A few days after Radonic had been brought back dying, Uros was walking down the mountain path leading from the heights of Montenegro to the Dalmatian coast. He was even in higher spirits than he was usually wont to be.
His father had accompanied him to the frontier, and on the way he had opened his heart to him, and told him of his love for Milena, and even obtained his consent for his marriage, which might take place as soon as her widowhood was over. Bellacic, moreover, had promised to write to his friend, Giulianic, to release him from his pledge.
The day, as it dawned now, was a glorious one, bright, clear and fresh. After the storm and rain of the day before, the dark crags of the Cernagora seemed but newly created, or only just arisen out of the glittering waters that stretched down below in a translucent, misty mass of sluggish streams flowing through a cloudy ocean.
The breeze that blew from the mountain-tops seemed to him like some exhilarating, life-giving fluid. Exercise—not prolonged as yet —rendered his senses of enjoyment keener; he felt happy with himself and with the world at large. He was in one of those rare moods in which a man would like the earth to be a human being, so as to clasp it fondly to his breast, as he does a child, or the woman he loves.
Although he did not rejoice at Radonic's death, still, as he loved Milena, it was natural that he was glad the obstacle to his happiness had been removed, and a wave of joy seemed to rise from his heart upwards as his nerves tingled with excitement at the thought that in a few months she might be his wife.
Therefore, with his blithe and merry character, ever prone to look on the bright side of life, it is easy to imagine his buoyancy of spirits as he walked down to Budua. Every step was bringing him nearer her; before the sun had reached its zenith he would be at home, clasping her in his arms; she—Milena—would be his for ever, and he crossed his arms and hugged himself in his excited state of mind.
Then he began to imagine Milenko's delight when he would hear that he, too, could marry the girl he loved.
It is not to be wondered at that he thought the earth a good dwelling-place, and that life—taking it on the whole—was not only worth living, but very pleasant besides. It is true, he said to himself, that man sometimes mars the work of God with his passions; still,karvarinaswere the clouds of life, enhancing the beauty of the bright days which followed sudden showers. Sullen and malicious men like Vranic and his brood were buzzing insects, more tedious than harmful to their fellow-creatures.
Such were the thoughts that flitted through his mind as he walked briskly along, singing as blithely as a lark. As he had, the day before, sent word to Milenko that he would be back on the morrow, he stopped at every turn of the road, and, shading his eyes with his hand, he looked down the road, hoping to see his friend's graceful figure coming to meet him, as was sure to be the case.
He had never been separated from Milenko for so many days, and now that he was about to see him, his longing seemed to increase at every step.
As for Milenko, being of a more sensitive character, and having remained on board, he had missed his friend even more keenly than Uros had done. He would have started to meet him at early dawn, but he had been obliged to remain behind and look after the ship's cargo, that had been delayed the evening before on account of some trifling incident—for, sometimes, things of no importance in themselves lead to the most dreadful calamities. Likewise, the string of one of Milenko's shoes broke, so he stopped to tie it; after some steps it broke again. He stopped once more, pulled off his shoe, unlaced it, tied the string as well as he could. After a quarter of an hour the string of the other shoe broke too; he had again to stop and mend it. More than five minutes was thus lost; besides, the loose strings not only made him linger, but even slacken his pace.
Uros went down singing snatches of some merry song, little thinking that the delay in meeting his friend would almost cost him his life.
The news of Radonic's death had soon been spread about Budua, and he, who had never been a favourite during his lifetime, became a hero after death. The Samson-like way in which he had fought was extolled, the number of wounds he had received, the hundreds of Turks he had killed went on daily increasing. His dauntless courage, his bold feats, his cunningness in council were becoming legendary; in fact, he was for some time a second Marko Kraglievic. The Vranite party —especially after the night of the burying-ground affair—had dwindled into nothing. The Radonites ruled the day.
Earless Vranic, as he was called everywhere, was galled by his defeat; his envious, jealous disposition could find no rest. Being, moreover, doomed to a certain death, he found himself like a stag at bay, and he almost felt at times the courage of despair.
The radiant day which followed the dreadful night when the vampire appeared to him brought no change to Vranic's gloom. He was too much like a night-bird now to feel any pleasure at the sight of the sunlit sky. Like an owl he shunned the light, and only prowled about when every man had shut himself up in his house. He dreaded the sight of a human face on account of the scowl of hatred he was sure to see there, for he knew that everyone looked upon him not as a man, but as the bloodsucker he would soon become.
Having recovered from his fainting-fit after the visit of thevoukoudlak, he almost lost his senses again, seeing the black dagger on the table in front of him. With a fluttering heart, and aching head and tottering limbs, he walked about his room, asking himself what he should do and how he could escape the wretchedness of his present life. Suicide never came into his head, for, in spite of all his misery, life still was dear to him. The best thing would, perhaps, be to leave Budua for a short time, and thus frustrate the vampire.
As he had to go and pay the priest for the ceremony of the exorcism, he decided to ask, and perhaps take, his advice upon what he was to do and where he should go. He went grudgingly, indeed, to pay a large sum of money for a ceremony which had been of no avail, and although it had not been the priest's fault if the ghost had not been killed, still the money was being thrown away, for all that.
Before leaving the house, he took the black dagger, washed and scrubbed it with fine sand to cleanse it from the offensive smell it had, then he put it in his breast pocket, where he had had it some nights before. With heavy steps he trudged towards the priest's house at dawn, before the people of the town were up and about the streets. The priest, who was an early riser, had just got up. Vranic, with unwilling hands, undid the strings of his purse, and counted out, with many a sigh, the sum agreed upon, for the priest would not bate a single cent. Then Vranic, with his eyes gloating on the silver dollars, told the clergyman how the vampire had appeared to him and overcome him.
"Aye," said the priest, "I was afraid that would be the case."
"And now I'd like to leave the town, for I might thus avoid the vampire."
"The best thing you could do."
"Yes, but where am I to go in order to escape the ghost?"
"I think the best place for you is the Convent of St. George. Surely the spectre 'll not follow you there in those hallowed walls, amongst all those saintly men."
"Yes, but will the brotherhood receive me?"
"Tell them that I sent you. Moreover, I'll call myself during the day and speak to them. May I add that, perhaps, you'll be induced to turn caloyer yourself some day or other. Meanwhile, a little charity to the convent would render your stay more agreeable. You know the brotherhood is poor."
