Vranic, having stabbed Uros, remained for a moment rooted to the spot where he stood. When he saw the red blood gush out of the wound and dye the white shirt, he stared at the young man bewildered; he could hardly understand what he had done. A strange feeling came over him. He almost fancied he was awaking from a horrid dream, and that he was witnessing a deed done, not by himself, but by some person quite unknown to him. When he saw Uros put his hand up to the wound, then stagger, he was about to help him; but Milenko having appeared, he shuddered, came to his senses and ran off.
Vranic had always been cursed with a morbidly discontented disposition, as peevish and as fretful as a porcupine. Although he was superstitiously religious, and strictly kept all feasts and fasts, still, at the same time, he felt a grudge—almost a hatred —against God, who had made him so unlike other men; who, far from granting him the boon of health to which he felt he had a right, had stamped him with an indelible sign so that all might keep aloof from him. He envied all the men he knew, for they laughed and were merry, when he himself was as gloomy as a lonely spider in its dusty old web. Still, as he vented the little energy that was in him in secret rancour, he would never have harmed anybody. He had, it was true, cut down Bellacic's vines, but had done so instigated by his friends, or rather, by Bellacic's enemies. If he had stabbed Uros, it was really done in a moment of madness, driven almost to despair by many sleepless nights, by the shame and pain caused by the loss of his ear.
Having done that dreadful deed, he understood that the Convent of St. George was no shelter for him. Besides, seeing Uros fall lifeless, his first impulse was flight. It mattered little whither he went. It was only after a short time when, breathless and faint, he stumbled against a stone and fell, that the thought of finding some hiding-place came into his head.
He lurked amongst the rocks the whole of that day, terrified at the slightest noise he heard, trembling with fear if a bird flew beside him, startled at his own shadow. At times he almost fancied the stones had eyes and were looking at him, and that weird, uncouth shapes moved in the bushes below.
He was not hungry, but his lips were parched, his mouth felt clammy with thirst; still, there was not a drop of water to be had, nothing but the hot sun from the sky above, and the glow of the scorching stones from below.
Then he asked himself again and again what he was to do and where he was to go.
Fear evoked a terrible bugbear in every imaginary path he took. If he went back to Budua he would be murdered by his foes or arrested by the Austrian police; Montenegro was out of the question.
He had, by chance, seen during the day an Italian vessel ready to sail. The ship was still at anchor in the bay, for he could see it from his hiding-place. If he could only manage to get on board he might be safe there. Once out of Budua, he cared but little whithersoever chance sent him.
The best thing he could do was to wait till nightfall, then to creep stealthily into town. It was not likely that the murder was known to everybody; if he could only get unseen to themarinawithout crossing the town, he then might get some boatman to row him to the Italian ship.
The day seemed to be an endless one, and even when the sun had set, the red light of the after-glow struggled to keep night away.
At last, when the shades of night fell upon the country, he began to scramble down, avoiding the path and the high road, shuddering whenever he caught the sound of a footstep, feeling sick if a rustling leaf was blown down against him. At last he reached the gates of the town, but instead of going in, he followed the walls, and thus managed to get to the port.
It was now quite dark; some fishermen were setting out for the night, others were coming back home, laden with their prey. He kept aloof from them all.
After some time, he found a sailor lad sleeping in his boat. He shook him and woke him, then he asked him to row him to the Italian ship that was about to sail.
The boy at first demurred, but the sight of a small silver coin overcame all his drowsiness as well as his objections. He consented to ferry him across.
"Do you know what boat she is?" asked Vranic.
"Yes."
"Well?"
"If you are going to her, I suppose you know her name, too."
"Can't you answer a question?" said Vranic, snappishly.
"She's theDiana."
"From?"
"Genoa, I believe."
"And bound?"
"To Naples; but Italian ships don't take Slavs on board," said the lad.
Vranic did not give him any answer.
"Are you a sailor?" asked the boy, after a while.
"No. I—I have some business in Italy."
As soon as they were alongside the ship, Vranic called for the captain.
The master, who was having his supper on deck, asked him what he wanted.
"Are you bound for Naples?"
"Yes."
"Can you take me on board?"
"As?"
"As sailor? I'll work my way."
"No. I have no need of sailors."
"Then as a passenger?"
"We are a cargo ship."
"Still, if I make it worth your while?"
"Our accommodation might not be such as would suit you."
The captain suspected this man, who came to him in the midst of the darkness asking for a passage, of having perpetrated some crime. He felt sure that Budua was too hot a place for him, and that he was anxious to get away.
"I can put up with anything—a sack on deck."
"Climb up," replied the captain.
Vranic managed to catch the rope ladder, and, after much difficulty, he climbed on board.
The captain, seeing him and not liking his looks, felt confirmed in his suspicions; therefore he asked him a rather large sum, at least three times what he would have asked from anybody else.
Vranic tried to haggle, but at last he paid the money down. The lad with the boat disappeared; still, he only felt safe when—a few hours afterwards—the anchor having been heaved, the sails spread, the ship began to glide on the waters, and the dim lights of Budua disappeared in the distance.
The sea was calm, the breeze fair; the crossing of the Adriatic seemed likely to be a prosperous one.
A bed having been made up for him in the cabin, Vranic, weary and worn out, lay down; and, notwithstanding all his torturing thoughts, his mind, by degrees, became clouded and he went off to sleep. It is true, he had hardly closed his eyes when he woke up again, thinking of Uros as he had seen him when the blood was gushing out of his wound; then a spectre even more dreadful to behold rose before his eyes. It was thevoukoudlak, from which he was escaping. Still, bodily and mental fatigue overcame all remorse, and, feeling safe from his enemies, he went off to sleep, and, notwithstanding a series of dreadful dreams, he slept more soundly than he had done for many a night.
