"You said that if I were a man you could love me," quoth he, in something like a soft and gentle growl, sniffing at her as he spoke, evidently unable to forbear from his long-acquired canine customs. "Well, now, do you love me?"
The young girl—in her dream—stretched out her hand and patted the man's dishevelled hair as she had been wont to caress the cur's shaggy head; such is the force of habit.
"I told you that the time would come when you would lick your chops to have me back; so you see my words, after all, have come true."
It was a churlish remark, but the young girl had got so accustomed to the cur's strange ways, that she did not resent it; she even allowed the man to kiss her hands, just as the mongrel had been wont to lick them, which shows how careful we ought to be in avoiding bad habits.
It was then that the rolling, rollicking moon came peeping through the window with a broad smile on her chubby round face, just as if she was approving of the sight she saw.
On the morrow, when the Princess awoke, she looked for the cur everywhere, but, strange to say, he was nowhere to be found. She ransacked the whole house, but he had disappeared; she peered through the barbicans, glanced down from the battlements; she mounted to the top of the highest tower, strained her eyes, and gazed on the surrounding country, but the dog was nowhere to be seen.
A sense of loneliness and languor came over her. It was so dreary to be shut up in those large and lofty halls, that, at times, the very sound of her steps made her shiver. Her very food became distasteful to her.
From that day—being quite alone—she longed to have, at least, a little child which she might love, and which might help her to beguile the long hours of solitude. Every day her maternal instincts grew stronger within her, and every evening, as she stood leaning on the marble window-sill, she prayed the kind genii, who had taken pity on her when she had been wandering on the moor, and almost dying of weariness, of hunger and of thirst, to be kind to her, and bring her a tiny little baby to take the place of her lost cur, for life without a child was quite without an aim.
Months passed; the blossoms of the trees had fallen, the fruit had ripened, the harvest had been gathered, the days had grown shorter, the sea was now always lashed into fury, all the summer-birds had flown far away, the others were all hushed; only the raucous cries of the gulls were heard as they flew past the tower where she dwelt. The days had grown shorter and shorter, the wind was cold, the weather was bleak, when at last her wish was granted.
It was on a dreary, stormy night in early February; the Princess was lying on her bed, unable to sleep, when all at once the window was dashed open, and a huge stork flew in. It was the very stork, they say, that, years afterwards, was so fatal to the town of Aquileja, not very far from there. At that moment the poor Princess was so terrified that she quite lost her senses; but when she came back to herself, she found a tiny baby—not an hour old—lying in bed by her side.
The wind was blowing in a most terrific way. The Quarnero, which is always stormy, was nothing but one mass of white foam. The huge waves dashed together, like fleecy rams butting against each other. The billows ever rose higher, whilst the waters of the lowering clouds overhead came pouring down upon the flood below. All the elements seemed unchained against that lonely tower. The clouds came pouring down in waterspouts upon it; the breakers dashed against it; the two ravines, the big and the little Plas Kenizza—formed by the genii as they had slid down the mountains—were now huge torrents, rolling down with a roaring noise against the white walls of the tower, making it look more like an enormous lighthouse on a rock than a princely castle. The thunder never stopped rumbling; the forked lightning darted incessantly down upon the highest pinnacles and the whole stronghold, from its battlements down to its very base. Such a terrific storm had never been known for ages; in fact, not since the days when the mighty Julius had been murdered.
By the lurid light of the incessant flashes, the Princess first saw her infant boy; and she heard its first wail amongst the deafening din of the falling thunder-bolts. With motherly fondness, she pressed the baby to her breast; whilst her heart was beating as if it were about to break. What a thrill of unutterable bliss she felt that moment; but, alas! all her joy passed into sorrow when she perceived that her beautiful baby—beautiful, at least, to a mother's eyes—had two dear little dog's ears.
Dogs' ears are by no means ugly—although they are occasionally cropped. Why was it, then, that the Princess saw them with horror and dismay?
Ears, the young mother thought, are the very worst features man possesses. They stand out prominently and look uncouth, or they sprawl out along the sides of the head; they are either as colourless as if they had just been boiled, or as red as boiled lobsters. Anyhow, she was somewhat fastidious about the shape and tint of those appendages, so that now the sight of those huge hairy lobes was perfectly loathsome to her, and as she looked upon them she burst into tears. The poor forlorn baby, feeling itself snubbed, was wailing by her side. After a little while she took up her infant; the disgust she felt was stronger than ever; moreover, she was thoroughly disappointed. She had begged for a baby, not for a little puppy. In her vexation—she was a very self-willed girl, as princesses often are—she took up the babe, got out of the bed, and in two strides she was by the window. She would cast the little monster into the dark night from where it had come. She herself did not want it.
As she reached the open window the two genii, her protectors, stood before her.
"Stop, unnatural mother!" cried the taller of the two. "What are you about to do?"
The Princess shrank back, frightened and trembling. There are a few things at which we do not exactly like to be caught: infanticide is one of them.
"Know," said the Afrite, in a voice like a peal of thunder, "that the child, though with dog's ears, is not only of royal lineage, but he is, moreover, the son of a great genius. About four hundred years ago another Virgin gave birth to a Child, who, later on, was put to death upon a cross because the people did not want him as their king. Well, now, the followers of that virgin's child are our bitterest enemies; our only hope is in your son; he will grow up to become a mighty warrior and avenge us. He will waste the towns on which the gold cross glistens, he will make their kings his captives, and all their priests his slaves. The blood of the Christians will run in torrents, even as the rain comes down the ravines to-night; his shafts will be like the thunderbolts that have fallen on your tower to-night. His name—which will be heard all over the world like the rumbling in the clouds—will be The Scourge of God, and he will chastise men for their evil deeds. Wherever he passes the grass will wither under his feet, and the waste will be his wake. Only, that all these things might come to pass, thou must well bear in mind that his head be never shorn nor his beard shaven; let the tawny locks of his hair fall about his shoulders like a lion's mane, for all his strength will lie therein. As soon as his arm is able to wield a weapon, the trail of blood flowing from a heifer's wound will show him where the sword of the great god of war lies rusting in the rushes; with that brand in his hand all men will bow before him, or fall like grass beneath the mower's scythe. Love alone will overcome him, and a young girl's lust will lull him into eternal sleep. He will be versed in magic lore, and be able to read the starry skies as a written scroll. From his very infancy he will feel a wholesome hatred for the Nazarenes, his foes as well as ours."
Having uttered these words, the Afrite rose up like smoke and faded away in the dark clouds.
In the meanwhile the child grew up of a superhuman strength, short of stature but square, and with very broad shoulders; and when he was but seven years of age the gates of the castle, hitherto always shut, opened themselves for him. From that time he passed his days in the dells and hollows of the mountains, chasing the wild beasts that abounded in those gorges and in the neighbouring forests, almost inaccessible to man. His mother saw him but little, for he only came back to the castle when heavily laden with his prey.