Vranic thanked the priest, and promised to be guided by his advice; still, he could not help thinking of all the money this new scheme might cost him. It is true, if he turned friar, he might get rid of the vampire, but would he not also lose all his money into the bargain?
Which was the greater evil of the two—to be sucked of all his blood, or drained of all his money?
Out of the town gate, far from the haunts and scowling faces of men, he breathed a little more at ease. Were they not all a set of grasping, covetous ghouls, whose only aim was to wrench all he had from him? The dazzling sunshine and the dancing waves, far from soothing him, only irritated him, for he fancied that all the world was blithe, merry and happy, and he alone was miserable. He thought how happy he, too, might have been had that cursedkarvarinanot taken place. He had never felt any deep hatred against Radonic, nor had he any real reason for disliking him; for, to be true to himself, his brother's murder had been an incident, not an accident, in his life. It was not Radonic's fault if the ghost-seer had become a vampire after his death. All his grudge was rather against Bellacic, who had helped to frustrate him of a good round sum of money, owed to him for his brother's blood. He hated him especially for having inflicted a bodily and moral wound by cutting off his ear, rendering him thus an object of everlasting scorn in the whole town.
Radonic was dead, but Bellacic lived to triumph over him. If he could only wreak his vengeance upon him he might pacify the vampire's rage; if not, he could always make his escape into the convent. With these thoughts in his head, he clutched the handle of the dagger and, as he did so, he shivered from head to foot with a kind of hellish delight.
Just then he fancied he heard a distant chuckle and looked round. He could see nobody. It was only his imagination. Almost at the same time he heard a voice whisper softly in his ear:
"Use this dagger against my enemies better than you did against me, and then, perhaps, you might be free."
Was it his brother ordering him what he was to do? Instead of stopping at the convent, should he go on to Montenegro, waylay Bellacic and murder him?
He had been walking, or rather, crawling quietly on, for about two hours; the sun was high up in the sky, the day was hot, the road dusty, and, worn out by sleeplessness, by worry and, above all, by the great loss of blood, he was now overcome by weariness and weakness. The monastery was at last in sight; still, he felt as if he could hardly crawl any further on; so, undecided as he was, he sat down at the side of some laurel-bushes to rest and make up his mind as to what he was to do.
He had not been sitting there a quarter of an hour, blinking at the sun, like an owl, when he heard snatches of an unknown song, wafted from afar. It was not one of the plaintive lays of his own country, but a lively, blithe Italian canzonet, with trills that sounded like the merry warbling of a lark. The singing stopped—it began again, then stopped once more; after that he heard a light, brisk step coming towards him. A man who could sing and walk in such a way must surely be happy, he thought. Then, without knowing who the man was, he hated him for being happy. Why should some people have all the sweetness, and others all the gall of life? he asked himself. Is not this world a fool's paradise for him and a dungeon for me? In my wretchedness he seems to taunt me with his mirth. Well, if ever I become a vampire, the first blood I'll suck is that man's; and I'll drain the very last drop, for it must be warm and sweet.
Just then the light-hearted singer passed by the laurel-bushes, without perceiving the owl-like man half hidden behind them. Vranic, lifting up his head, saw the flushed face, the sparkling eyes, the red and parted lips of his enemy's son—the youth who, by his beauty and his criminal love, had been the cause of all the mischief. Had it not been for him, his brother would probably not have been murdered, and, what was far worse, become avoukoudlak. Instinctively he clasped the handle of his dagger, and the words he had heard a little while before rang once more in his ears, urging him to make good use of the knife now that an opportunity offered itself. Besides, would not his revenge be a far keener one in killing this young man, his father's only son, than in murdering Bellacic himself? This was realkarvarina, and his lost ear would be dearly paid for.
Uplifted by a strength which was not his own, urged on almost unconsciously, Vranic jumped up and ran after the merry youth.
Uros just at that moment had perceived Milenko at a distance, and, hurrying down to meet him, he, in his joy, had not heard the fiend spring like a tiger from behind the bush and rush at him with uplifted knife.
Milenko, seeing Vranic appear all at once, with a dagger in his hand, stopped, uplifted both his hands, and uttered a loud cry of terror, threat and anger.
Uros, for an instant, could not understand what was happening; but hearing someone running after him, and already close to his heels, he turned round, and to his horror he saw Josko Vranic scowling at him. The face, with its blinking eyes and all its nerves twitching frightfully, had a fierce and fiendish expression—it was, in fact, just as he had seen it in the glass on New Year's Eve, at the fatal stroke of twelve.
A moment of overpowering superstitious terror came over Uros; he knew that his last hour had arrived. In his distracted state, Uros had only time to lift up his arm in an attitude of self-defence, but Vranic was already upon him, plunging the sharp-pointed blade in his breast. The youth uttered a low, muffled groan, staggered, put his hands instinctively to the deep gash, as if to stop the blood from all rushing out; then he fell senseless on the ground.
Vranic plucked the poniard out of the wound mechanically; his arm fell heavily of its own weight. Then, struck with a sudden terror, not because he saw Milenko rushing up, but because he was bewildered at what he had so rashly done, he, after standing quite still for a moment, turned round and fled.
Milenko had already rushed to his friend's side; he was clasping him in his arms, lifting him up with the tender fondness of a mother nursing a sickly babe. Alas! all his loving care seemed vain; the point of the dagger must have entered within his heart, and death had been instantaneous.
Milenko did not lose his presence of mind for an instant; nor did he try to run after the murderer. He took off his broad sash which he wore as a belt, tore up his shirt, rolled a smooth stone in the rag, and with this pad (to stop up the blood) he bandaged up the wound as tightly as he possibly could. Then he took up his friend in his arms, and although Uros was a heavier weight than himself, still his life of a sailor had strengthened his muscles to such a degree that he carried his burden, if not with ease, at least, not with too great difficulty, down to the neighbouring convent.
It was well known in town that some of the holy men were versed in medicine, and especially that the secret of composing salves, and the knowledge of simples with which to heal deadly wounds, was transmitted by one friar on his death-bed to another. Still, when Milenko had laid down his friend upon a bed, the wisest of these wise men shook their heads gravely and declared the case to be a desperate one. The head surgeon said that, if life were not already extinct—as Milenko had believed—still the youth's recovery could only be brought about by a miracle, for he was already beyond all human help.
Milenko felt his legs giving way. A cold, damp draught seemed to blow on his face.
"He might," continued the old man, "last some hours; he might even linger on for some days."