When he awoke the next morning, all trace of land had disappeared; nothing was seen but the glittering waters of the blue sea and the glowing sun overhead. He was safe; remorse had vanished with fear; he only felt, not simply hungry, but famished.
Everything went on well for two or three days. The smacking breeze blew persistently. In a day more they hoped to reach Naples. The crew had nothing to do but to mend old sails, to eat and sleep. They were a merry set of men, as easily amused as children; besides, all of them were wonderfully musical and possessed splendid voices. Gennaro, the youngest, especially might have made a great fortune as a tenor. In the evening they would sing all in a chorus, accompanying themselves with a guitar, a mandoline and a triangle.
Vranic, amongst them, was like an owl in an aviary of singing-birds; besides, he knew but few words of Italian and could hardly understand their dialect. Although his sleep was no more molested by vampires, and he tried not to think of the crime he had committed, and almost succeeded in driving away the visions that haunted him at times, still he was anything but happy. Was he not an exile from his native country, for, even if the Austrian law could be defeated, would not the terriblekarvarinabe exercised against him whenever he met one of Bellacic's numerous friends?
In this mood—wrapped in his gloomy thoughts—Vranic kept aloof from every man on board. To the captain's questions he ever answered in monosyllables; nor was he more talkative with the sailors. Once they asked him to tell them a story of his country, and he complied.
"Shall I tell you the story of the youth who was going to seek his fortune?"
"Yes; it must be a very interesting one."
"Well—a youth was going to seek his fortune."
"And then?"
"The night before he was about to leave his village a storm destroyed the bridge over which he had to pass."
"Well—and then?"
"He waited till they built another bridge."
"But go on."
"There is no going on, for the young man is waiting still," said he, with a sneer.
After two or three days, Vranic was looked upon by all on board as a peevish, sullen fellow, and he was left to his own dreary meditations.
One of the sailors, besides, got it into his head that Vranic had the gift of the evil eye, and it did not take very long to convince every man on board of the truth of this assertion. Whenever he looked at them, they invariably shut their two middle fingers, and pointed the index and little finger at him, so as to counteract the effect of thejettatura. The only man on board who did not fear Vranic was the mate, for he possessed a charm far more potent than a crooked nail, a horse-shoe, a bit of horned coral, or even a little silver hump-backed man—this was a horse-chestnut, which he was once fortunate enough to catch as it was falling from the tree, and before it had touched the ground. He cherished it as a treasure, and kept it constantly in his pocket. It was infallible against the evil eye, and was powerful in many other circumstances. He was a most lucky man, and, in fact, he felt sure he owed his good fortune to this talisman of his.
Although the weather was delightful, still the captain and the crew could not help feeling a kind of premonition of evil to come; all were afraid that, sooner or later, Vranic would bring them ill-luck. At last the coasts of Italy were in sight, but with the far-off coasts, a small cloud, a mere speck of vapour, was seen on the horizon. It was but a tiny white flake, a soft, silvery spray, torn from some shrub blossoming in an unknown Eden, and blown by the west wind in the sky. It also looked like a patch worn by coquettish Nature to enhance the diaphanous watchet-blue of the atmosphere. Still, the sailors frowned at it, and called the feathery cloudlet —scudding lazily about—a squall, and they were all glad to be in sight of the land. The breeze freshened, the sea changed its colour, the waves rolled heavily; their tops were crested with foam. Still, the ship made gallantly for the neighbouring coast.
The little cloud kept increasing in size; first it lengthened itself in a wonderful way, like a snake spreading itself out; it also grew of a darker, duller tint. Then it rolled itself together, piled itself up, augmenting in volume, till it almost covered the whole of the horizon. Finally, it began to droop downwards, tapering ever lower, and losing itself in a mist. The sea underneath began to be agitated, to boil and to bubble, seething with white foam; then a dense smoke arose from the sea and mounted upwards as if to meet the descending column of mist from the cloud just above it; both the cloud and the upheaving waves moved with the greatest rapidity, and seemed to be attracted by the ship, which endeavoured to tack about and steer away from them.
All at once, the water overhead met the ascending mist, and then a sparkling, silvery cloud arose in the spout, just like quicksilver in a glass tube.
All the men were on deck, attending to the captain's directions; all eyes were attracted by the weird, beautiful, yet terrifying sight. The master, at the helm, did his best to avoid it, by changing the ship's direction; still, the column of water advanced threateningly in their course. It came nearer and ever nearer; now it was at a gun-shot from the ship; if they had had a cannon on board, they might have fired against it and dissolved it, but they had no firearms. The atmosphere around them was getting dark with mist, the waterspout was coming against them, and if that mass of water burst down on the ship it would founder at once.
What was to be done?
"Leave the ship, and take to the boats," said some of the crew, but it was already too late; they could not help being involved in the cataclysm.
Some of the men had sunk on their knees, and were asking the Virgin or St. Nicholas of Bari to come to their help.
"There is a remedy," said Vranic to the captain; "an infallible remedy."
"What is it?" asked the master, with the eagerness of a drowning man clutching at a straw.
"If a sailor amongst the crew happens to be the eldest of seven sons he can at once dissolve that cursed column of water, the joint work of the evil spirits of the air and those of the sea."
"How so?" asked the captain.
"Draw, at once, a pentagon, or five-pointed star, or King Solomon's seal, on a piece of white paper, and let such a sailor, if he be on board, stab it through the centre."
The captain called all the men together, and asked if anyone amongst them happened to be, by chance, the eldest of seven brothers.
"My father has seven sons, and I am the eldest," said Gennaro, that curly-headed, bright-eyed Sicilian youth, for whom life seemed all sunshine. "Why, what am I to do?"