He was but a youth when he organised a band of freebooters; and with their help he sacked and plundered all the neighbouring towns and villages, and the plains all around were strewn with the bones of the dead. Being not only invincible, but just and generous to his men, he soon found himself at the head of an army the like of which the world had never seen. He destroyed the immense town of Aquileja, the largest city of the Adriatic coast, and even burnt down the forest which stretched from Ravenna to Trieste. Whithersoever he went the houses fell, the temples and the theatres crumbled down, and he left desolation behind him; so that, before he had even reached the age of manhood, the words of the genius were fulfilled.
At that time the old King of Hungary happened to die, leaving no heirs to ascend his throne. Anarchy desolated the land. The nobles, who were at variance as to whom they were to elect, having heard, in some mysterious way, that their beautiful Princess was still alive, and that the great conqueror who was at that time plundering Rome was her son, sent an embassy to the Princess, asking her to return to her country, and begging her, as a boon, to accept the crown for her child.
The Princess, whose name was Mor-Lak (the Daughter of Misfortune), lived to a good old age. When she died she left her name to the sea and to the channel, the waters of which bathe the town in which she dwelt; therefore, the people who live thereabouts are, to this day, called Morlacchi. If they have no more canine ears, their hair is still as tawny as that of the dog-king, though all the other Dalmatians are dark. Moreover, if you go to Starigrad you can see, as I told you, the ruins of the Torre Vezza, the fairy tower where the virgin's son was born; likewise the huge chasms of the Ruino and the Sveti Berdo, the holy mountain where the Afrites slid down, in remembrance of which the inhabitants still call them the Paklenizza Malo and the Paklenizza Veliko, or, the Gorges of the Big and the Little Devil.
A few days afterwards, the captain bade the young men good-bye, and started for Fiume, whilst they, having their cargo ready, set sail for Odessa. The weather was fine, the wind was fair; therefore, the first voyage during which they were in sole command of the ship was a most prosperous, though a rather rough one. For during four days they had shipped several seas, so that they had the water up to their waists, and, with all that, no water to drink; but these are the incidents appertaining to a seafaring life, which sailors forget as soon as they set foot on shore.
Radonic had never been much of a favourite amongst his fellow countrymen, for he was of an unsociable, surly, overbearing disposition; still, from the day he had killed Vranic public opinion began to change in his behalf. A man gifted with an evil eye is a baleful being, whom everyone dreads meeting—a real curse in a town, for a number of the daily accidents and trivial misfortunes were ascribed to the malign influence of his visual organs. It was, therefore, but natural that Radonic should, tacitly, be looked upon as a kind of deliverer. Besides this unavowed feeling of relief at having been rid of thejettatore, no one could feel any pity for Vranic; for even the more indifferent could only shrug their shoulders, and mutter to themselves, "Serve him right," for he had only met with the fate he had deserved.
As for Radonic, he daily grew in the general esteem. There is something manly in the life of a highwayman who, with his gun, stops a whole caravan, or asks for bread, his dagger in his hand. It is a reversion to the old type of prehistoric man. But, more than a highwayman, Radonic was aheyduk, fighting against the Turks, and putting his life in jeopardy at every step he made.
For a man of Radonic's frame of mind, there was something enticing in the life he was leading; struggles and storms seemed congenial to his nature. On board his ship he would only cast away his sullenness when danger was approaching, and hum a tune in the midst of the tempest; in fact, he only seemed to breathe at ease when a stiff gale was blowing.
He arrived at Cettinje on the eve of an expedition against the Turks, just when every man that could bear a gun was welcome, especially when he made no claim to a share of the booty. Having reached the confines of Montenegro, amidst those dark rocks, in that eyrie of the brave, having the sky for his roof and his gun for a pillow, life for the first time seemed to him worth living. He did not fear death —nay, he almost courted it. He felt no boding cares for the morrow; the present moment was more than enough for him. Though he lacked entirely all the softness of disposition that renders social life agreeable, he had in him some of the qualities of a hero, or, at least, of a great military chief—boldness, hardihood and valour. During the whole of his lifetime he had always tried to make himself feared, never loved. He cared neither for the people's admiration nor for their disdain; he only required implicit obedience to orders given. With such a daring, unflinching character, he soon acquired a name that spread terror whenever it was uttered; and in a skirmish that took place a week after his arrival at Cettinje, he killed a Turkish chieftain, cut off his head, and sent it, by a prisoner he had taken, to thePashaof the neighbouring province, informing this official that he would, if God granted him life, soon treat him in the same way. A high sum was at once set upon his head, but it was an easier thing to offer the prize than to obtain it.
Radonic would have been happy enough now, had he not been married, or, at least, if he had been wedded to a woman who loved him, and who would have welcomed him home after a day's, or a week's, hard fighting—who would have mourned for him had he never come back; but, alas! he knew that Milena hated him. Roaming in the lonely forests, climbing on the trackless mountains, lurking amidst the dark rocks and crags, his heart yearned for the wife he had ill-treated.
A month, and even more, had elapsed since Vranic had been murdered. Zwillievic, his father-in-law, had been in Budua, and he had then come back to Cettinje; but, far from bringing Milena with him, he had left his wife there to take care of this daughter of his, who, in the state in which she was, had never recovered from the terrible shock she had received on that morning when she stumbled upon Vranic's corpse.
All kinds of doubts again assailed him, and jealousy, that had always been festering in his breast, burst out afresh, fiercer than ever; it preyed again upon him, embittered his life. After all, was it not possible that Milena was only shamming simply not to come to Cettinje? Perhaps, he thought, one of the many young men who had tried to flirt with her, was now at Budua making love to her.
He, therefore, made up his mind to brave thepamdours(the Austrian police), to meet with the anger of Vranic's brothers, just to see Milena again, and find out how she fared, and what she was doing. He, one evening, started from Cettinje, went down the steep road leading to the sea-shore, got to the gates of the town at nightfall, and, wrapped in his great-coat, with his hood pulled down over his eyes, he crossed the town and reached his house.
He stopped at the window and looked in; Milena was nowhere to be seen. He was seized by a dreadful foreboding—what if he had come too late? Two women were standing near the door of the inner room, talking. He, at first, could hardly recognise them by the glimmering light of the oil-lamp; still, after having got nearer the window, he saw that one of them was Mara Bellacic, and the other his mother-in-law.
He then went to the door, tapped gently, and pushed it open; seeing him, both the women started back astonished.
His first question was, of course, about his wife. She was a little better, they said, but still very ill.
"She is asleep now. You can come in and see her, but take care not to wake her," added Milena's mother.
"Yes," quoth Mara, "take care, for should she wake and see you so unexpectedly, the shock might be fatal."