"Anyhow," added another caloyer, "we have time to administer the HolySacrament and prepare him for heaven."
"Oh, yes! there is time for that," quoth the doctor, shrugging his shoulders; "but, before the wine and bread, I'll prepare the cathartic water with which to wash the wound, for while there is life a doctor must not give up hope."
"Then," said Milenko, falteringly, "I can leave him to your care, and run and fetch his mother; he'll not pass away till my return?"
"Not if you make every possible haste."
"You promise?"
"He is in God's hands, my son."
With a heavy heart, and with the tears ever trickling down his cheeks, Milenko ran down the mountain, and all the way from the convent to the gates of Budua. He stopped to take breath before Bellacic's house, and then he went in, and, composing his face as well as he could, he gently broke the terrible news to the forlorn mother.
Mara was a most courageous woman. Far from fainting and requiring all attendance upon herself, she bethought herself at once of the difficulty in the way, for she knew that no women were admitted into a convent of monks. One person alone might help her. This was her uncle, a priest of high degree, and a most important personage in the town.
She hastened to his house, and, having explained matters to him, she implored him to start at once with her for the Convent of St. George and obtain for her the permission she required. The good man, although he hated walking, was not only very fond of his niece, but loved Uros as his own son, so he acceded at once to her request and set out with her, notwithstanding that it was nearly dinner-time, and not exactly an hour suited for a long up-hill walk. Milenko, having broken the news to Mara, hastened to his own house to inform his parents of the great misfortune. His father, snatching up a loaf of bread and a gourd of wine, started at once with him. He would go as far as the convent, enquire there how Uros was getting on, and then hasten on to Montenegro and inform Bellacic of what had taken place. When they all got to the convent they found that Uros was still alive and always unconscious.
Just when Milenko had got back to the convent he remembered that, in his hurry to go and return, he had forgotten one person, dearer to his friend, perhaps, even than father or mother; that person was Milena.
When the news of Radonic's death reached Budua, Milena made up her mind to return to her father's house. Still, she was rather weak to undertake the journey, and, moreover, she would not go there until Uros had come back.
On the morning on which Uros was expected she had gone to her own house, to put things in order previous to her departure, and Mara had promised to come and see her that afternoon, and take her home with her.
Time passed; Milena was sitting in her house alone, waiting for her friend. At every step she heard outside, her heart would begin to beat faster, and with unsteady steps she would go to the window, hoping to see Uros and his mother; but she was always disappointed. Her sufferings had told their tale upon her thin pale face, which, though it had lost all its freshness, had acquired a new and more ethereal kind of beauty. Her large and lustrous eyes—staring at vacancy—seemed to be gazing at some woful, soul-absorbing vision. The whole of that day she had been a prey to the most gloomy forebodings.
All at once a little urchin of about four or five summers stood on the doorstep.
"GospaMilena," lisped the little child, "I've come to see you."
It had been a daring deed to wander all the way from home by himself, and he was rather frightened.
This child was the son of one of Mara's neighbours, whom Milena had of late made a pet of, and whom she had sometimes taken along with her when coming to her house.
Milena turned round and looked at the little child, that might well have been taken for an angel just alighted from heaven, for the slanting rays of the setting sun shining through his fair, dishevelled, curly locks seemed to form a kind of halo round his little head.
"Have you come all the way from home to see me?"
"Yes," said the child, staring at her to see whether she was cross."I've come for you to tell me a story."
Milena caught up the boy and covered him with kisses. She was about to ask him if he knew whether Uros had returned, but the question lingered for an instant on her lips; then she blushed, and feared to frame her thoughts in words. Anyhow, it was a very good excuse to shut up her house and take the little boy back home.
"Will you tell me a story?" persisted the urchin.
"Yes," said Milena, smiling, "for you must be tired and hungry, too."
She went into the orchard behind the house, and presently came back with a huge peach, which made the child's eyes glisten with pleasure.
"Now, come and sit down here, and when you've finished your peachI'll take you home."
Thereupon she sat down on her favourite seat, the doorstep, and the child nestled by her side.
"What story shall I tell you?"
"One you've already told me," replied the boy, for, like almost all children, he liked best the stories he already knew.
Milena then began the oft-repeated tale of
"Once a farmer's only son married a very young girl——"
"How old was she?" interrupted the child.
"She was sixteen."
"Last time you told me she was fifteen."
"So she was, but that was a year ago. They had a very grand wedding, to which all the people of the village were invited——"
"Not the village, the town," said the child.
"You are right," added Milena, correcting herself.
"For eight days they danced theKoloevery night, and had grand dinners and suppers."
"What had they for dinner?"
"They had roast lambs,castradina, chickens, geese——"
"And also sausages?"
"Yes; and ever so many other good things."
"But what had they for supper?"
"They had huge loaves of milk-bread and cakes with raisins——"
"Had they also peaches?" asked the boy, with his mouth full, whilst the juice of his own luscious peach was trickling down his chin.
"Yes; they had also grapes, melons and pomegranates; so when every guest had eaten till he could hardly stand, all squatted on the floor and sucked sticks of sugar-candy. When the eight days' feasting was over, the bridegroom weighed himself and, to his dismay, found that he was eight pounds lighter than on the eve of his marriage."
"Why?" asked the child, with widely-opened eyes.
"Because," answered Milena, with a slight smile and the faintest of blushes, "because, I suppose, he had danced too much."
"But if he ate till he couldn't stand?"
"Anyhow," continued Milena, "he was so frightened when he saw how much he had lost in weight that he made up his mind to run away and leave his wife at home."
"But why?" quoth the urchin.
"Because he thought that if he kept getting thin at that rate, nothing would soon be left of him. He, therefore, made a bundle of his clothes and went off in the middle of the night. He walked and walked, and after a few days, at early dawn, he got to a bleak and desolate country, where there was nothing but huge rocks, sharp flints, and sandy tracts of ground. Far off he saw a large castle, with high stone walls and big iron gates. Being very tired and not seeing either a tree or a bush as far as eye could reach, he went and knocked at one of the gates. An elderly gentleman, dressed in black, came to open, and asked him what he wanted.
"'I come,' said the bridegroom, 'to see if you are, perhaps, in want of a serving-man.'
"'You come in the nick of time,' said the old man, grinning. 'I'll take you as my cook; you'll not have much to do.'
"'But,' answered the young man, 'I'm not very clever as a cook.'