The waterspout was advancing rapidly, the sea was lashed by the mighty waves, and the ship, like a nutshell, was being tossed against it.
Vranic, who had drawn the cabalistic sign, handed it to the captain.
"Stab that star in the centre, quickly."
The Slav took out a little black dagger, and gave it to the youth.
"Be quick! there is no time to be lost."
The murmuring and hissing sound the column of water had been making had changed into the deafening roar of a waterfall. It seemed to be whirling round with vertiginous rapidity, as it came upon them.
"Make haste!" added the captain.
"But why?"
"Do it! this is no time to ask questions!" replied the master.
"And then?" quoth the youth, turning to Vranic.
"The waterspout will melt into rain."
"And what will happen to me?"
"To you? Why, nothing."
"I am frightened."
A vivid flash of lightning appeared, and the rumbling of the thunder now mingled itself with the roaring of the waters.
"Frightened of what?" said the captain.
"That man has thejettatura; I am sure he means mischief."
"What a coward you are! Do what I order you, or, by the Madonna——"
"What harm can befall you for stabbing a bit of paper?" said some of the sailors.
"Quick! it is the only chance of saving us all!" added the boatswain.
"Only, if you don't make haste, it'll be too late."
The abyss of the waters seemed to open before the ship, ready to engulf it; the waves were rolling over it.
Gennaro crossed himself devoutly, then he muttered a prayer; at last he took up the dagger and stabbed the pentagon in the very middle, just where Vranic had pointed to him with his finger; still, he grew ghastly pale as he did so.
"Holy Mother," said the youth, "forgive me if I have done wrong!"
All the eyes anxiously turned from the bit of paper to the waterspout, whirling round and coming ever nearer.
All at once the whirling seemed to stop; then, as the motion relaxed, the column of water snapped somewhat above the middle; the lower portion, or base, relapsed and gradually fell; it was absorbed by the rising waves and the bubbling and foaming waters. The higher portion began to curl upwards and to disappear amidst the huge mass of lowering clouds overhead.
"There," said Vranic, "I told you the spout would melt away and vanish."
"Wonderful!" said the captain.
"Yes, indeed!" said Gennaro, as he again crossed himself and handed the dagger to its owner, evidently glad to get rid of it.
"Well, you see that you were not struck dead," said the boatswain to the youth.
"Nor carried away by the devil," said another of the sailors.
"The year is not yet out, nor the day either," thought Vranic to himself; "and even if you live, you may rue this day and the deed you've done."
"You have saved all our lives, and we thank you, Gennaro," added the captain. "I shall never forget you; and I hope that, as long as I command a ship, we'll never part."
Thereupon, he clasped him in his arms and kissed him fondly.
"Thank you, captain; and may San Gennaro, my patron saint, and the blessed Virgin, grant you your wish and mine."
"We thank you, too," said the captain to Vranic, feeling himself bound to say something; "you are really a magician, and you know the secret of the elements."
"Oh! it is a thing that every child knows in our country, just like pouring oil in the sea to calm the waves."
The men said nothing, but they were all glad the coasts were near, and that they would soon get rid of this uncanny and uncouth man.
In the meanwhile, the sun had gone down, and dark night spread itself like a pall over the sea. The storm then increased with the darkness. The waterspout had vanished, but in its stead a pouring rain came down; the wind also began to blow in fitful blasts, and as it came in a contrary direction they were obliged to tack about, and to take in the sails. The storm, however, kept increasing at a fearful rate; the wind was blowing a real hurricane; all sails, even the jib, had to be reefed. The sea, lashed by the wind, became ever more boisterous; the waves rose in succession, uplifting themselves the one on top of the other, and dashing against the ship, which ever seemed ready to founder. All hands were now at the pumps, and Vranic, along with the others, worked away with all his strength.
Steering—as the ship had done—to avoid the waterspout, she had been continually altering her course, so that the captain did not exactly know whereabouts they were. In the midst of the darkness and with the torrents of rain that came pouring down, all traces of land had long disappeared.
All at once a mightier gust of wind came down upon the ship, the beams groaned, then there was a tremendous crash and one of the masts came down. There was a moment of panic and confusion; Vranic fell upon his knees and began to pray for help.
Soon after that a light was seen at no very great distance.
"We are saved," said the captain; "there is Cape Campanella lighthouse."
All eyes were fixed upon that beacon.
"It is rather too low to be Cape Campanella," added the boatswain.
"Yes; and, besides, it flashes every two minutes," replied the captain.
They thereupon concluded that it was the lighthouse on Carena Point, the south-western extremity of the island of Capri.
Thinking it to be Cape Campanella, they had steered towards the light—the only dangerous part of the island, on account of the reef, which stretches out a long way into the sea. When they found out their mistake it was too late to avoid the danger that threatened them; the ship was dashed against the rocks, which were heard grating under the keel and ripping open the sides, like the teeth of some famished monster of the deep. Fortunately, the brig had got tightly wedged between two rocks and kept fast there, so nothing was to be done but work hard at the pumps, trying to keep out as much water as they possibly could.
The night seemed everlasting. Still, by degrees, the storm subsided, and at dawn the wind had gone down and the sea had grown calm.
At daybreak help came from the shore.
"The ship is very much damaged," said the captain, "and so is the cargo, doubtless; but, at least, there are no lives lost," added he, looking round.
A few moments afterwards, the boatswain, wanting something, called Gennaro, but no answer came. He called again and again, cursed his canine breed, but with no better success.
"Where is Gennaro?" asked the captain.
The youth was sought down below, but he was nowhere to be found. All the men of the crew looked at one another enquiringly, and at last the questions that everyone was afraid to ask were uttered.
