,babica. Tell me, when is a wife seen at her best?"
Ivanka's mother, who prided herself upon her youthful looks, winced visibly on hearing herself twice called a granny; still, she added, simpering:
"I suppose, when she's a bride."
"Oh! you suppose that, do you? Well, your supposition is all wrong."
"Well, when is it?"
"Ask your husband; surely, he's not bald for nothing."
"I'm sure, I don't know; I think——"
"You think it's when she turns up her nose, but that's not it, for it's when she turns up her toes and is carried out of the house."
Captain Panajotti laughed, and so did Ivanka; but her mother, seeing her laugh, could hardly control her vexation, so she said something which she intended to be very sarcastic.
"Oh! you are vexed,babica, because I explained you the riddle."
"Vexed! there's nothing to be vexed about. I'm only sorry that, at your age, you have such a bad opinion of women."
"I, a bad opinion,takomi Boga!I haven't made the riddle; I've only heard it from my father, and he says that riddles are the wisdom of a nation. So, to show you that I have the best regard for you, here's a bumper"—and thereupon he filled his glass to the brim and stood up—"to your precious health, mother-in-law."
Then, pretending to stumble, he poured the glass of wine over her head and face.
Giulianic uttered an oath, and struck the table with his fist; Ivanka and Milenko thought he had gone too far. Still, the poor woman looked such a pitiful object, with her turban all soaked and her face all dripping with wine, that they all burst out laughing.
Mrs. Giulianic, unable to control her vexation, and angry at finding herself the laughing-stock of the whole company, forgot herself so far as to call Uros a fool and a drunkard. He, however, went on, good-humouredly:
"I'm so sorry; but, you see, it was quite unintentional,Bogami, quite unintentional. But never mind, don't be angry with me; I'll buy you another dress."
"Do you think my wife is vexed on account of her dress?" said Giulianic, proudly. "Thank Heaven! she doesn't need your dresses yet."
"Oh, yes!" said Uros, mopping up the wine with his napkin, "I know that you can afford to buy your wife dresses; but as I spoilt this one, it is but right that I should pay for it. I can't offer to buy you a yard of stuff, can I? And, besides, a dress is always welcome, isn't it, mother-in-law?"
"Well, never mind about the dress," quoth Giulianic.
"Oh! if you don't mind it, your wife does; but there, don't be angry, don't be wriggling with your nose. When I marry your daughter, my pretty Ivanka——"
"You marry my daughter!" gasped the father.
"You, indeed!" quoth the mother.
"Yes,babica; then I'll buy you the dearest dress I can get for money in Trieste. What is it to be, velvet or satin? plain or with bunches of flowers? What colour would you like? as red as your face is now?"
"When you marry Ivanka, you can buy me a bright green satin."
"Well, here's my hand upon it; only you'll look like a big parrot in that dress. Isn't it true, father-in-law?"
"A joke is a joke," answered Giulianic; "but I wish you wouldn't be 'father-in-lawing' me, for——"
"Well, I hope you are not going to break off the engagement because I happened to christen mother-in-law with a glass of good wine, are you?"
"Your engagement?"
"Of course."
"I told you I don't mind a joke, still this is carrying——"
"Don't mind him, poor fellow," said Captain Panajotti. "The poor fellow is daft."
"If anybody is engaged to my daughter," continued Giulianic, "it's your friend there, Uros Bellacic!"
"Oh! I like that," said Uros, laughing. "I'm afraid the wine's all gone up to your bald pate, old man." Then turning to Captain Panajotti, he added: "He doesn't know his own son-in-law any more," and he laughed idiotically.
Giulianic and his wife looked aghast.
Thereupon, thumping the table, Uros exclaimed:
"I tell you I'm going to marry your daughter, though, if the truth must be known, I don't care a fig for her, pretty as she is. I've got——"
"And I swear by God that you'll never marry her!" cried Giulianic, exasperated.
"That's rich," quoth Uros. "On what do you swear, old bald-pate?"