Radonic went noiselessly up to the door of the bedroom and peeped in. Seeing Milena lying motionless on the bed, pale, thin and haggard, he was seized with a feeling of deep pity, such as he had never felt before in the whole of his life, and he almost cursed the memory of his mother, for she had been the first to set him against his wife, and had induced him to be so stern and harsh towards her.
He skulked about that night, and on the following day he sent for Bellacic, for Markovic, and for some kinsmen and acquaintances, and asked them to help him out of his difficulties. They at once persuaded him to try and make it up with Vranic's relations, to pay thekarvarinamoney, and thus hush up the whole affair.
While public opinion was favourable to him, it would be easy enough to find several persons to speak in his behalf, to act as mediators or umpires, and settle the price to be paid for the blood that had been spilt.
Although the Montenegrins and the inhabitants of the Kotar, as well as almost all Dalmatians, are—like the Corsicans—justly deemed a proud race, amongst whom every wrong must be washed out with blood, and although they all have a strong sense of honour, so that revenge becomes a sacred duty, jealously transmitted from one generation to another, still the old Biblical way of settling all litigations with fines, and putting a price for the loss of life, is still in full force amongst them.
In the present case Vranic's brothers were quite willing to come to a compromise, that is to say, to give up all thoughts of vengeance, provided, after all the due formalities had taken place, an adequate sum were paid to them. First, they had never been fond of their brother; secondly, they knew quite well that Radonic was fully justified in what he had done, and that, moreover, everybody commended him for his rash deed; thirdly, having inherited their brother's property, the little sorrow they had felt for him the first moment had quite passed away.
Markovic and Bellacic set themselves to work at once. Their first care was to find six young and, possibly, handsome women, with six babes, who, acting as friends to Radonic, would go to Vranic's brothers and intercede for him.
It was rather a difficult task, for Radonic had few friends at Budua. All the sailors that had been with him had not only rued the time spent on his ship, but had been enemies to him ever afterwards. He had married a wife from Montenegro, envied for her beauty, and not much liked by the gentler sex. Milena had been too much admired by men for women to take kindly to her; still, as she was now on a bed of sickness, and all her beauty blasted, envy had changed into pity.
After no end of trouble, many promises of silk kerchiefs, yards of stuff for dresses, or other trifles, six rather good-looking women, and the same number of chubby babies, were mustered, and, on a day appointed for the purpose, they were to go, together with Markovic and Bellacic, to sue for peace.
In the meanwhile Radonic had stealthily called on a number of persons, had invited them to drink with him, related to them the number of Turks he had shot, and by sundry means managed to dispose them in his favour. They, by their influence, tried to pacify the Vranic family, and a month's truce was granted to Radonic, during which time the preliminaries of peace were undertaken.
At last, after many consultations and no end of smooth talking, the day for the ceremony of thekarvarinawas fixed upon. Markovic and Bellacic, together with the six women, carrying their babes and followed by a crowd of spectators, went up to Vranic's house. As soon as they got to the door, the women fell down on their knees, bowing down their heads, and, whilst the babes began to shriek lustily, the men called out, in a loud voice:
"Vranic, our brother in God and in St. John, we greet you! Take pity on us, and allow us to come within your house."
Having repeated this request three times—during which the women wailed and the babies shrieked always louder—the door at last was opened, and the murdered man's two younger brothers appeared on the threshold.
Though all the household had been for more than two hours on the look-out for this embassy, still the two men put on an astonished look, as if they had not the remotest idea as to what it all meant, or why or wherefore the crowd had gathered round their house.
Standing on the threshold they inquired of the men what they wanted, after which they went and, taking every woman by the hand, made her get up; then, imprinting a kiss on every howling babe, they tried to soothe and quiet it. This ceremony over, the women were begged to enter the house and be seated. Once inside, Bellacic, acting as chief intercessor, handed to the Vranics six yards of fine cloth which Radonic had provided him with, this being one of the customary peace offerings. Then, taking a big bottle of plum brandy from the hands of one of his attendants, he poured out a glass and offered it to the master of the house; the glass went round, and the house soon echoed with the shouts of "Zivio!" or "Long life!" and the merriment increased in the same ratio as the spirits in the huge bottle decreased.
When everybody was in a boisterous good-humour—except the two Vranics, for strong drink only rendered them peevish and quarrelsome—the subject of the visit was broached.
Josko Vranic, the elder of the two brothers, would at first not listen to Bellacic's request.
"What!" exclaimed he, in the flowery style of Eastern mourners, "do you ask me to come to terms with Radonic, who cruelly murdered my brother? Do you wish me to press to my heart the viper from whose teeth we still smart? Do you think I have no soul, no faith? Oh! my poor brother"—(he hated him in his lifetime)—"my poor brother, murdered in the morning of his life, in the spring of his youth, a star of beauty, a lion of strength and courage; had the murderer's hand but spared him, what great things might he not have done! Oh, my brother, my beloved brother! No; blood alone can avenge blood, and his soul can never rest in peace till my dagger is sheathed in his murderer's heart. No, Radonic must die; blood for blood; life for life. I must find out the foul dog and strangle him as he strangled my beloved brother, or I am no true Slav. Tell me where he is, if you know, that I may tear him to pieces; for nothing can arrest my arm!"
Josko Vranic was a tailor, and a very peaceful kind of a tailor into the bargain. It is true that, when his brain was fuddled with drink, he was occasionally blood-thirsty; but his rage expended itself far more in words than in deeds. For the present, he was simply trying to act his part well, and was only repeating hackneyed phrases often uttered in houses of mourning, at funerals, and at wakes.
All his thoughts were bent on the sum of money he might obtain forkarvarina, and he, therefore, thought that the more he magnified his grief, the greater would be the sum he might ask for blood-money.
Bellacic and Markovic, as well as the other friends of both parties gathered in the house, deemed it advisable to leave him to give utterance to his grief. Then, when he had said his say and the children were quieted, Radonic's friends began to persuade him to forego all ideas of vengeance, and—after much useless talking—many prayers from the women, and threats from the babes to begin shrieking again, Vranic agreed that he would try and smother his grief, nay, for their sakes, forget his resentment; therefore, after much cogitation, he named a jury of twenty-four men to act as arbitrators between him and the murderer, and settle the price that was to be paid for the blood. This jury was, of course, composed of persons that he thought hated Radonic, and who would at least demand a sum equivalent to £200 or £300. He little knew how much his own brother had been disliked, and the low price that was set on his life.
These twenty-four persons having been appointed, Radonic called upon all of them, and got them to meet at Bellacic's house the day before the ceremony of thekarvarina; he sent there some small barrels of choice wine, and provisions of all kinds for the feast of that day, as well as for the banquet of the morrow, for he knew quite well that the gall of a bitter enemy is less acrid after a good dinner, and that an indifferent person becomes a friend when he is chewing the cud of the dainty things you have provided for him.