Had the youth been swept away by one of the huge breakers that washed over the deck? Had he been killed by the falling mast, or blown into the deep by a sudden and unexpected gust of wind? No one had seen him disappear; all looked around, expecting to see the handsome face of the youth they loved so well rising above the waves; but the green waters kept their secret. After that, all eyes turned towards Vranic, as if asking for an answer.
"The last time I saw the youth was when he was working at the pumps by me, just before the mast came down."
They all muttered some oath, unintelligible to him, and then a prayer for the youth. After that Vranic was only too glad to leave the ship, for every man on board seemed to look upon him as the cause of Gennaro's mysterious disappearance.
Having remained a week in Naples, seeing his money, the only thing he loved, dwindle away, Vranic did his best to find some employment. He for a few days got a living as a porter, helping to unload sacks from an English ship. Still, that was but a very precarious living, and he decided to follow a seafaring life, not because he was fond of it, but only to keep clear from his enemies and the laws of his country, and the vampire that had haunted him there every night.
He happened to find employment, as cook, on the very ship he had helped to discharge. It was an English schooner, bound for Glasgow. The captain, a crusty old bachelor, was a real hermit-crab; the men, a most ruffianly set. Vranic, being hardly able to speak with anyone, indulged in his morose way of living, and, except for being kicked about every now and then, he was left very much to himself.
From Glasgow the schooner sailed for Genoa, where she arrived just as theGiustizia di Diowas about to set sail. The two ships came so close together that Vranic, who kept a sharp look-out whenever he saw an Austrian flag, recognised Milenko standing on the deck and ordering some manoeuvres.
Although the young man could not perceive him, hidden as he was in the darkness of the galley, and bending over the stove, still Vranic felt a shock that for a few moments almost deprived him of his senses, and made him feel quite sick.
That day the dinner was quite a failure. The roast was burnt; the potatoes, instead, were raw; the cauliflower was uneatable, and salt had been put in the pudding instead of sugar.
If there is anything trying to human patience, it is a spoilt dinner, especially the first one gets in port. It is, therefore, not to be wondered at that the captain, never very forbearing at the best of times, got so angry that he kicked Vranic down the hatchway and almost crippled him.
Although the Dalmatian ship sailed away, bound probably towards the East, and he would perhaps never see her captain again, still the shock he felt had quite unnerved him. From that day matters began to go on from bad to worse. Sailing from Genoa, they first met with contrary winds, and much time was lost cruising about; after that came a spell of calm weather, and for long weeks they remained in sight of the bold promontory and of the lighthouse of Cape Bearn, not far from the port of Vendres. At last a fair wind arose, the sails were made taut, and the schooner flew on the crested waves. A new life seemed to have come over the crew, tired of their listless inactivity; the captain cursed Vranic and kicked him a little less than he had done on the previous days.
It was to be hoped that the wind would continue fair; otherwise their provisions would begin falling short. Ill-luck, however, was awaiting them in another direction.
Opening a keg of salted meat a few days later, the stench was so loathsome, that it reminded Vranic of that awful night when he had stabbed the vampire; besides, big worms were crawling and wriggling at the top. Vranic at once called the mate and showed him the rotten meat, and the mate reported the fact to the captain. He only answered with a few oaths, then shrugged his shoulders, and said that dogs would lick their chops at such dainty morsels, and were his men any better than dogs?
"Wash it well, clean it, and put some vinegar with it," said the mate, who was the best man on board. "There is no other meat, and that is better than starving."
Vranic did as he was bid; he put more pepper than usual. Still, he himself did not taste it, but lived on biscuit, for even the potatoes had been all eaten up.
A few days afterwards, taking out another piece from the cask, he drew out a sinewy human arm, hacked in several places, and with the fingers chopped off. Shuddering, and seized with a feeling of loathsomeness, he stood for a moment bewildered. Then he almost fancied he had touched something hairy in the cask, and looking in, he saw a disfigured and bearded man's head. Sickening at the gruesome sight, he dropped the arm into the cask and hastened to the mate, trying to explain to him what the barrel contained.
The mate could hardly understand and would not believe him, but soon he had to yield to the evidence of his own senses. The mate, in his turn, reported the horrible fact to the captain, who asked both men not to divulge the secret to the crew. When night came on, the cask and its contents were thrown overboard. The captain was not to blame for what the cask contained, nor were the ship-chandlers, who had supplied him at other times upon leaving Scotland. The cask bore the trade-mark of a well-known foreign house trading in preserved meat.
The provisions, which had been scarce, now began to fall short; but in a day or two they would have reached their destination. The wind, however, was contrary, and some delay ensued. Hunger was now beginning to be felt. The crew, overworked and badly fed, first grew sullen; the foremost of them, with scowling looks, began to utter threatening words. Orders given were badly obeyed, or not obeyed at all. Long pent-up anger seemed every moment ready to break out—first against the captain, then against the mate, finally against Vranic, who, they said, was leagued against them.
The boatswain especially hated him.
"Since that cursed foreigner has come on board," said he, "everything has been going from bad to worse. Even the provisions seem to dwindle and waste away."
"I'd not be surprised," added one of the sailors, "that he is leagued with the captain to poison the whole lot of us, for, in fact, the meat tasted like carrion, and I don't know what's up with me."
"Nonsense! Why poison us? Starving is much better," quoth another.
A trifle soon brought on a quarrel, which ended in a tussle. Vranic got cuffed and kicked about; he had been born in an unlucky moment, and everyone hated him without really understanding why or wherefore.
Why do most people dislike toads or blind-worms?
The mate, seeing the poor cook unfairly used, interfered on his behalf, and tried to put an end to the fight. This only made matters worse. The captain, hearing the noise, appeared on deck, and a mutiny at once broke out.