"I swear on my faith."
"And on your soul, eh?"
"On my soul, too."
"With your hand on the Cross?" asked Uros, handing him a littleCross.
"I swear," answered Giulianic, beyond himself with rage.
"Well, well, that'll do; don't get angry, take it coolly as I do. You see, I'm not put out. As long as you settle the matter with my father, Milos Bellacic, I'm quite satisfied."
"Milos Bellacic your father?"
"Of course."
"Then you mean to say that you are——?"
"Uros Bellacic. Although the wine may have gone a little to my head, still, I suppose I know who I am."
"Is it true?" said Giulianic, turning towards Milenko.
"Yes!" replied the young man, nervously, "Didn't you know it?"
"No."
"Didn't I tell you?" whispered his wife.
"Oh! you always tell me when it's too late," he retorted, huffishly."And now, what's to be done? Will you release me from my oath?"
Ivanka looked up, alarmed.
"Decidedly not; I'll never marry a girl who doesn't want me, whose father has sworn on his soul not to have me, for whose mother I'm a drunkard and a fool."
The dinner ended in a gloomy silence; a dampness had come over all the guests, and, except Ivanka and Milenko, all were too glad to get rid of one another.
On the morrow Uros called on Mrs. Giulianic, when her husband was not at home. He apologised for his boorish behaviour, and explained matters to her.
"Your daughter is in love with Milenko, to whom you all owe your lives; he, too, has lost his heart on her, whilst I—well, it's useless speaking about myself."
"I see it all now," quoth she, "and you are too good-hearted to wish us all to be miserable on account of a stupid promise. Well, on the whole, I think you were right."
"Then you forgive me for what I did and what I said?"
"Of course I do, now that I understand it all."
Before the caique sailed off, Uros was fully forgiven, and Giulianic even promised to write to his friend and explain matters to him.
The caique reached Trieste in time to meet theSpera in Dio, which, having discharged her goods, had taken a cargo of timber for Lissa. At Trieste, thepobratimbade good-bye to Captain Panajotti; and he, having found there two of his countrymen, was able to set sail for the Levant. From Lissa theSpera in Dioreturned to Trieste, and there her cargo of sardines was disposed of to great advantage.
The young men had been sailing now six months with the captain, and he, seeing that they were not only good pilots, clever sailors, reliable young men, but sharp in business to boot, agreed to let them have the whole management of the ship, for he was obliged to go to Fiume, and take charge of another brig of his, that had lost her captain. Moreover, being well off, and having re-married, he was now going to take his young wife on a cruise with him.
"And who was the captain of your brig in Fiume?"
"One of my late wife's brothers, and as he seems to have disapproved of my second marriage, he has discarded my ship."
"And is he married?"
"Of course, he is; did you ever know any unmarried captain? Land rats always seem to look upon marriage as a halter, whilst we sailors get spliced as young as possible. Perhaps it's because we are so little with our better halves that we are happy in married life."
"And when you give up the sea will you settle down in Fiume?"
"I suppose so, though Fiume is not my birth-place."
"Isn't it? Where were you born, then?"
"Where the dog-king was born!"
"And where was the dog-king born? For, never having heard of him before, I am now quite as wise as I was," said Uros.
"Well, they say that Atilla, who was a very great king, was born at Starigrad, the old castle, which, as you know, is not very far from Nona. Starigrad is said to have been built on the ruins of a very old city, which was once called Orsopola, but which now hardly deserves the name of a town. The village where I was born goes by the name of Torre-Vezza, but we in Slav know it as Kulina-pass-glav."
"What a peculiar name, The Tower of the Dog's Head," added Milenko.
"Yes, it is also called The Tower of the Dog-KingKulina-pass-kraljev."
"And why?" asked Uros.
"Because it was the tower where Atilla was born, and as the king happened to have a dog's ears, the place was called after him The Tower of the Dog-King."
"How very strange that a king should have a dog's ears."