"'It doesn't matter; you'll only have to keep a pot boiling and be ever stirring what's in it.'
"He then led the young man into a kind of underground kitchen, where there was an immense pot hanging on a hook, and underneath a roaring fire was burning. Then the old gentleman gave the youth a ladle as big as a shovel, and bade him stir continually, and every now and then add more fuel to the fire.
"The youth stirred on and on for twenty-five years, and then he grew tired and stopped for a while. When he was about to begin again he heard a voice coming out of the cauldron, which said:
"'You've been mixing us up for a good long while; couldn't you let us have a little rest?'
"The cook—who was no more a youth, but an elderly man—got frightened. He left the kitchen and went to find his master.
"'Well,' said the elderly gentleman, who was not a day older than he had been twenty-five years before, 'what is it you want?'
"'I'm rather tired of always stirring that pot, and I'd like to go home.'
"'Quite right,' replied the master. 'I suppose you want your wages?'
"He then went to an iron box and took out two big sacks of gold coins.
"'You have served me faithfully, and I'll pay you accordingly. This money is yours.'
"The man took the money and thanked his master.
"'I'll give you, moreover, some advice, which is, perhaps, worth more than the money itself. Listen to my words, and remember them. Upon leaving me, always take the high road; on no account go through lanes and byways. Never put up for the night at little hostelries, but always stop at the largest inns. Whenever you are about to commit some rash act, defer your purpose till the morrow. Lastly, when people speak badly of the devil, tell them that he is less black than he is painted.'
"The man thanked his master and went off. He walked for some time on the highway, and then he met another traveller, who was walking in the same direction. After a few hours they came to a crossway.
"'Let us take this path, for we'll get to the next town two hours sooner,' said the traveller.
"The devil's cook was about to follow the stranger's advice, when he heard his master's words ringing in his ears: 'Always take the high road, and on no account go through lanes and byways.'
"He, therefore, told his fellow-traveller how he had pledged his word to his master to follow his advice. As neither could persuade the other, they parted company, promising each other to meet again at nightfall, at the neighbouring town.
"As soon as the devil's cook reached the inn where he was to spend the night, he asked for his new friend, and, on the morrow, he was grieved to hear that a wayfarer, answering to the traveller's description, had been murdered the day before, when crossing the lonely byway leading to the town.
"The devil's cook set out once more on his way, and he was soon overtaken by a party of merry pedlars, all journeying towards his native town, where, a few days afterwards, there was to be a fair held in honour of a patron saint. He made friends with all of them, especially as he bought silk kerchiefs, dresses and trinkets, as presents for his wife. They trudged along the high road, avoiding all short cuts, lanes and byways. In the evening they came to a large village, where they were to pass the night.
"'Let us stop here,' said one of the party, pointing to a tavern by the roadside; 'I know the landlord; the cooking is very good, nowhere can you get a better glass of wine; and besides, it is much cheaper than at the large inn farther down.'
"The devil's cook was already on the threshold, when he again remembered his master's words:
"'Never put up at little hostelries, but always stop at the larger inns.'
"He, therefore, parted from his company, and went off by himself to the next inn.
"He had his supper by himself, and then, being very tired, he went off to bed. In the middle of the night he was awakened by a very loud noise and a great bustle. He got out of bed, and, going to the window, he saw the sky all red, and the village seemed to be in flames. He went downstairs, and he was told that the little tavern by the roadside was burning. It appears that the travellers who had stopped there had all got drunk. Somehow or other they had set fire to the house, and, in their sleep, had all got burnt.
"The devil's cook was again grateful to his master for his good advice, and on the morrow he once more set out on his way alone.
"In the evening he at last reached his native town. He was surprised at the many changes that had taken place since he had left it twenty-five years before. On the square, just in front of his own house, a large inn had been built; therefore, instead of going at once to his wife's, he went to pass the night at the inn, and see what was taking place at home.
"From the windows of the inn he saw all his house illuminated, and people coming in and going out as if some wedding or other grand feast were taking place. Then, in one of the rooms of the first floor he saw his wife—now a buxom matron—together with two handsome youths in priest's attire. To his horror and dismay, he saw her hugging and fondling the young men, who were covering her with kisses. At this sight he got into such a rage that he took out his pistol."
"No," said the child, interrupting, "he took up his gun, which was in a corner of the room."
"Quite right," answered Milena; "he took up his gun, aimed at his wife, and was about to shoot, when he fancied he heard his master's voice saying:
"'Whenever you are about to commit some rash act, put off your purpose till the morrow.'
"He, therefore, thought he would postpone his revenge till the next day, and he went downstairs to have his supper.
"'Who lives opposite,' he asked of the landlord, 'in that house where they seem to be having such grand doings?'
"'A very virtuous woman,' quoth the host, 'whose husband disappeared in a strange, mysterious way on the eighth day of the wedding feast, and has never been heard of since.'
"'And she never married again?'
"'No, of course not.'
"'But who are those two handsome priests that are with her?'
"'Those are her two boys, twins born shortly after the marriage. The house is illuminated as to-morrow the two young men are to be consecrated priests, and their mother is giving a feast in their honour.'
"On the morrow the husband went home, made himself known, presented each of his two sons with a sack of gold coins, gave his wife all the beautiful presents he had bought for her; then he went to church and assisted at the ceremony of the consecration. After that he gave all his old friends a splendid feast, which lasted eight days; and he told them how, for twenty-five years, he had served the devil, who was by no means as black as he is painted."
"I wonder," said the child, "if he got thin again after the feast."
"I don't know," replied Milena, "for the story stops there."
"No, it doesn't, for my papa said that many people tried to go and offer themselves as cooks to the devil, but that they had never been heard of since then."
"And now I'll take you home. Perhaps we'll meetgospaMara on our way."
"No, we'll not meet her," said the child, abruptly.
"Why? Because Uros has come home?"
"But Uros hasn't come home."
"How do you know?"
"I know, becauseCapitanMilenko came this morning and toldgospaMara that Josko Vranic had killed Uros, and so she went off at once to the Convent of St. George, where——"
Milena heard no more. A deadly faintness came over her; she loosened the grasp of the door she had clutched, her legs sank under her, and she fell lifeless on the ground.
The urchin looked at her astonished. He, for a moment, gave up sucking his peach-stone; then he turned on his heels and scampered home to inform his mother about what had happened.