The boatswain, who was at the head of the revolted crew, snatching up a hatchet which happened to be there within his reach, advanced and demanded a distribution of provisions.
The captain, for all answer, knocked him down with a crow-bar; at the same time he showed the crew the coast of England, which was faintly visible at a distance, as well as a man-of-war coming full sail towards them.
A day after this incident, the ship had landed her rebellious crew at Cardiff. The boatswain was sent to jail, where, if he had been a man of a philosophical turn of mind, he might have meditated on the difference between right and might.
As for Vranic, he was but too glad to quit a ship where he was hated by everybody, even by the captain, who had treated him more like a galley slave than a fellow-creature.
After having earned a pittance as a porter for a short time, he again embarked on board theAve Maria, an Austrian ship bound for Marseilles. This ship had had a remarkably prosperous voyage from the Levant. The captain had received a handsome gratuity, and now a cargo had been taken at a very high freight; therefore, from the captain to the cabin-boy, every man on board was merry and worked with a good will.
Although the weather was bleak, rainy and foggy, still the wind blew steadily; moreover, theAve Mariawas a good ship, and a fast sailer, withal she laboured under a great disadvantage, that of being overladen, and was, consequently, always shipping heavy seas.
On leaving Cardiff, the captain found that two of the sailors, who had been indulging in excesses of every kind whilst on shore, were in a bad state of health. A third sickened a few days afterwards, and for a long time all three were quite unfit for work. Still, the ship managed to reach Marseilles without any mishap.
The cargo was unloaded, a fresh one was taken on board; the men received medical assistance, and seemed to be recovering. On leaving Marseilles, matters went from bad to worse; the captain, his mate, and two other sailors fell ill.
"It seems," said the captain, "as if someone has the gift of the evil eye, for, since we left England, ill-luck follows in our wake."
The crew was, therefore, greatly diminished, for the three men, who had been recovering, were now, on account of improper food and overwork, quite ill again.
On leaving Marseilles they met with heavy gales and baffling squalls of wind; the ship began to pitch heavily, then to labour and strain in such a way that, overladen as she was, the pestilence-stricken crew could hardly manage her. For three days the wind blew with such violence that two men had to be constantly kept at the helm. Moreover, she shipped so many seas that hands had to be always at the pumps. The very first day the waves had washed away the coops; then, at last, the jib-boom and the bowsprit shrouds had been broken loose and torn away by the grasp of the storm.
At last the storm subsided, and then the captain ascertained that the ship had sustained such damage as to render her unsafe. In such a predicament, with the crew all ailing, the captain deemed it necessary to go back to Marseilles for repairs.
After a short stay there, theAve Mariaset sail again for Palermo, where she arrived without further mishap; only the sick sailors, having had to work hard during the storm, were rather worse than better. On leaving Palermo two other men of the crew had to be put on the sick-list, so that by the time they reached the Adriatic the ship was not much better than a pestiferous floating hospital. In fact, the only ones who had escaped the loathsome contagion were Vranic and the two boys, and they had to do the work of the whole crew.
It was fortunate that, notwithstanding the stormy season of the year, the weather kept steadily fair, for, in case of a hurricane, the crew would have been almost helpless. At last land was within sight; the hills of Istria were seen, towards evening, as a faint greyish line on the dark grey sky. The captain and the men heaved a sigh of relief; that very night they would cast anchor in the port of Trieste. There some had their homes; all, at least, had relations or friends. Vranic alone hoped to meet no one he knew.
That evening they made a hearty meal, for, as their provisions had slightly begun to fall short, they had scarcely satisfied their hunger for several days; but now—almost within sight of the welcoming, flashing rays of the Trieste lighthouse—they could, indeed, be somewhat prodigal.
The sirocco, which had accompanied them all the way from Palermo, now fell all at once, just as they had reached the neighbourhood of Cape Salvore. That sudden quietness boded nothing good. Soon, the captain perceived that the wind was shifting in the Gulf of Trieste. By certain well-known signs, he argued that the north-easterly wind was rising; and soon afterwards, a fiercebora, the scourge of all the neighbourhood, began to blow.
Orders were at once given to reef the topsails; then they began to tack about, so as to come to an anchorage in the roads of Trieste as soon as possible.
With the want of hands, the work proceeded very slowly and clumsily. Night came on—dark, dismal night—amidst a howling wind and raging billows dashing furiously against the little ship. It was a comfort on the next morning to see the white houses and the naked hills of Trieste; for they were not far from the port. Every means was tried to get near the land without being dashed against it and stranded, or split against the rocks; but the fierce wind baffled all their efforts. And the whole of the day was passed in uselessly tacking about and ever being driven farther off in the offing. Still, late in the afternoon, they managed to get nearer the port, and at sunset both anchors were dropped, not far from the jetty; still, the violence of the wind was such that all communication with the land was rendered impossible. That evening the last provisions were eaten, for they had spent the whole day fasting. The strength of the gale increased with the night. More chain was then added; but still the anchors began to come home. By degrees, all the chains were paid out; and, nevertheless, the ship was drifting. In so doing, she struck her helm against a buoy. The shock caused one of the chains, which was old and rusty, to snap. After that, theAve Mariawas driven back bodily towards the coasts of Istria, till finding, at last, a better bottom, the anchor held and the ship was stopped at about a mile from Punta Grossa, not far from Capo d'Istria. There was no moon; the sky was overcast; the darkness all around was oppressive. The huge surges, dashing against the bows and the forecastle, washed away everything on deck. The boats themselves were rendered unserviceable. The thermometer had fallen eighteen degrees in two days, and the keen, sharp wind blowing rendered the cold most intense. A fringe of icicles was hanging down from the sides of the ship, the spray froze on the tackle, and rendered the ropes as hard as iron cables.