As soon as supper was over, and while thebucaraof sweetmuscatowine was being handed round, Bellacic submitted the case to the twenty-four arbiters, expatiated like a lawyer on the heinous way Vranic had acted, how like a real snake he had crept between husband and wife, trying to put enmity between them, and how he had succeeded in his treachery, doing all this to seduce a poor distracted woman.
"Now," continued Bellacic, "put yourselves in Radonic's place and tell me how you yourselves would have acted. If you have the right to shoot the burglar who, in the dead of night, breaks into your house to rob you of your purse, is it not natural that you should throttle the ruffian who, under the mantle of friendship, sneaks into your bedroom to rob you of your honour? Is the life of such a man worth more than that of the scorpion you crush under your heel? Vranic was neither my friend nor my enemy; therefore, I have no earthly reason to set you against him, nor to induce you to be friendly towards Radonic. I only ask you to be just, and to tell me the worth of the blood he has spilt."
Bellacic stopped for a moment to see the effect of his speech on his listeners. All seemed to approve his words no less than they did the sweet wine of thebucara; then after a slight pause, he again went on.
"Radonic may have many faults, nay, he has many; are we not all of us full of blemishes? Still, the poor that will be fed for many days from the crumbs of our feast will surely not say that he is a miser. Still—withal he is lavish—one thing he is fully determined not to do, that is to pay more for the blood he has spilt than it is really worth.
"It is true that the heirs of the dead man are filling the whole town with their laments; but do you think that those who mourn so loudly would gladly welcome their brother back, nay, I ask you how many hands would be stretched out to greet Vranic if the grave were to yawn and give up the dead man. Who, within his innermost heart, is not really glad to have got rid of a man who carried an evil influence with him whithersoever he went?
"But speaking the truth in this case is almost like trying to set you against the exaggerated claims of the late man's brothers; whilst you all know quite well that I only wish you to act according to your better judgment, and whatever your decision be, we shall abide by it. You are husbands, you are Slavs; the honour of your homes, of your children, of your wives is dear to you; therefore, I drink to your honour with Radonic's wine."
As thebucaracould not go round fast enough, so glasses were filled, and toasts were drunk. After that, Bellacic left the room, so that the jury might discuss the matter under no restraint. Although twenty of the men were in favour of Radonic, still four thought that the arguments used in his favour had been so brilliant that Bellacic had rather charmed than convinced them. They were, however, overruled by the many, and the bumpers they swallowed in the heat of the argument ended by convincing them, too.
"Gentlemen," said Bellacic, coming back, "I shall not ask you now if Vranic's life was worth a herd or a single cow, a flock or a single sheep, or even a goat, for here is Teodoroff, theguzlar, who is going to enliven us with the glorious battle of Kossovo, and the great deeds of our immortal Kraglievic."
The bard came in, and he was listened to with rapt attention during the half-hour that his poem lasted. No one spoke, or drank, or even moved; all remained as if spell-bound; their eyes seemed to seek for the words as they flowed from the poet's lips. At last theguzlarstopped, and after a few moments of silence, shouts of applause broke forth. Just then Radonic came into the room, and the twenty-four men all shook hands with him heartily, and, excited as the audience was with the daring deeds of Marko Kraglievic, Bellacic made him relate some of his encounters with the Turks, and show the holes in his coat through which the bullets had passed.
"And now, Teodoroff," said Radonic, finishing the story of his exploits, "give us something lively; I think we've had enough of bloodshed for the whole evening."
"Yes," added Bellacic; "but let us first finish the business for which we have been brought together, and then we can devote the remainder of our time to pleasure."
"Yes," retorted one of the twenty-four arbitrators, "it's time the matter was settled."
"Well, then," quoth Markovic, "what is the price of thejettatore's life?"
"As for me," said one of the younger men, "it's certainly not worth that of a cow!"
"No, nor that of a goat!" added another.
"Well, let's be generous towards the tailor," said Bellacic, laughing, "and settle his brother's life at the price of a huge silver Maria Theresa dollar, eh?"
Some of the arbitrators were about to demur, but as the proposal had come from them, they could not well gainsay it.
"Then it's settled," said Bellacic, hastening to fill the glasses; "and now, Teodoroff, quick! give us one of your best songs; something brisk and lively."
Theguzlartook up his instrument, played a few bars as a kind of prelude, emitted a prolonged "Oh!" which ended away in a trill, and then began the tale of
Two brave and bonny knights, both bosom friends,Were Marko Kraglievic of deathless fame,And Janko of Sebinje, fair and wise.Both seemed to have been cast within one mould,For no two brothers could be more alike.One day, as they were chatting o'er their wine,Fair Janko said unto his faithful friend:"My wife has keener eyes than any man's,And sharper wits besides; our sex is dull;No man has ever played a trick on her."Then Marko, smiling, said: "Do let me tryTo match, in merry sport, my wits 'gainst hers.""'Tis well," quoth Janko, with a winsome smile,"But, still, beware of woman's subtle guile."Then 'twixt the friends a wager soon was laid;Fair Janko pledged his horse, a stallion rare,A fleet and milk-white steed, Kula by name,And with his horse he pledged his winsome wife;Whilst, for his wager, Marko pawned his head."Now, one thing more; lend me thy clothes," said Mark,"Thy jewelled weapons, and thy milk-white steed."And Janko doffed, and Marko donned the clothes,Then buckled on his friend's bright scimitar.As soon as Janko's wife spied him from far,She thought it was her husband, and ran out;But then she stopped, for something in his mien,Which her quick eye perceived, proclaimed at onceThat warlike knight upon her husband's horseTo be the outward show, the glittering garbAnd a fair mirage of the man she loved.Thereon within her rooms she hied in haste,And to her help she called her trusty maid."O Kumbra, sister mine," she said to her,"I know not why, but Janko seems so wroth.Put on my finest clothes, and hie to him."When Marko saw the maid, he turned aside,And wrapped himself within his widekalpak,Then said that he would fain be left alone.He thought, in sooth, that she was Janko's wife.A dainty meal was soon spread for the knight.The lady called again her trusted maid,And thus she spake: "My Kumbra, for this nightSleep in my room, nay, in my very bed.And, for the deed that I demand of thee,This purse of gold is thine. Besides this gift,Thou henceforth wilt be free." The maiden bowed,And said: "My lady's wish is law for me."Now Marko at his meal sat all alone,When he had supped he went into the roomWhere Kumbra was asleep; there he sat down,And passed the whole long night upon a chair,Close by the young girl's bed. He seemed to beA father watching o'er his sickly child.But when the gloaming shed its glimmering light,The knight arose; he went, with stealthy steps,And cut a lock from off the young girl's head,Which he at once hid in his breast, with care.Before the maiden woke he left the house,And rode full-speed back to his bosom friend.Still, ere he had alighted from his horse:"You've lost!" said Janko, with his winsome smile."I've won!" quoth Marko, with a modest grace;"Here is the token that I've won my bet."And Janko took the golden curl, amazed.Just then a page, who rode his horse full-speed,Came panting up, and, on his bended knee,He handed to his lord a parchment scroll.The letter thus began: "O husband mine,Why sendest thou such pert and graceless knights,That take thy manor for a roadside inn,And in the dead of night clip Kumbra's locks?"Thereon, in sprightly style, the wife then wroteAll that had taken place the day before.And Janko, as he read, began to laugh.Then, turning to his friend: "Sir Knight," quoth he,"Have henceforth greater care of thine own head,Which now, by right and law, belongs to me.Beware of woman, for the wisest manHas not the keenness of a maiden's eye.Come, now, I pledge thy health in foaming wine,For this, indeed, hath been a merry joke."