"Not so very strange either. Once, in olden times, a king actually had ass's ears; but that was long before constitutional monarchy: I doubt whether people would stand such things nowadays. Some historians say that he had a dog's head, but that, I daresay, is an exaggeration; and perhaps, after all, he had only big hairy ears, something like those of a poodle. Anyhow, if the legend is to be believed, it does not seem wonderful that Atilla was somewhat of a mongrel and doggish in his behaviour."
"Let's hear the legend," said Uros.
Thereupon, the captain and his two mates, lying flat on their stomachs, propped themselves up on their elbows, and began to puff at their cigarettes. Then the captain narrated as follows:
About four hundred years after the birth of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, there lived in Hungary a King who was exceedingly handsome. The Hungarians are, as you must know, a very fine race; but this monarch was so remarkably good-looking, that no woman ever cast her eyes upon him without falling in love with him at once. This King had a daughter who was as beautiful a girl as he was handsome a man, and all the kings and princes were anxious to marry her. She had a great choice of suitors, for they flocked to Hungary from the four quarters of the globe. She, however, discarded them all, for she could not find the man of her choice amongst them. Some were too fair, others a shade too dark; the one was too short, the other was tall and lanky. In fact, one batch of kings went off and another came, but with no better success; fair-bearded and blue-eyed emperors were the same to her as negro potentates, she hardly looked upon either.
The King at first was vexed to find his daughter so hard to please, then he grew angry at seeing her throw away so many good chances, and at last he decided that she was to marry the very first man that should come to ask for her hand, fair or dark, yellow or copper-coloured.
The suitor who happened to present himself was a powerful chief of some nomadic tribe. He was not exactly a handsome man, for he was shock-headed, short and squat, with sturdy, muscular limbs, big, broad hands and square feet. As for his face, it was quite flat, with a pug nose, thick lips and sharp teeth. As for his ears, they were canine in their shape, large and hairy.
Though he was not exactly a monster, still the girl refused him, horrified. The man, gloating upon her, said, with a leer, that a time might come when she would lick her chops to have him. Nay, he grinned and showed his dog-like teeth as he uttered this very low expression, rendering it ever so much the more obnoxious by emitting a low canine laugh, something between a whine and a merry bark. The poor Princess shuddered with horror and said she would as lief be wedded to one of her father's curs.
The father now got into a towering passion and asked the Princess why she would not marry, and the damsel, melting into tears, and almost fainting with grief and shame, confessed that she was in love with him—her own father.
Fancy the King's dismay!
He had been bored the whole of his life by all the women, not only of his Court, but of his whole kingdom, who were madly in love with him. Wherever he went there was always a crowd of young girls and old dames, married women and widows, gazing at him as if he had been the moon; grey eyes and green eyes, black eyes and blue eyes, were always staring, ogling or leering at him; and, amidst deep-drawn sighs, he always heard the same words: "Ah! how handsome he is!" His fatal beauty made more ravages amongst the fair sex even than the plague or the small-pox; the cemeteries and lunatic asylums were peopled with his victims. His dreams were haunted by the sighs and cries of these love-sick females. At last he had decided to live in a remote castle, in the midst of a forest, where he would see and be seen by as few women as possible; but even here he could not find rest, his own daughter had not escaped the infection. That was too much for the poor King. He at once banished the Princess, not only from his sight—from his castle—but even from his kingdom. He wished thereby to strike the rest of womankind with terror.
The poor girl, like Cain, wandered alone upon the surface of the earth; bearing her father's curse, she was shunned by everyone who met her; for the Hungarians have ever been loyal to their kings.
She was, however, not quite alone; for as she left the royal palace she was met on her way by an ugly-looking cur, with a shaggy head, a short and squat body, sturdy muscular legs, big paws, a pug nose, sharp white teeth, and huge flapping ears. He was not exactly a fine dog, but he seemed good-natured enough; and as he followed her steps, he looked at her piteously with his little eyes.