Then the ship sprung a leak, and the pumps had to be worked to prevent her from sinking. To keep the men alive, the captain opened a pipe of Marsala which had been destined for the shippers. That night, which seemed everlasting, finally wore away, dawn came, and the signal of distress was hoisted; a ship passed at no great distance, but took no notice of them. Anyhow, help could be expected from Trieste; the coastguards must have seen them struggling against the storm. That day the wind increased; not a ship, not a sailing-boat was to be seen in the offing; what a long, dreary day of baffled hope that was. When evening came on, the fasting crew, now completely fagged out, began to lose courage, and yet they were but a few miles from the coast. That night Vranic had a dreadful vision. When he took his place at the pump, opposite him, at the other handle, stood the vampire grinning at him, with the horrible gash in his cheek. That gruesome sight was too dreadful to be borne; he felt his arms getting stiff, and he fell fainting on the deck. He only recovered his senses when a huge wave came breaking against the deck and almost washed him overboard.
In the morning the wind began to abate; but now all the sailors were not only thoroughly exhausted, but all more or less in a state of intoxication. The pumps could hardly be worked any more; even Vranic, the boys and the captain, who had worked to the last, hoping to save their lives, were obliged to leave the vessel to sink.
TheAve Mariawas going down rapidly, and now, even if the men could have worked, it was impossible to think of saving her; she was to be the prey of the waves. As for help from Trieste, it was useless looking out for it. Still, the titled gentlemen, in their warm and cosy offices of theSee-Behörde, which fronted the harbour, had seen the ship fighting against the wind and the waves. They knew, or, at least, ought to have known, of her distress; but it was carnival time, and their thoughts were surely not with the ships at sea.
At last, at eight o'clock, a ship was seen, and signals of distress were made. The ship answered, and began tacking about and trying to come near the sinking craft. When within reach of hearing, the whole crew of theAve Mariasummoned up all their strength and shouted that they were starving.
Since his departure, Milenko had never received any letters from his parents, for, in those times of sailing-ships, captains got news from home casually, by means of such fellow-countrymen as they chanced to meet, rather than through the post. Lately they had happened to come across a Ragusian ship at Brindisi, but, as this ship had left Budua only a short time after Milenko himself had sailed, all the information the captain could give was rather stale. As for Vranic, nothing had been heard of him these many months.
Peric (the youth sailing with Milenko) heard, however, that the forebodings he had had concerning his brother were but too well founded; the poor boy had been killed while taking care of his father's horse. Still, the man who told him the news did not know, or had partly forgotten, all the details of the dreadful accident, for all he remembered was that the poor child had been brought home to his mother a mangled, bleeding corpse.
Milenko then seemed again to see the vision he had witnessed within the waters, and he could thus relate to the poor boy all the particulars of the tragic event.
Poor Peric cried bitterly, thinking of the poor boy he had been so fond of, and whom he would never see again; then, having somewhat recovered from his grief:
"It is very strange," said he, "that, on the very night on which you saw my brother dragged by the horse, I heard a voice whispering in my ear: 'Jurye is dead!' and then I fancied that the wind whistling in the rigging repeated: 'Jurye is dead!' and that same phrase was afterwards lisped by the rushing waters. Just then, to crown it all, I looked within the palm of my hand—why, I really do not know; but that, as you are aware, brings about the death of the person we love most. At that same moment a cold shivering came over me, and I felt sure that my poor brother was dead. All this is very strange, is it not?"
"Not so very strange, either," replied Milenko; "the saints allow us to have an inkling of what is to happen, so that when misfortune does come, we are not crushed by it."
"Oh! we all knew that one of our family would die during the year; only, as I was going to sea, I thought that I might be the one who——"
"How did you know?" asked Milenko.
"Because, when our grandmother died, her left eye remained open; and, although they tried to shut it, still, after a while, the lids parted again, and that, you well know, is a sure sign that someone of the house would follow her during the year."
The youth remained thoughtful for a little while, and then he added:
"I wonder how my poor mother is, now that she has lost both her sons."
"We shall soon have news from home, for, if the weather does not change, to-morrow we shall be in Trieste, where letters are surely awaiting us."
"Do you ever have voices whispering in your ears?" asked Peric.
"No, never; do you?"
"Very often, especially when I keep very still and try to think of nothing at all, just as if I were not my own self, but someone else."
"Try and see if you can hear a voice now."
The youth remained for some time perfectly still, looking as if he were going off into a trance; when he came to himself again:
"I did hear a voice," said he.
"What did it say?"
"That to-morrow you will meet the man you have been looking for."
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing."
"Is it not imagination?"
"Oh, no! besides, poets often hear the voice of the moon, who tells them all the stories they write in their books."
"Do they?" quoth Milenko, smiling.
"Yes; do you not know the story of 'The Snowdrop,' that Igo Kas heard whilst he was seated by a newly-dug grave?"
"No, I never heard it."
"Then I'll read it to you, if you like."
Milenko having nothing better to do, listened attentively to the youth's tale.
A Slav Story.
The last feathery flakes of snow, fallen in the night, had not yet melted away, when the first snowdrop, which had sprung up in the dark, glinted at the dawning sun. A drop of dew, glistening on the edge of its half-opened leaves, looked like a sparkling tear. That dainty little flower, as white as the surrounding snow, had sprouted up beside a newly-dug grave. As I stooped down to pick the little snowdrop, I saw the words inscribed on the white marble slab, and then sorrow's heavy hand was laid upon my heart. The name was that of the Countess Anya Yarnova, a frail flower of early spring, as spotless as the little snowdrop.
What had been the cause of her sudden death? Was it some secret sorrow? Was it her love for that handsome stranger whose flashing eyes revealed the hunger of his heart?