The greater part of the night was passed in drinking and in listening to the bard's songs. Little by little sleepiness and the fumes of the wine overpowered each single man, so that in the small hours almost all the guests were stretched on the mats that strewed the floor, fast asleep.
On the morrow the twenty-four men of the jury went, all in a body, to Vranic's house. They sat down in state and listened to the tale of the brothers' grievances, whilst they sipped very inferiorslivovitzand gravely smoked their long pipes. When the tailor ended the oft-repeated story of his grief and grievances, then they went back to Bellacic's house, where they gave ear to all the extenuating circumstances which Radonic brought forward to exculpate himself. After the culprit had finished, the twenty-four men sat down in council, and discussed again the matter which had been settled the evening before.
A slight, but choice, repast was served to them; and Radonic took care that no fault could be found with the wine, for he feared that they might, in their soberer senses, change their mind and reverse their opinion.
The dinner had been cooked to perfection, the wine was of the best, the arguments Radonic had brought forward to clear himself were convincing—even the four that had been wavering the evening before were quite for him now. The majority of these men were married, and jealous of their honour; the others were going to marry, and were even more jealous than the married men. If Radonic could not be absolved entirely, still he could hardly be condemned.
Thus the day passed in much useless talking and discussing, and night came on. At sundown the guests began to pour in, and soon the house was crowded. A deputation was then sent to the Vranic family to beg them to come to the feast. The tailor at first demurred; but being pressed he yielded, and came with his brother.
The evening began with theKarva-Kolo, or the blood-dance. It is very like the usualKolo, only the music, especially in the beginning, is a kind of funeral march, or a dirge; soon the movement gets brisker, until it changes into the usualKolostrain. The orchestra that evening was a choice one; it consisted of twoguzlas, adiplaor bag-pipe, and asfiralizaor Pan's seven-reeded flute. Later on there was even a triangle, which kept admirable time.
A couple of dancers began, another joined in, and so on, until the circle widened, and then all the people who were too lazy to dance had either to leave the room or stand close against the wall, so as not to be in the way. Just when the dance had reached its height, and the men were twirling the girls about as in the mazy evolutions of the cotillon, Radonic, who had kept aloof, burst into the room. A moment of confusion ensued, the dancers stopped, the middle of the room was cleared, the music played again a low dirge. The guilty man stood alone, abashed; around his neck, tied to a string, he wore the dagger with which he might have stabbed Vranic had he not throttled him.
As soon as he appeared two of the twenty-four arbitrators, who had been on the look-out for him, rushed and seized him. Then, feigning a great wrath, they dragged him towards Vranic, as if they had just captured him and brought him to be tried.
"Drag that murderer away, cast him out of the house; or, rather, leave him to me. Let me kill him."
"Forgive me," exclaimed Radonic.
"Down upon him!" cried Vranic.
The arbitrators thereupon made the culprit bow down so low that his head nearly touched the floor; then all the assembly uttered a deep sigh, or rather, a wail, craving—in the name of the Almighty and of good St. John—forgiveness for the guilty man.
"Forgiveness," echoed Radonic, for the third time.
The dancers, who had again begun to walk in rhythmic step around the room, forming a kind ofchassez-croisez, stopped, and the music died away in a low moan.
There was a moment of eager theatrical expectation. The murdered man's brother seemed undecided as to what he had to do; at last, after an inward struggle, he yielded to his better feelings, and going up to Radonic, he took him by the hand, lifted him up and kissed him on his forehead.
A sound of satisfaction, like a sigh of relief, passed through the assembly; but then Vranic said, in a voice which he tried to render sweet and soft:
"Listen, all of you. This man, who has hitherto been my bitterest enemy, has now become my friend; nay, more than my friend, my very brother, and not to me alone, but to all who were related to my beloved brother. All shall forego every wish or idea of revenge, now and hereafter."
Thereupon, taking a very small silver coin, he cut it in two, gave Radonic half, and kept the other for himself, as a pledge of the friendship he had just sworn.
When peace had been restored, and everybody had drunk to Radonic's and Vranic's health, then theStarescina, or the oldest arbitrator, whose judgment was paramount, stood up and made a speech, in which he uttered the decision of the jury and the sentence of thekarvarina, that is to say, that, taking into consideration all the extenuating circumstances under which the murder had been committed, Radonic was to pay to Vranic the sum of a silver Maria Theresa dollar, the usual price of a goat.
"What!" cried the tailor, in a fit of unsuppressed rage; "do you mean to say that my brother's life was only worth that of a goat?"
A slight, subdued tittering was heard amongst the crowd; for, indeed, it was almost ludicrous to see the little man, pale, trembling and almost green with rage.
"No," quoth the umpire, gravely; "I never said that your brother's life was worth that of a whole herd or of a single goat; the price that we, arbitrators named by you, have condemned Radonic to pay is a silver dollar. Put yourself in the murderer's place, and tell us what you would have done."
Vranic shrugged his shoulders scornfully.
"We do not appeal to you alone, but to any man of honour, to any Iugo Slav, to any husband of the Kotar. What would he have done to a man who, pretending to be his friend, came by stealth, in the middle of the night, into his home to——"
"Then," cried Vranic, in that shrill, womanish voice peculiar to all his family, "it is not my brother that ought to have been killed. Was he to blame if he was enticed——"
"What do you mean?" cried Radonic, clasping the haft of the dagger, which he ought to have given up to Vranic.
"Silence!" said the umpire: "you forget that you have promised to love——"
"If you intend to speak of Milena," said Bellacic, interrupting the judge, "you must remember that the evening upon which your brother was killed she was spending the evening——"
"At your house? No!" said Vranic, with a scornful laugh, shrugging his shoulders again.
"Come, come," said one of the jury; "let's settle thekarvarina."