She walked about for three days; then, sick at heart, weary and faint, she sank down, ready to die. She was on a lonely highway, with moors all covered with heather on either side; so that she could see nothing but the limitless plain stretching far away in the distance as far as the eye could reach. In that immense waste, with the bright blue sky overhead, and the brown-reddish heath all around, where not a tree, not a shrub, not a rock was to be seen, she walked on and on; but she always seemed to be in the very centre of an unending circle. Then a feeling of terror came over her; the utter loneliness in which she found herself overpowered her. And now the mongrel cur, which had remained behind, came running after her, the poor beast, which at first she had hardly noticed, comforted her; he was now far more than a companion or a protector, he was her only friend.
She sank down by the wayside, to pat the faithful dog and to rest a while; but when she tried to rise, her legs were so stiff that they refused to carry her. However, the sun, that never tarries, went on and left her far behind. She saw his fiery disc sink like a glowing ball far behind the verge of the moor; then darkness, little by little, spread itself over the earth. Night being more oppressive than daylight, the tears began to trickle down her cheeks; then she lay down on the grass, and began to sob bitterly and to bewail and moan over her ill-timed fate. She was again comforted; for the ugly cur came to sniff at her, to rub his nose against her cheeks, and lick her hands, as if to soothe and assuage her sorrow.
Tired as she was her heavy eyelids drooped, shut themselves, and soon she sank into a deep sleep.
That night she had a most wonderful vision. Soon she felt her body beginning to get drowsy and the pain in her weary head to pass away; then consciousness gradually vanished. Then it seemed that she saw two genii of gigantic stature appear in front of her; the mightiest of the two bent down, caught her up as if she had been a tiny baby only a few months old, clasped her to his breast, then spread out his huge bat-like wings and flew away with her up into the air. It was pleasant to nestle in his brawny arms and feel the wind rush around her. He carried her with the rapidity of the lightning across the endless plains of Hungary, over the blue waters of the Danube, over lakes and snow-capped chains of mountains, and wide gaping chasms which looked like the mouths of hell. The genius at last alighted on the summit of a very high peak, and from there he slid down, making thus a deep glen that went to the sea-shore. The other genius took up the dog in his arms, transported him likewise through the air, and perched himself on the top of another neighbouring peak. The mountain-tops on which they alighted were the Ruino and Sveti Berdo of the Vellibic chain. Once on their feet again the two Afrites laid down their burdens, and built—till early morning—a huge castle of massive stone, not far from the sea. Their task done, they placed the Princess in a beautiful bed, all inlaid with silver, ivory and mother-of-pearl; they whispered in her ear that henceforth, and for the remainder of her life, she would have to keep away from the sight of men, for her beauty might have been as fatal as her father's had been. Then they rose up in the air, vanished, or rather, melted away, like the morning mist.
You can fancy the Princess's surprise the next morning when—on awaking—she found herself stretched on a soft couch, between fine lawn sheets, in a lofty chamber, finer by far even than the one she had had in her father's palace. She rubbed her eyes, thinking that she was dreaming, and then lay for a few moments, half asleep and half awake, hardly daring to move lest she might return, but too soon, to the bitter misery of life. All at once, as she lay in this pleasant sluggish state, she felt something moist and cold against her cheek. She shuddered, awoke quite, turned round and found herself in still closer contact with the cur's pug nose.
The Princess drew back astonished, unable to understand whether she was awake or asleep, and, as her eyes fell on the cur, she was surprised to see a kind of broad and merry grin on the dog's face, for the mongrel evidently seemed to be enjoying her surprise.
The young girl continued to look round, bewildered, for, instead of being on the dusty roadside, where she had dropped down out of sheer weariness, she was lying on a comfortable bed, in a splendid room. She stared at the costly tapestries which covered the walls, at the beautiful inlaid furniture, at the damask curtains all wrought in gold, at the crystal chandelier hanging down from the ceiling; and as she gazed at all these, and many other things, the cur, with his big hairy front paws on the edge of the couch, was standing on his hind legs, looking at the beautiful young girl.