When Mara reached the convent, it was with the greatest difficulty, and only through the persuasive influence of her uncle, Danko Kvekvic, that she was allowed to see her son. Uros, moreover, had to be transported from the cell into which he had been carried, into a room near the church—a sort of border-land between the sanctuary and the convent. Even there she was only allowed to remain till nightfall.
"Tell me," said Mara, to the ministering monk (a man more than six feet in height, and who, in his black robes, seemed a real giant), "tell me, do you think he might pass away during the night while I am not with him?"
"No, I don't think so. He is young and strong; he is one of our sturdy race—a Iugo Slav, not a Greek, or an effete Turk eaten away by vice and debauchery. He'll linger on."
"Still, there is no hope?"
"Who can tell? I never said there was none. For me, as long as there is a faint spark of life, there is always hope."
"Still, you have administered the sacrament to him?"
"You wouldn't have him die like a dog, would you?" answered the priest, combing out his long white beard with his fingers.
"No, certainly not."
"Besides, we all take the sacrament when we are in bodily health. Your son came to himself for a few moments, and we seized the opportunity to administer to him the Holy Communion and pray with him; it does no harm to the body, whilst it sets the troubled mind at ease."
Danko Kvekvic, Mara and Milenko crossed themselves devoutly.
"It cannot be denied," continued the monk, "that our patient lies there with both his feet in the grave. Still, God is omnipotent. I have seen many a brave man fall on the battlefield——"
"You have been in war?" asked Milenko, astonished.
"Bearing the Cross and tending the wounded."
"Still, it is said that at times you wielded the gun with remarkable dexterity," interrupted Danko Kvekvic, with a keen smile.
"Do people say so? Well, what if they do? I am sure no harm is meant by it; for, if my memory does not deceive me, the very same thing was said about a priest who is no monk of our order, Danko Kvekvic, and who, for all that, is said to be a holy man."
"Well, well, we all try to serve our God and our country as well as we can; and no doubt we have done our best to save our flag from being trampled in the dust, or a fellow-countryman's life when in danger. But I interrupted you; tell me what you have seen on the battlefield."
"Nothing, except blood spilt; but I was going to say that I've seen many a man linger within the jaws of death for days together, and then be snatched from danger when his state became desperate."
"By your skill, father," said Mara, "for we are all aware that you know the secrets of plants, and that you have effected wonderful cures by means of simples."
"Aye, aye! perhaps I have been more successful than the learned doctors of Dunaj" (Vienna) "or Benetke" (Venice); "still, shall I tell you the secret of my cures?"
Mara opened her eyes in wonder. "I thought it was only a death-bed secret transmitted from one dying monk to his successor," said she.
"We are not wizards," said the old man, with a pleasant smile; "we make no mystery of the herbs we seek on the mountains, and even the youngest lay-brother is taught to concoct an elixir or make a salve for wounds."
"But the secret you spoke of?" said Mara.
"It is the pure life-giving air of our mountains, the sobriety of our life, our healthy work in the open fields or on the wide sea. Our sons have in their veins their mothers' blood, for every Serb or Montenegrin woman is a heroine, a bravejuna-kinja, who has often suckled her babe with blood instead of milk. These are the secrets with which we heal dying men."
Then, turning to Milenko, he added:
"You, too, must be a brave young man, and wise even beyond your years. You have the courage of reason, for you do not lose your head in moments of great danger. We have already heard how you saved several precious lives from the waves, and now, if your friend does recover—and, with God's help, let us hope he will—it is to you, far more than to anyone else, that he will owe his life. A practised surgeon could surely not have bandaged the wound and stopped the hemorrhage better than you did. Your father should have sent you to study medicine in one of the great towns."
Mara stretched forth her hand and clasped Milenko.
"You never told me what you had done, my boy," said she, while the tears trickled down her cheeks.
"What I did was little enough; besides, did Uros ever tell you how he saved my life and dragged me out of prison at Ragusa?" and Milenko thereupon proceeded to tell them all how he had been accused of manslaughter, and in what a wonderful way he had been saved by his friend.
"In my grief I have always one consolation," said Mara; "should the worst happen, one son is left me, for they arepobratim," said she, turning to the monk.
"What has become of the murderer? Has he been arrested?" askedKvekvic of Milenko.
"He took to the rocks and disappeared like a horned adder. At that moment I only thought of Uros, who would have bled to death had he been left alone."
"Oh, those Vranics are a cursed race! The Almighty God has not put a sign on them for nothing. This one has a cast in his eye, so that men should keep aloof from him. They are all a peevish, fretful, malicious race," said Kvekvic.
"Their blood turns to gall," added the monk.
"Oh, but I'll find him out, even if he hide himself in the most secret recess!" quoth Milenko, turning towards Mara. "I'll not rest till my brother's blood is avenged."
"'Tooth for tooth, eye for eye,' say our Holy Scriptures," and DankoKvekvic crossed himself.
"Amen!" added the monk, following his example.
Just then Uros opened his eyes. He came to his senses for a few seconds, and, seeing his mother, his pupils seemed to dilate with a yearning look of love. She pressed his hand, and he slightly—almost imperceptibly—returned the pressure. His lips quivered; he was about to speak, when he again closed his eyes and his senses began once more to wander. The monk bathed his lips with the cordial he was administering him. The patient, apparently, had again fallen off to sleep.
Just then the sound of the convent bell was heard.
"I am sorry," said the old caloyer, turning towards his guests, "but I have to dismiss you now; the bell you have just heard summons us tovecernjca. When our prayers are over, the doors of our house are closed for the night—no one comes in or goes out after evensong."
"But we two can surely remain with you to-night," said Kvekvic, pointing to Milenko.
"Surely Father Vjekoslav will readily give you permission to be our honoured guests as long as you like, if he has not already granted it; but——" (here the old man hesitated).
"But what?" asked Kvekvic.
"Thegospa," said the monk, turning towards Mara, "must return home."
"Yes, I know," added Mara, sighing as she got up.
"Still," quoth the good caloyer, "we shall take great care of him, and to-morrow morning you can come as early as you like."
The poor mother thanked the good old man; she slightly brushed off the curls from her boy's forehead, kissed him with a deep-drawn sigh, and with tearful eyes rose to go.
"Thank you for all the care you have taken of my child; thank you, uncle Danko, for all your kindness," and she kissed the priest's and the monk's hands, according to the custom of the Slavs.