"Besides," added another arbitrator, ingenuously, "Radonic has been put to the expense of more than fifty goats. Until now, no man has ever——"
"Oh, I see!" interrupted the tailor, with a withering sneer; "he has bribed the few friends my poor brother had, so now even those have turned against him."
Oaths, curses, threats were uttered by the twenty-four men, and the younger and more hasty ones instinctively sought the handles of their daggers.
"Gentlemen," said Bellacic, "supper is ready; the two men have sworn to be friends——"
"I've sworn nothing at all," muttered the tailor, between his teeth.
"Let us sit down," continued the master of the house, "and try to forget our present quarrels; we'll surely come to a better understanding when cakes flowing with honey and sweet wine are brought on the table."
They now carried in for the feast several low, stool-like tables, serving both as boards and dishes. On each one there was a whole roasted lamb, resting on a bed of rice. Every guest took out his dagger and carved for himself the piece he liked best or the one he could easiest reach, and which he gnawed, holding the bone as a handle, if there was one, or using the flat, pancake-like bread—thechupattiof the Indians, the flap-jacks of the Turks—as plates. Soon the woodenbukaraswere handed around, and then all ill-humour was drowned in the heady wine of the rich Dalmatian soil. After the lambs and rice, big sirloins of beef and huge tunny-fish followed in succession, then game, and lastly, pastry and fruit.
After more than two hours of eating and drinking, with interludes of singing and shouting, the meal at last came to an end. The gentlemen of the jury, whose brains had been more or less muddled from the day before, were now, almost without any exception, quite drunk. As for the guests, some were jovial and boisterous, others tender and sentimental. Radonic's face was saturnine; Markovic, who was always loquacious, and who spoke in Italian when drunk, was making a long speech that had never had a beginning and did not seem to come to an end; and the worst of it was that, during the whole time, he clasped tightly one of thebukaras, and would not relinquish his hold of it.
As for Vranic and his younger brother, they had both sunk down on the floor sulky and silent. The more they ate and drank, the more weazened and wretched they looked, and the expression of malice on their angry faces deepened their wrinkles into a fiendish scowl.
"I think," said the elder brother, "it is time all this was over, and that we should be going."
"Going?" exclaimed all the guests who heard it. "And where do you want to go?"
"Oh, if he isn't comfortable, let him go!" said one of the arbitrators. "I'm sure I don't want to detain him; his face isn't so pleasant to look at that we should beg him to stay—no, nor his company either."
"Oh, I daresay you would like to get rid of me, all of you!"
"Well, then, shall we wind up this business?" said the judge of thekarvarina, putting his hand on Radonic's shoulder.
"I am quite ready," said he.
Thereupon he drew forth his leather purse and took out several MariaTheresa dollars.
"Shall we make it five instead of one?" he asked, spreading out the new and shining coins on his broad palm. "Now, tell me, tailor, if I am niggardly with my money?" he added, handing the sum to Vranic.
The tailor seized the dollars and clenched his fist; then, with a scowl:
"I don't want any of your charity," he hissed out in a shrill treble. "Five are almost worth six goats, and my brother is worth but one. Here, take your money back; distribute it among the arbitrators, to whom you have been so generous. No,heyduk, you are not niggardly; but, then, what are a few dollars to you? a shot of your gun and your purse is full. Thanks all the same, I only want my due. No robber's charity for me." And with these words he flung the five dollars in Radonic's face.
The sharp edge of one of the coins struck Radonic on the corner of the eye, just under the brow, and the blood trickled down. All his drunkenness vanished, his gloomy look took a fierce expression, and with a bound he was about to seize his antagonist by the throat and strangle him as he had done his brother; but Vranic, who was on his guard, lifted up the knife he had received from the murderer a few hours before, and quick as lightning struck him a blow on his breast.
"This is mykarvarina," said he; "tooth for tooth, eye for eye, blood for blood."
The blow had been aimed at Radonic's heart, but he parried it and received a deep gash in the fore-part of his arm.
A scuffle at once ensued; some of the less drunken men threw themselves on Vranic, others on Radonic.
"Sneak, traitor, coward!" shouted the chief arbitrator, striking Vranic in the face and almost knocking him down; "how dare you do such a thing after having begged us to settle thekarvarinafor you?"
"And you've settled it nicely, indeed; gorged with his meat, drunk with his wine, and your purses filled with his money."
"Liar!" shouted the men of the jury.
"Out of my house, you scorpion, and never cross its threshold again."
"I go, and I'm only too glad to be rid of you all;—but as for you," said Vranic to Bellacic, "had it not been for you, all this would not have happened."
"What have I to do with it?"
"Did you not come to beg me to make it up? But I suppose you were anxious to have the whole affair hushed up as quickly as possible."
"Fool!" answered Bellacic.
"Oh, Milena is not always at your house for nothing!"
"What did he say?" asked Radonic, trying to break away from the hands of the men who were holding him, and from Mara Bellacic, who was bandaging up his wound.
"What do you care what he said?" replied Bellacic; "his slander only falls back upon himself, just as if he were spitting in the wind; it can harm neither you nor Milena."
"Oh, we shall meet again!" cried Radonic.
"We shall certainly meet, if ever you escape the Turkish gallows, or the Austrian prisons."
And as he uttered these last words, he disappeared in the darkness of the road.
When thepobratimreturned to Budua they found the whole town divided into two camps, and, consequently, in a state of open war. Since the evening of thekarvarinatwo parties had formed themselves, the Vranites and the Radonites. The first, indeed, were few, and did not consist of friends of Vranic, but simply of people who had a grudge, not only against Radonic, but against Bellacic and the twenty-four men of the jury, who were accused of peculation. On the whole, public opinion was bitter against the tailor, for, after having made peace with his enemy, he had tried to murder him; then —as if this had not been enough—he had gone on the morrow and given warning to the police that Radonic, who had cowardly murdered his brother, had returned to Budua, and was walking about the streets unpunished; moreover, that theheydukhad threatened to murder him, so he came to appeal for protection.
This happened when Budua had just been incorporated with the Austrian empire, and the people, jealous of their customs, looked upon the protection of the government as an officious intermeddling with their own private affairs, and strongly resented their being treated as children unable to act for themselves.
Although a few crimes had been left unpunished, simply not to rouse at once the general feeling against its present masters, still the new jurisdiction was bent upon putting a stop to the practice of thekarvarina; and to make this primitive country understand that, under a civilised form of government, people paid taxes to be protected by wise and just laws; therefore, it was the duty of a well-regulated police to discover and punish equitably all offences done to any particular man.
In the present case, where notice was brought to the police of facts that had happened, and aid was requested, steps had to be taken to secure the person of the offender, and, therefore, to have Radonic arrested at once for manslaughter.
Friends, however, came at once to inform Radonic of what had taken place, advising him to take flight, and put at once the border mountains of Montenegro between himself and the Austrian police.