The poor girl blushed to see the cur leering at her so doggedly. She rose quickly, put on the beautiful dresses that were lying on a chair ready for her, and went about the house.
What she had taken for a dream, or a vision, was, in fact, nothing but plain reality. She had, during the night, been carried from the plains of Hungary down to the shores of the Adriatic, and shut up in a fairy castle, alone with the faithful dog. From her windows she could see the mountains on which the two Afrites had alighted, and on the other side the sun-lit, translucent waters of the deep blue sea.
The castle, which seemed to rise out of the steep inaccessible crags on which it was perched, was built of huge blocks of stone. It had thick machicolated towers at every corner, gates with drawbridges and barbicans. The apartments within this stronghold, the remains of which are still to be seen, were as sumptuous and as comfortable as any king's daughter might wish. Her protectors had provided her with all the necessities of daily life, for every day, at twelve, a dainty dinner, cooked by invisible hands, was laid out in the lofty hall, whilst in the morning a cup of exquisite chocolate was ready for her on the table in her bedroom; besides, she found all that could induce her to pass her time pleasantly, for she had statues, pictures, birds and flowers. She could walk in the small garden in the midst of the square court, or under the marble colonnade that surrounded it; she could stitch, sew, embroider, play the lute, or paint. Still, she was quite alone, and time lay heavy on her hands. She could see, from the windows of the second floor, people at a distance stop and stare at the wonderful castle that had risen out of a rock, like a mushroom, in the space of a night; but nobody ever saw her. Alone with the cur from morn to night, from year's end to year's end; he followed her, step by step, whithersoever she went, and whatever she did he would wag his tail approvingly. If she sat down, he would squat on his haunches, on a stool opposite, and gloat on her with his little eyes so persistently that she felt her head grow quite dizzy, and she almost fancied that she had a human being sitting there in front of her, watching lovingly her slightest movement; and then the strangest fancies flitted through her brain.
Several times she had tried, as a pastime, to teach the dog some tricks; but she soon gave it up, for he always inspired her with a kind of awe. He was such a knowing kind of a cur, that he invariably seemed to read all her thoughts within her brain, and, winking at her, did the very thing she wanted him to do, before she had even tried to teach him the trick. Then, as he saw her open her eyes wonderingly, he would look at her, grinning, as if he were making fun of her; or else he sniffed at her in a patronising kind of way, as if he would say:
"Pooh! what a very silly kind of girl you are. Couldn't you, a human being, think of something better than that?"
It happened one day that, as they sat opposite each other, looking into each other's eyes—he as quiet as a stone dog on a gate, she with her tapering fingers interlocked, twirling her thumbs as a means of passing her time—the Princess was thinking of her many rejected suitors, whose hearts she had broken; even of the last one, the short, squat man, with sturdy limbs, large hands and feet, a shaggy head and huge ears. And she sighed, for though he was much more of a Satyr than like her Hyperean father, still he was a man.
Thereupon, she looked at the cur, with its sturdy limbs, its shaggy head and huge ears; and she sighed again. The dog winked at her.
"Cur," she said to herself, "you are ugly enough; still, if you were a man I think I could fall in love with you."
The cur stood on his hind legs, his head a little on one side; there was a knowing, impudent look in his eyes. Then he uttered a kind of doggish laugh, something between a whine and a bark; then, after showing his teeth in a grinning kind of way, he licked his chops at her sneeringly.
The words of her last suitor were just then ringing in her ears. She looked at the cur in amazement, for she almost fancied he had uttered those selfsame words.
The cur was evidently mocking her, as he rolled his shaggy head about, and gloated at her just as her last suitor had done. Thereupon, she blushed deeply, and covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears.
The poor dog thereupon came to lick the tears that oozed through her fingers, so that she felt somewhat comforted by the affection which this poor mongrel showed her.