At gloaming I was again beside the newly-opened grave. The sun had set, the birds in the bushes were hushed; the breeze, that before seemed to be the mild breath of spring, began to blow in fitful, cold blasts.
The round disc of the moon now rose beyond the verge of the horizon, and its mild, amber light fell upon the marble monument of the Yarnova family, almost hidden under a mass of white roses, camellias and daffodils, made up in huge wreaths.
Mute and motionless, I sat for some time musing by the tomb; then at last, looking up at
"That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,Whom mortals call the Moon,"
I said:
"Tell me, Moon, thou pale and greyPilgrim of Heaven's homeless way,"
didst thou know young Countess Yarnova, so full of life a few days ago, and now lying there in the cold bosom of the earth? Tell me what bitter and unbearable grief broke that young heart; speak to me, and I shall listen to thy words as to the voice of my mother, when, in the evening, she whispered weird tales to me while putting me to sleep.
A loud moan seemed to arise from the tomb, and then I heard a voice as silvery sweet as the music of the spheres, lisp softly in my ear:—
Passing by the Yarnova Castle three days ago, I peeped within its casements, and, in a dimly-lighted hall, I saw Countess Yadviga, who had just returned from Paris. She wore a black velvet dress, and her head was muffled in a lace mantilla; although her features twitched and she was sad and careworn, still she looked almost as young and even handsomer than her fair daughter.
Presently, as she sat in the dark room, the door was opened; a page stepped in, drew aside the gilt morocco portière emblazoned with the Yarnova arms, and ushered in the handsome stranger, Aleksij Orsinski.
The Baron looked round the dimly-lighted room for a while. At last he perceived the figure of the Countess as she sat in the shadow of the huge fire-place; then he went up to her and bowed.
"Thank you, Countess Yarnova, for snatching yourself away from beautiful Paris and coming in this dismal place."
The figure in the high-backed arm-chair bowed slightly, and without uttering a single word, motioned the stranger to a seat at a short distance. The Baron sat down.
"Thank you especially for at last giving your consent to my marriage with the beautiful Anya."
The Baron waited for a reply, but as none came, he went on:
"Although her guardian hinted that Anya was somewhat too young for me, still I know she loves me; and as for myself, I swear that henceforth the aim of my life will be that of making her happy."
The Baron, though sixteen years older than his childlike bride, was himself barely thirty; he was, moreover, a most handsome man—tall, stalwart, with dark flashing eyes, a long flowing moustache, a mass of black hair, and a remarkably youthful appearance. He waited again a little while for an answer, but the mother did not speak.
The large and lofty hall in which they were, with its carved stalls jutting out of the wainscot, looked far more like a church than a habitable room; the few fantastic oil lamps seemed like stars shining in the darkness, while the mellow light of the moon, pouring in from the mullioned windows, fell on the Baron's manly figure, and left the Countess in the dark.
As no answer came, the stranger, at a loss what to say, repeated his own words:
"Yes, all my days will be devoted to the happiness of our child."
"Our child?" said the Countess at last, with a slight tremor in her voice.
The Baron started like a man roused in the midst of a dream.
"Your daughter I mean, Countess."
Seized by a strange feeling of oppression, which he was unable to control, the Baron, in his endeavour to overcome it, began to relate to the mother how he had met Anya by chance, how he had fallen in love with her the very moment he had seen her, how from that day she had engrossed all his thoughts, for, from their first meeting, her image had haunted him day and night.
"In fact," added he, "it was the first time I had loved, the very first."
"The first?" echoed the voice in the dark.
The strong man trembled like an aspen leaf. Those two words coming from that dark, motionless figure, sitting at some distance, seemed to be a voice from the tomb, an echo from the past; that past which never buries its dead. To get over his increasing nervousness the Baron began to speak with greater volubility:
"In my early youth, or rather in my childhood I should say," added he, "I did love once——"
"Once?" repeated the voice.
The Baron started again and stopped. Was it Anya's mother who spoke, or was there an echo in that room? Still, he went on:
"Yes, once I loved, or, at least, thought myself in love."
"Thought?" added the voice.
That repetition was getting unbearable; anyhow, he tried not to heed it.
"Well, Countess, it was only a childish fancy, a boy's infatuation; at sixteen, I was spoony on a girl two years younger than myself, just about the age my Anya is now. Fate parted us; I grieved a while; but, since I saw your daughter, I understood that I had never loved before, no, never!"
"Never before—no, never!" uttered the woman in the dark.
The Baron almost started to his feet; that voice so silvery clear, so mournfully sweet, actually seemed to come from the far-off regions from where the dead do not return. After a short silence, only interrupted by two sighs, he went on:
"There were, of course, other loves between the first and the last —swift, evanescent shadows, leaving no traces behind them. And now that I have made a full confession of my sins, Countess, can I not see my Anya?"
"Your Anya?"
This was carrying a joke rather too far.
"Well, my fiancee?" said he, rather abruptly.
"No, Aleksij Orsinski, not yet. You have spoken, and I have listened to you; it is my turn to speak. I, too, have something to say about Anya's father."
The Baron had always been considered as a brave man, but now either the darkness oppressed him, or the past arose in front of him threateningly, or else the strange and almost weird behaviour of his future mother-in-law awed him; but, somehow or other, he had never felt so uncomfortable before. Not only a disagreeable feeling of creepiness had come over him, but even a slight perspiration had gathered on his brow. He almost fancied that, instead of a woman, a ghost was sitting there in front of him echoing his words. Who was that ghost? Perhaps, he would not—probably, he dared not recognise it. He tried, however, to shake off his nervousness, and said, with forced lightness:
"I have had the honour of knowing Count Yarnova personally; he was somewhat eccentric, it is true; still, a more honourable man never——"
"He was simply mad," interrupted the Countess; "anyhow, it is not of Count Yarnova, but of Anya'a father of whom I wish to speak." Then, after a slight pause, as if nerving herself to the painful task, the woman in the dark added: "For you must know that not a drop of the Count's blood flows in my daughter's veins."