The officials gave themselves and, what was far worse, everybody else no end of trouble and annoyance with Vranic's case. They went about arresting wrong persons, as a well-regulated police sometimes does, and then, after much bother and many cross-examinations, everyone was set free, and the whole affair dropped.
Milena, who was slowly recovering from her long illness, was the first to be summoned to answer about her husband's crime. Bellacic was after that accused of sheltering the murderer, and threatened with fines, confiscation, imprisonment and other such penalties; then he was also set free. The twenty-four men of the jury were next summoned; but, as they had only acted as peacemakers on behalf of Vranic, they, too, were reprimanded, and then sent about their business.
After this Vranic's partisans dwindled every day, till at last he found himself shunned by everyone. Even his customers began to forsake him, and to have their clothes made by a more fortunate competitor. At last he could not go out in the streets without having the children scream out after him:
"Spy! spy! Austrian spy!"
The clergy belonging to the Orthodox faith looked upon the new law against thekarvarinaas an encroachment on their privileges. A tithe of the price of blood-money always went to the Church; sundry candles had to be lighted to propitiate, not God or Christ, but some of the lower deities and mediators of the Christian creed. The law, which took from them all interference in temporal matters, was a blow to their authority and to their purses. Even if they were not begged to act as arbitrators, they were usually invited as guests to the feast, so that some pickings and perquisites were always to be got.
Vranic obtained no satisfaction from the police, to whom he had applied; he was only treated as a cur by the whole population, was nearly excommunicated by the Church, and looked upon as an apostate from the saintly customs of the Iugo Slavs.
Taunted by his own family with having made a muddle of the whole affair, treated with scornful disdain by friends and foes, the poor tailor, who had never been very good-tempered, had got to look upon all mankind as his enemies.
Thus it happened, one day, that Bellacic was at the coffee-house withMarkovic and some other friends, when Vranic came in to get shaved.
"What! do you shear poodles and curs?" he asked.
The loungers began to laugh. Vranic, whose face was being lathered, ground his teeth and grunted.
"I say, has he a medal round his neck?"
"What! do they give a medal to spies?" asked one of the men.
"No," quoth Bellacic; "but according to their law, no dog is allowed to go about without a medal, which proves that he has paid his taxes."
"Keep quiet," said the barber andkafedgee, "or I'll cut you!"
"Do government dogs also pay taxes?" said another man, smiling.
"Ask the cur! he'll tell you," replied Bellacic.
"Mind, Bellacic!" squeaked out Vranic, who was now shaved; "curs have teeth!"
"To grind, or to grin with?"
"By St. George and St. Elias! I'll be revenged on all of you, and you the very first!" and livid with rage, grinding his teeth, shaking his fist, Vranic left the coffee-house, followed by the laughter of the by-standers, and the barking of the boys outside.
"He means mischief!" quoth thekafedgee.
"When did he not mean mischief," replied Markovic, "or his brother either?"
"Don't speak of his brother."
"Why, he's dead and buried."
"The less you speak of some dead people, the better," and thekafedgeecrossed himself.
"He's a sly fox," said one of the men waiting to be shaved.
"Pooh! foxes are sometimes taken in by an old goose, as the story tells us."
Everybody knew the old story, but, as the barber was bent upon telling it, his customers were obliged to listen.
Once upon a time, there was a little silver-grey hen, that got into such an ungovernable fit of sulks, that she left the pleasant poultry-yard where she had been born and bred, and escaped on to the highway by a gap in the hedge. The reason of her ill-humour was that she had seen her lord and master flirt with a moulting old hatching hen, and she had felt ruffled at his behaviour.
"Surely, the only advantage that old hen has over me," she soliloquised, "is a greater experience of life. If I can but see a little more of the world, I, too, might be able to discuss philosophical topics with my husband, instead of cackling noisily over a new-laid egg. It is an undeniable fact that home-keeping hens have only homely wits, and cocks are only hen-pecked by hens of loftier minds than themselves, and not by such common-place females who think that life has no other aim than that of laying a fresh egg every day."
On the other side of the hedge she met a large turkey strutting gravely about, spreading out his tail, making sundry gurgling noises in his throat, puffing and swelling himself in an apoplectic way, until he got of a bluish, livid hue about his eyes, whilst his gills grew purple.
Surely, thought the little grey hen, that turkey must be a doctor of divinity who knows the aim of life; every word that falls from his beak must be a priceless pearl.
The little silver-grey hen looked at him with the corner of her eye, just as coquettish ladies are apt to do when they look at you over the corners of their fans.
"I say, Mrs. Henny, whither are you bound, all alone?" said the old turkey, with his round eyes.
"I am bent upon seeing a little of the world and improving my mind," said the little hen.
"A most laudable intention," said the turkey; "and if you'll permit me, young madam, I myself will accompany, or rather, escort you in this journey, tour, or excursion of yours. And if the little experience I have acquired can be of some slight use to you——"
"How awfully good of you!" said the gushing little hen. "Why, really, it would be too delightful!"
As they went on their way the old turkey at once informed the little hen that he was a professor of the Dovecot University, and he at once began to expatiate learnedly about adjectives, compounds, anomalous verbs, suffixes and prefixes, of objective cases and other such interesting topics. She listened to him for some time, although she could not catch the drift of his speech. At last she came to the conclusion that all this must be transcendental philosophy, so she repeated mechanically to herself all the grave words he spouted, and of the whole lecture she just made out a charming little phrase, with which she thought she would crush her husband some day or other. It was: "Don't run away with the idea that I'm anomalous enough to be governed by objective cases, for, after all, what's a husband but a prefix?"
"And are you married?" asked the little hen, as soon as the turkey had stopped to take breath.
"I am," said the old turkey, with a sigh, "and although I have a dozen wives, I must say I haven't yet found one sympathetic listener amongst them."
"Are they worldly-minded?" asked she.
"They are frivolous, they think that the aim of life is laying eggs."
"Pooh!" said the little hen, scornfully.
As they went along, they met a gander, which looked at them from over a palisade.
"I say, where are you two off to?"
"We are bent upon seeing the world and improving our minds."
"How delightful. Now tell me, would it be intruding if I joined your party? I know they say: Two are company, and three are not, still——"
"They also say: The more the merrier," quoth the little hen.
The turkey blushed purple, but he managed to keep his temper.
They went on together, and the gander, who was a great botanist, told them the name of every plant they came across; and then he spoke very learnedly with the turkey about Greek roots and Romance particles.
A little farther on they met a charming little drake with a killing curled feather in his tail, quite anaccroche-cœur, and the little hen ogled him and scratched the earth so prettily with her feet that at last she attracted the drake's notice.
After some cackling the little drake joined the tourists, notwithstanding the gurgling of the turkey and the hissing of the gander.