Just then, a young lay-monk came to inform Mara that someone was asking for her. It was Milenko's mother, who had come up to the convent door to ask how Uros was getting on, and to see if she could be of any use, for Milenko, with his usual thoughtfulness, had begged his mother to come in the evening and accompany her friend back home.
"Go, Milos, and join the brethren in their prayers," said DankoKvekvic. "I shall recite my orisons here, beside my nephew's bed."
The monk and Milenko accompanied the forlorn mother to the convent door, and bade her be of good cheer; then they went to church to take part in the evening service.
When the candles were all put out, and echoes of the evening-song had died away, they all slowly, and with stately steps, wended their way to the refectory, where a simple repast was spread out for them. Being Friday, the frugal supper consisted of vegetarian food; there were tomatoes baked with bread-crumbs, egg-plants stuffed with rice, and other such oriental dishes. The dessert, especially, was a sumptuous one, not only on account of the thickly-curded sour milk, but of the splendid fruit which the convent garden afforded. There were luscious plums as big as eggs; large, juicy and fragrant peaches, the flesh of which clung to the stone; huge water-melons, the inside of which looked like crimson snow, and melted away as such, and sweet-scented musk-melons; above all, big clusters of grapes of all shapes and hues; rosy-tinted, translucent berries, looking like pale rubies; dark purple drupes covered with pearly dust, which seemed like bunches of damsons; big white Smyrna grapes of a waxy hue, the small sultana of Corinth, and the long grapes that look like amber tears.
Milenko, notwithstanding the grief he felt, made a hearty meal, for, except a bit of bread, broken off as he walked along from his father's loaf, and a draught of wine, he had scarcely tasted food the whole of that day; therefore, he was more than hungry. Supper being over, and a short thanksgiving prayer having been offered, Milenko found himself all at once surrounded by the monks, who pressed him with questions, for childish curiosity was their prevailing weakness.
They were especially interested in the theatrical performances the young man had witnessed at the Fenice of Venice, for they were amazed to hear that the grand ladies of the town, all glittering with costly gems, sat in boxes, where they exhibited to all eyes their naked arms and breasts, whilst they looked at young girls in transparent skirts hardly reaching their knees, who kept dancing on the tips of their toes, or twirled their legs over their partners' heads. Hearing such lewdness the saintly men were so greatly shocked that they crossed themselves demurely, and the eldest shook their heads, and said, reproachfully, that such dens of infamous resort were not places for modest young men to go to.
After that, Milenko told them of the last great invention, the boats that went without sails, but which had two huge wheels moved by fire; at which the monks again crossed themselves, and said that those were the devil's inventions, and that if things continued at such a rate, God would have to send another flood and destroy the world once more.
Milenko would have willingly escaped from his persecutors, but he still had to answer many questions about his life on board, the hardships he had had to undergo, the storms his ship had met with.
The medical monk had gone to take his place at Uros' bedside, and Danko Kvekvic, after having had some supper, had come out to breathe the fresh air on the convent's terrace, where all the caloyers had assembled before retiring to rest.
The scene was a most lovely one. Behind the terrace the high mountains rose dark against the sky; nearer, the black rocks had furry, velvety, and satin tints, for, under the dark and dusky light of the disappearing twilight, the stones seemed to have grown soft; whilst, on the other side, the broad expanse of the sea looked like a mass of some hard burnished metal.
The utter quietness, the perfect peace and rest which pervaded the whole scene, rendered the sense of life a pleasurable feeling; still, it is doubtful whether most of those holy men—who had never known the real wear and tear of life—felt all the bliss of that beatific rest.
"Now," said Kvekvic to Milenko, "you can come and see your friend, who, I am sorry to say, seems to be sinking; then you must retire to rest; you'll soon have to start with your ship, and you should not unfit yourself for your task."
"No," pleaded Milenko; "it is, perhaps, the last watch we shall keep together; therefore, let me stay by his bedside. But, tell me, is he really getting worse?"
"The fever is increasing fast, notwithstanding the father's medicines."
"Had we not better have a doctor from Budua or Cattaro?"
"I don't think their skill could be of much use, for I really think his hours are numbered here below—although he is young, and might struggle back to life; darkness, albeit, is gathering fast around him."
Milenko, with a heavy heart, went back to the sufferer's cell, where some other monks, also versed in the art of healing, had gathered around him in a grave consultation. They all said to Milenko that there was still hope; but, one by one, they all left the room, making the sign of the Cross, and recommending him to God, as if human aid could do nothing more for him.
Poor Milenko felt as if all the nerves of his chest had contracted painfully; life did not seem possible without the friend, the constant companion of his infancy.
As it was agreed that Danko Kvekvic should stay up with the old monk, all the other caloyers went off to sleep; but presently one of the younger brothers came in, bearing a tray of fragrant coffee, cooked in the Turkish fashion.
"Oh, thank you!" said Kvekvic, rubbing his hands, "I think you must have guessed my wishes, for, to tell you the truth, I was actually pining for a draught of that exhilarating beverage, one of the few good things we owe to the enemies of our creed, for, in fact, I know of few beverages that can be compared to a cup of fragrant coffee."
"As far as luxuries go, the Turks are certainly our masters; not only in confectionery, in sweet-scented sherbet, but even in cooking we are rude barbarians compared to them."
"They certainly are hedonists, who know how to render life pleasurable."
"Aye," said the monk, sternly, "theirs is the broad path leading to perdition." Then, after a slight pause, he added: "What is that book thou hast brought with thee, Blagoslav?"
"I thought," replied the young man, somewhat bashfully, "I might help you to pass your long vigil by reading to you; that is, of course, if it be agreeable to you."
The poor fellow stammered, and stopped, seeing the little success his proposal seemed to elicit.
"Blagoslav," retorted the old man, gravely, "vanity caused the archangel's downfall, and vanity is thy besetting sin. Blagoslav, thou knowest that thou readest well, for thou hast too often been praised for it, and now thou seizest every opportunity to hear the sound of thine own voice, which, I freely grant, is a pleasant one."
"Let us hear it, then," said Danko Kvekvic, kindly; "besides, I firmly believe that brother Blagoslav's intentions were good and——"
"Danko Kvekvic," said the old man, gruffly, "you are not a general favourite and an important man in Budua for nothing; you have the evil knack of flattering people's foibles."
"Come, come!" said the priest, good-humouredly, "should we pat a cat on the right side or on the wrong side?" Then, turning to Blagoslav, he added: "I, for myself, shall be thankful to you for beguiling away the long hours by reading something to us."