This, thought she, is the end of every haughty beauty who is hard to please and who thinks no one is good enough for her. She rejects all the best matches in early youth, she turns up her nose at every eligibleparti, until—when age creeps on and beauty fades—she is happy to accept the first boor that pops the question. As for herself, she had not even a boor whom she could love, not even the churlish man with the huge ears.
That evening, undressing before going to bed, the Princess stood, sad and disconsolate, in front of her mirror. She was still of a radiant beauty, quite as handsome as she had ever been; but alas! she knew that her beauty would soon begin to fade in that lonely tower.
What had she done to the gods to deserve the punishment she was undergoing? Why had the genii shut her up in that tower to pine there unheeded and unknown? Why had they not left her to wander about the world, or even die upon those blasted heaths of her country? Death was better than having to waste away in a living death, doomed to eternal imprisonment.
It was a splendid night in early May. The moon, on one side, silvered the placid waters of the Adriatic, whilst it gleamed on the still snow-capped tops of the Vellebic, on the other. The breeze that came in through the open casement wafted in the smell of the sea, and of the sage, the hyssop and lavender that grew all around. A nightingale was trilling in an amorous strain, blackbirds whistled in plaintive notes, just as in the daytime the wild doves had cooed their eternal love-song to their mate.
The poor girl leaned her plump and snowy arms on the white marble window-sill and sighed. How lovely the world is, she thought, and then she remained as if entranced by an ecstatic vision. Within the amber moon that rolled on high and flooded all below with mellow light, the Princess saw a lover with his lass. Their mouths were closely pressed in one long kiss, as thirsty lips that cleave unto the brim of some ambrosial aphrodisiac cup. Above, the stars were shining forth with love, whilst, down below, the whole earth seemed to pant; the night-bird's lay, the lisping waves' low voice, and the insect's chirp all spoke of unknown bliss. The very air, all laden with the strong scent of roses, lilies and sweet asphodel, was like the breath of an enamoured youth who whispered in her ear sweet words of love. A scathing flame was kindled in her breast, and in her veins her blood was all aglow; her shattered body seemed to melt like wax, such was the unknown yearning which she felt upon that lovely night in early May. With reeling, aching head and tottering steps, the forlorn maiden slowly crept to bed, and while the hot tears trickled down her cheeks, oblivion steeped her senses in soft sleep.
That night the wandering moon, that came peeping through the lofty windows, saw a strange sight. Upon her round disc a broad, sallow face could now be plainly seen, grinning good-humouredly at what she beheld.
That night the Princess had a dream, or rather a vision. No sooner did she shut her eyes and her senses began to wander and lose themselves, than she saw the shaggy cur come into the room, with his usual waddling gait, wagging his tail according to his wont. He came up to her bed, stood upon his hind legs, put his big paws upon the white sheets, and began to look at her just in the very same way he had done that morning when she awoke to find herself shut up within the battlemented walls of that lonely tower by the sea. She was almost amused to see him stare at her so gravely, for he looked like a wise doctor standing by some patient's bed. Until now there was nothing very strange in this vision, but now comes the most wonderful and interesting part, which shows how truth and fancy, the occurrences of the day before and long-forgotten facts, are often blended together to make up the plot of our dreams.
As the Princess was looking upon the dog's paws, she saw them change, not all at once, but quietly undergo a slow process of transformation. They, little by little, grew longer and shaped themselves into fingers and broad hands. She looked up—in her sleep, of course—and beheld the fore part of the legs gradually lengthen themselves into two sturdy arms. The dog's shaggy head became somewhat blurred, and in its stead a man's tawny mass of hair appeared. In fact, after a few minutes, the last rejected suitor, who, indeed, had always borne a strong likeness to the ugly cur that had followed her in her exile, now appeared before her.
He was not a handsome man; no, far from handsome; still, on the whole, it was better to have as her companion a human being than a dog. Still, strange to say, she now liked this man on account of his strong resemblance to the faithful dumb cur, the only friend she had now had for years.