As they went on, they of course spoke of matrimony; the gander informed them that he was a bachelor, and the little drake added that he was an apostle of free love, at which the little hen blushed, the turkey puffed himself up until he nearly burst, and the gander looked grave. The worst of it was, that the little drake insisted on discussing his theories and trying to make proselytes.
They were so intently attending to the little drake's wild theories, that they hardly perceived a hare standing on his hind legs, with his ears pricked up, listening to and looking at them.
The hare, having heard that they were globe-trotters, bent upon seeing the world and improving their minds, joined their party at once; they even, later on, took with them a tortoise and a hedgehog. At nightfall, they arrived in a dense forest, where they found a large hollow tree, in the trunk of which they all took shelter.
The little hen ensconced herself in a comfortable corner, and the drake nestled close by her; the hare lay at her feet, and the gander and turkey on either side. The tortoise and the hedgehog huddled themselves up and blocked up the opening, keeping watch lest harm should befall them.
They passed the greater part of the night awake, telling each other stories; and as it was in the dark, the tales they told were such as could not well be repeated in the broad daylight.
Soon, however, the laughter was more subdued; the chuckling even stopped. Sundry other noises instead were heard; then the drowsy voices of the story-tellers ceased; they had all fallen fast asleep.
Just then, while the night wind was shivering through the boughs, and the moon was silvering the boles of the ash-trees, or changing into diamonds the drops of dew in the buttercups and bluebells, a young vixen invited a shaggy wolf to come and have supper with her.
"This," she said, stopping before the hollow tree, "is my larder. You must take pot-luck, for I'm sure I don't know what there is in it. Still, it is seldom empty."
The wolf tried to poke his nose in, but he was stopped by the tortoise.
"They have rolled a stone at the door," said the wolf.
"So they have; but we can cast it aside," quoth the vixen.
They tried to push the tortoise aside; but he clung to the sides of the tree with his claws, so that it was impossible to remove him.
"Let's get over the stone," said the wolf.
They did their best to get over the tortoise, but they were met by the hedgehog.
"They've blocked up the place with brambles and thorns," said the vixen.
"So they have," replied the wolf.
"What's to be done?" asked the one.
"What's to be done?" replied the other.
"I hear rascally robbers rummaging around," gurgled the turkey-cock, in a deep, low tone.
"Did you hear that?" asked the wolf.
"Yes," said the vixen, rather uneasy.
"We'll catch them, we'll catch them," cackled the hen.
"For we are six, we are six," echoed the drake.
"There are six of them," said the vixen.
"And we are only two," retorted the wolf.
"So they'll catch us," added the vixen.
"Nice place your larder is," snarled the wolf.
"I'm afraid the police have got into it," stammered the vixen.
"Hiss, hiss, hiss!" uttered the gander, from within.
"That's the scratch of a match," said the vixen.
"If they see us we are lost," answered the wolf.
Just then the turkey, who had puffed himself up to his utmost, exploded with a loud puff.
"Firearms," whispered the wolf.
"It's either a mine or a bomb," quoth the vixen.
"Dynamite," faltered the wolf.
They did not wait to hear anything else; but, in their terror, they turned on their heels and scampered off as fast as their legs could carry them. In a twinkling they were both out of sight.
The travellers in the hollow tree laughed heartily; then they returned to their corners and went off to sleep. On the morrow, at daybreak, they resumed their wanderings, and I daresay they are travelling still, for it takes a long time to go round the world.
A few days afterwards Bellacic went to visit one of his vineyards. This, of all his land, was his pride and his boast. He had, besides, spent much money on it, for all the vines had been brought from Asia Minor, and the grapes were of a quality far superior to those which grew all around. The present crop was already promising to be a very fair one.
On reaching the first vines, Bellacic was surprised to perceive that all the leaves were limp, withering or dry. The next vines were even in a worse condition. He walked on, and, to his horror, he perceived that the whole of his vineyard was seared and blasted, as if warm summer had all at once changed into cold, bleak, frosty winter. Every stem had been cut down to the very roots. Gloomy and disconsolate he walked about, with head bent down, kicking every vine as he went on; all, all were fit for firewood now. It was not only a heavy loss of money, it was something worse. All his hopes, his pride, seemed to be crushed, humbled by it. He had loved this vineyard almost as much as his wife or his son, and now it was obliterated from the surface of the earth.
Had it been the work of Nature or the will of God, he would have bowed his head humbly, and said: "Thy will be done"; but he was exasperated to think that this had all been the work of a man—the vengeance of a coward—a craven-hearted rascal that, after all, he had never harmed, for this could be only Vranic's doing. In his passion he felt that if he had held the dastard at that moment, he would have crushed him under his feet like a reptile.
As Bellacic slowly arrived at the other end of the vineyard, he felt that just then he could not retrace his steps and cross the whole of his withering vines once more. He stopped there for a few moments, and looked around; then it seemed to him as if he had seen a man crouch down and disappear behind the bushes.
Could it be Vranic coming to gloat over him and enjoy his revenge? or was it not an image of his over-heated imagination?
He stood stock-still for a while, but nothing moved. He went slowly on, and then he heard a slight rustling noise. He advanced, crouching like a cat or a tiger, with fixed, dilated eyes and pricked-up ears. He saw the bushes move, he heard the sound of footsteps; then he saw the figure of a man bending low and running almost on all fours, so as not to be seen.
It was Vranic; now he could be clearly recognised. Bellacic ran after him; Vranic ran still faster. All at once he caught his foot on a root that had shot through the earth; he stumbled and fell down heavily. As he rose, Bellacic came up to him.
"Villain, scoundrel, murderer! is it you who——? Yes, it could be no other dog than you! Moreover, you wanted to see how they looked."
"What?" said Vranic, ghastly pale, trembling from head to foot."What?—I really don't know what you mean."
"Do you say that you haven't cut down my vines?"
"Icut your vines? What vines?"
"Have, at least, the courage of your cowardly deeds, you sneak."
Thereupon Bellacic gave him a blow which made him reel. Vranic began to howl, and to take all the saints as witnesses of his innocence.
"Stop your lies, or I'll pluck that vile tongue of yours out of your mouth, and cast it in your face!"
Vranic thereupon took out his knife and tried to stab Bellacic. The two men fought.
"Is that the knife with which you cut my vines?"
"No; I kept it for you," replied Vranic, aiming a deadly blow at his adversary.
Bellacic parried the blow, and in the scuffle which ensued Vranic dropped his knife as his antagonist overpowered him and knocked him down.
Although Vranic was struggling with all his might, he was no match for Bellacic, who pinned him down and managed to pick up the dagger.
"You have cut down all my vines; now you yourself 'll have a taste of your own knife."
"Mercy! mercy! Do not kill me!"
"No, no; I'll not kill you," said Bellacic, kneeling down upon him; then, bending over him and catching hold of his right ear, he, with a quick, firm hand, severed it at a stroke.