The young man, who had stood with his eyes cast down, and as still as a statue, sat down on a stool by the table and opened his book.
"What volume of ancient lore have you there?" asked the priest, pleasantly.
"'The Lives of the Saints,' written by a holy monk of our order." Then, looking up at the old monk, "Which Life shall I read?" he asked.
"Begin with that of our patron saint, Prince George of Cappadocia. It is a holy legend, which we, of course, all know, for the peasant often sings it at his plough, the shepherds say it to one another whilst tending their sheep, and"—turning to Milenko—"I suppose you, too, have often recited it at the helm when keeping your watch on the stormy sea."
"Yes, and invoked his holy name in the hour of danger." ThereuponMilenko crossed himself, and the others followed suit.
"It is one of our oldest legends; still, always a very pleasant one to hear, especially if it is well read. But, before you begin, Blagoslav, let me first set the sufferer's pillow straight and administer to his wants; then we shall listen to your reading without disturbing you."
The old man suited his actions to his words—felt Uros' pulse, gave him with a spoon some drops of cordial, and afterwards sat down.
"Now we are ready," said he to the young monk.
Blagoslav thereupon began as follows:—
All hail, O Bosnia! fairest of all lands,Renowned throughout the world since many an age;The springtide of the year renews thy bloom,And with the spring St. George's Day is nigh.He was the greatest glory of the Cross,Who taught our fathers Christ's most holy creed.Now God again has granted us His gifts—The life-awakening dews, the greenwood shade,The sun's bright rays which warm the fruitful meads,And melt the snow that lingers still a whileUpon the high and hoary mountain-tops;The flowers fair that grow amongst the grass,The blood-red rose that sheds its fragrance far,The tawny swallows, from the sunny South,That twitter sweetly 'neath the thatchèd eaves,Are all the gifts that God sends every yearTo Bosnia. Still He grants a greater boon;This is the gladsome day of great St. George.For though our land can boast of valiant knights,Of warlike princes, eke of holy men,Still greater far than all wasvoyvodGeorgeWho whilom was of Cappadocia Duke.He killed the grisly dragon that of yoreLaid waste the land around Syrene's white walls,And freed the country from a fearful scourge.Far down a lake full many fathoms deep,There dwelt this dragon dreadful to behold;For from his round red eyes he shot forth flames,And spouted from his snout a sooty smokeThat burnt and blasted all around the mere.This dragon daily slew those daring knights,Who, mounted all on prancing, warlike steedsHad gone to try their strength against the beast;For on his ghastly green and scaly skinThey bent and broke, or blunted, their best blades,As striking on the dragon's horrid hideWas worse than hitting at a coat of mail,Or cleaving some hard, flinty rock in twain;So, therefore, like an Eastern potentate,He reigned and ruled the region round Syrene.It was a terror-striking sight to seeThe horrid beast rise out in snaky coils,And rear his head with widely-gaping mouth,As towards the town he hissed with such a dinThat shook the strong and battlemented walls;Thereon to satisfy his hungry maw.The craven townsfolk, all appalled with fear,Would—as a dainty morsel—send the beastSome lovely maiden in the prime of youth.If naught was offered to the famished beast,He lifted up his huge and bat-like wings,And flapping, leapt upon the town's white walls;There, gripping 'twixt his sharp and cruel claws,Whoever stood thereby within his reach,He mauled and maimed, and gulped down men by scores,Until the ground seemed all around to beA marsh of mangled flesh and muddy gore,With skulls half split and jagged, splintered bones.When each and every man within the townHad offered up his child unto the fiend,And every mother wept from early morn,And saw at night her child in dreadful dreams,They told the King his turn had come at lastTo offer up his daughter to the beast—His cherished child, the apple of his eye,The only heir of all his wide domains.Oh! brother mine, hadst thou but seen just thenThe hot and blinding tears rush from his eyes,Whilst cruel grief convulsed his manly frame;At such a woful sight you would have thoughtIt was some abject woman, not a King,Who, crouching low, was sobbing on the ground.He kissed his child and said: "My daughter dear,Woe worth the day that thou art reft from me!For now, alas! who is to wear my crown,Who is to grace my throne when thou art gone?"When last he ceased to weep, he bade the maidsTo deck his daughter out in richest dress,With costly Orient pearls and priceless gems,E'en as she were to wed the mighty Czar;And then he said: "My daughter, as thy suite,Take thou with thee my dukes, my noblest peers,And likewise all the ladies of the land,In sable garments clad to grace thy steps.Still, let us hope some help may come at last,And, meanwhile, pray the great god Alkoron.In dire distress all earthly help is vain;Alone, thy god may come to thy behestAnd free thee from the dreadful dragon's claws."The mother hugged her daughter to her heart,The forlorn father blessed his weeping child,Who then departed to her dismal doom;And as she crossed the squares, the crowded streets,The flutes and timbrels played a wailing dirge,That might have melted e'en a heart of stone.Behind her walked the lords of high degree,Then all the noble ladies of the land,All clad in widow's weeds and trailing veils.It was, indeed, a grand and glorious sightTo witness all this pageantry of woe,The stately show of grief, the pomp of tears.The sun that shone upon the Princess's robes,Now glittered brightly on the gold brocade;Her eight rings sparkled all with costly gems,For each alone was worth at least eight towns;Her shining girdle, wrought of purest gold,Was studded o'er with coral and turquoise;Around her throat she wore a row of pearls,Iridescent, all brought from far-off seas.Upon her brow she bore the regal gem,Which glittered in the sun with such a sheenThat every eye was dazzled by its light.The maid, moreover, was of beauty rare,Of tall and slender form, yet stately mien,And graceful as the topmost bough that bends,Or branchlet bowing 'neath the summer breeze;Within her hand she held some lilies white,The symbols of a young and modest maid.She crossed with tearful eyes the crowded streets;With grace she greeted every child she met,And all—whose hearts were not as cold as clay—Shed bitter tears at such a sight of woe,And sighing, said: "Alas, her mother dear!"At last when she had almost reached the lake,The mighty dukes, her father's noble peers,As well as every lady of her suite,Appalled with fear, now bade her all farewell,And hastened back to town before the beastArose from out the mere to seize his prey.Now, God Almighty chose to show His loveNot only to the crowd that stood aghast,But unto all the region round Syrene.He, therefore, sent His servant, saintly George,To turn them from their evil ways to Christ.The Knight came to the mere just when the maidRemained alone to weep upon her fate,Forsaken as she seemed by God and man.The Knight, who saw her from afar, sped onWith all due haste; then leaping from his steed,He strode up by her side and asked her whyShe stood there by the lake appalled, aghast.For all reply the Princess only sobbed,And with her hand she bade him quickly go."Can I afford no help?" then asked the Knight."Flee fast away, spur on your sprightly steed;With all due haste, take shelter in the town;Uprising from the waters of the lake,The hungry dragon now doth take his meal;So hie thee hence. Just see, the waters move;Thou hast no time to tarry here to speak."But George, undaunted by her words, replied:"Fair maiden, dry your eyes and trust in me.Or rather trust in God, who sent me here.""What shall I do, fair Knight?" the maid replied."Forswear," he answered, "all thy gods of clay,And bow with meekness to the name of Christ,Whose Cross we bear to reach a better life;For, with His mighty help, I hope to slayThe hellish beast that haunts this lonely land;So, therefore, stand aside and let me fight."Now, when the girl had heard these words of hope,She hastened to reply unto the saint,"If God doth grant thee superhuman might,That wonders as the like thou canst achieve;If thou hast strength enough to slay the fiendAnd free me from this awful fate of mine,I shall forsake my god, false Alkoron,And bow with thee unto thine own true God,Extolling Him as mightier of the two.If thou wilt also show me how the signOf that most mystic Cross is made, Sir Knight,I shall then cross myself both morn and eve.Moreover, thou shalt have most costly gifts,As well as all the gems I bear on me."She had but hardly uttered these few wordsWhen, lo! the waters blue began to heave,And bubble up with foam, and then the beastUpreared on high his dark and scaly head,That looked just like some sharp and jagged cliff,'Gainst which small shipwrecked smacks are dashed at night.Then, rising from the lake, the horrid beastBegan to spout the water like a whale,And bellow with a loud, appalling noise,Just like the crocodiles that lurk unseenAmongst the sedges growing by the Nile;The roaring ended in a hollow moan,As when the hot simoon begins to blowIn fitful blasts across the Libyan plain.The Princess stood thereby and shook with fear;She almost fainted at that dreadful sight.St. George's warlike steed began to rear,And prance and tremble; then it tried to flee;But curbing it with might, and wheeling round,The Knight with clashing strokes attacked the beast.His sabre, striking on that scaly skin,Struck forth a shower of sparks that glittered brightLike ocean spray tossed by the wind at night,Or glowing iron 'neath the smithy's sledge,Or when the kindling steel is struck 'gainst flint.The monster lifted then its leathern wingsAnd, bat-like, tried to fly. It only lookedLike some old hen alighting from its perch;With flutt'ring wings outspread it floundered down,And was about to fall upon the KnightAnd crush him 'neath its huge and massy weight;Or grasp him with its sharp and cruel claws,Just as an eagle pounces on a lamb.But George, invoking Mary to his help,Bent down and wheeled aside; then with one strokeHe plunged his sword within the dragon's side,Just near the heart, beneath the massy wings.A flood of dark red blood at once gushed out,Which forthwith tinged the water with this gore.The monster yelled aloud with such a dinThat shook the white and battlemented wallsThen, writhing like a trodden newt or wormIt wallowed in the dust and seemed to die.But still, before the dragon passed away,The Knight undid his long and silken scarf,And bound it round the monster's scaly neck;He handed then the scarf unto the maid,Who now drove on the dragon like a lamb.They both went through the gate within the town,Between the gaping crowd that stood asideTo let them pass, amazed at such a sight;And thus they crossed the streets and crowded squares,Until they reached the lofty palace gate.There 'neath the pillared portal stood the King,Who stared astounded at the sight he saw.The saintly Knight alighted from his steed,And bowing low, he said in accents clear:"Believe in God the Father, mighty King,Believe in God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost;Forsake for aye thy lying gods of clay,And Sire, let all Syrene with bended knee,Confess the Lord and make the mystic signOf Jesus Christ, who died upon the Cross.If thou provoke the anger of the Lord,Far greater scourges might then hap to thee."The King, who saw his own dear child alive,Shed tears of joy and clasped her to his heart,And gladly then—and without more ado—There in the midst of all the gathered crowd,With all his Court, he made the mystic signThat scares the foe of man in darkest hell;Then bowing down confessed the name of Christ.Thereon the saint unsheathed the mighty sword,And with a blow struck off the scaly head.The dragon, that till then had scourged the town,Lay wriggling low amidst the throes of death,And wallowed in a pool of dark red blood,Emitting a most foul and loathsome smell.Still, at the ghastly sight all stared well pleased,Nay, some threw stones and hit the dying beast,For 'gainst a fallen foe; the vile are brave.And during all this time the kind old KingHad tried to show the gratitude he felt;He led the saint within his palace halls,For there he hoped to grant him many a boon."Thou art, indeed," said he, "most brave and true,Endowed by God with superhuman might,And as a token of my heartfelt thanksAccept this chain of gold, for 'tis the meedOf daring deeds, the like of which thou didst.This diamond ring till now adorned my hand;I give it thee. Besides, my gallant Knight,One half of all my land will now be thine;Nor even then can I requite thy worth,Except by granting thee my only child,My darling daughter, as thy loving bride."The saint, however, thanked for all these gifts,And bowing low, he said unto the King:"Thy gratitude to God alone is due,For I am but a tool within His hand;'Tis He who sent me here to kill the beast,That hell had sent to waste and scourge your land.Without His help, a man is but a reed,A blade of grass that bends beneath the breeze,A midge that ne'er outlives a single night;To thy distress He lent a listening ear,And freed thee from that foul and fiendish beast.Then dash thy foolish gods of stone and brass,Build shrines and temples, praise His holy name.Still, for thy gifts accept my heartfelt thanks;My task, howe'er, is that to go and preachThe name of Jesus Christ from town to town.To Persia straightway I must wend my wayAnd there declare the love of God to man."Thereon he took his leave and went awayTo preach in distant lands a better life;Converting men of high and low degree.To Alexandra, who then reigned in Rome,He bore the tidings of Christ's holy name;And God e'er granted to thisvoyvodsaintThe might of working strange and wond'rous deeds.At last he met a saintly martyr's death,And shed his precious blood for Jesus Christ.To Thee, St. George, we now devoutly pray,To be our intercessor with the Lord,That He vouchsafe His mercy to us all.