There was another awkward pause; Aleksij's heart began to beat much faster, the perspiration was gathering on his brow in much bigger drops.
"Count Yarnova was not your daughter's father, you say?" He would have liked to add: "Who was, then?" but he durst not.
"No, Aleksij Orsinski, he was not."
A feeling of sickness came over the Baron; he hardly knew whether he was awake, or asleep and dreaming. Who was that woman in the dark?
The Countess, after a while, resumed her story: "I was born in St. Petersburg, of a wealthy and honourable, but not of a noble family. I, too, was but a child when I fell in love, deeply in love, with a neighbour's son. Unlike yours, Baron, and I suppose all men's, a woman's first love is the only real one. I was then somewhat younger than my daughter now is, for I had barely reached my thirteenth year, and as for my lover, he was fifteen. We often met, unknown to our parents, in our garden; I saw no harm in it—I was too young, too guileless, not to trust him——"
She stopped.
"And he?" asked the Baron, as if called upon to say something.
"He, like Romeo, whispered vows of love, of eternal fidelity. He believed in his vows just then, as you did, Aleksij Orsinski; for I daresay that with you, as with all men, the last love is the only true one."
"Then?" asked the Baron.
"Once we stepped out of the garden together; a carriage was waiting for us; we drove to a lonely chapel not far from our house; a priest there blessed us and made us man and wife. Our marriage, however, was to be kept a secret till we grew older, or, at least, till my husband was master of his actions, for he knew that his parents would never consent to our union."
There was another pause; but now the Baron could not trust himself to speak, his teeth were almost chattering as if with intense cold.
"A time of sickness and sorrow reigned over our country; the people were dying by hundreds and by thousands. The plague was raging in St. Petersburg. My husband's family were the first to flee from the contagion. We remained. The scourge had just abated, when, to my horror and dismay, I understood that I should in a few months become a mother. I wrote to my husband, but I received no answer; still, I knew he was alive and in good health. I wrote again, but with no better success. The day came when, at last, I had to disclose my terrible secret to my parents."
The Countess stopped, passed her hands over her brow as if to drive away the remembrance of those dreadful days.
"It is useless to try and relate their anger and my shame. My parents would not believe in my marriage; besides, the priest that had married us, even the witnesses, had all been swept away by that weird scavenger, the plague. I had no paper, no certificate, not even a ring to show that I was married. Contumely was not enough; I was not only treated by my parents with pitiless scorn, but I was, moreover, turned out of their house. When our own parents shut their doors against us, is it a wonder if the world is ruthless?
"What was I to do? where was I to go? With the few roubles I had I could not travel very far or live very long. I wandered to the castle where my husband was living; I asked for him, but I was told that he was ill."
"But he was ill," said the Baron, "was he not?"
"Perhaps his watery love had already flowed away, and he had given orders not to receive me if I should present myself. For a moment I stood rooted on the doorstep, bewildered, not knowing what to do; then I asked to see his mother. This was only exposing myself to one humiliation more. She came out in the hall; there she called me bitter names, and when I told her that I had not a bed whereon to lie that night, she replied that the Neva was always an available bed for girls like me; then she ordered her servants to cast me out.
"Houseless, homeless, almost penniless; my husband's mother was right—the Neva was the only place where I could find rest. In its fast-fleeting waters I might indeed find shelter.
"With my thoughts all of suicide I directed myself towards the open country, hoping soon to reach the banks of the broad river, for I was not only tired out, but weak and faint for want of food. My legs at last began to give way; weary, disheartened, I sank down by the roadside and began to sob aloud. All at once I heard a creaking noise of wheels, the tramp of horses, and merry human voices singing in chorus. As I lifted up my head I saw two carts passing, wherein a band of gipsies were all huddled together. Seeing my grief and hearing my sobs, the driver stopped; a number of boys and young men, girls and women jumped, crawled or scrambled down from the carts, as crabs do out of a basket; then they all crowded around me to find out what had befallen me. I would not answer their questions, nor could I have done so even if I had wanted. I was almost too faint to speak. An elderly woman, the chief's wife, pushed all the others aside, came up to me, took my hand and examined it carefully; then she began to speak in a language I did not understand.
"'Poor child!' said she at last, patting my hair and kissing me on my eyes; 'you are indeed in trouble; still, bright days are in store for you; take courage, cheer up, live, for you will soon be a grand lady, and then you will trample over all your enemies—yes, over every one of them. You have no home,' said she, as if answering my own thoughts; 'What does it matter? Have we a home? Have the little birds that nestle in the leafy boughs a home? No, all the world is their home. Come with us. You have no family; well, you will be our child.'
"Saying this she gave an order to the men around her, and almost before I was aware of it, half-a-dozen brawny arms lifted me tenderly and placed me on a heap of clothes in one of the carts. Soon my protectress was by my side whispering words of endearment in my ear; and as for myself, weak and starving, forlorn and dejected as I was, I cared very little what became of me.
"The gipsy woman, who was versed in medicine, poured me out some kind of cordial or sleeping draught and made me drink it; a few minutes afterwards a pleasant drowsiness came over me, then I fell fast asleep. I only awoke some hours later, and I found myself lying on a mattress in a tent. I remained for some time bewildered, unable to understand where and with whom I was; still, when I came to my senses the keen edge of my grief was blunted. The gipsy woman, my protectress, kissed me in a fond, mother-like way; then she brought me a plate of food.
"'Eat,' said she, 'grief has a much greater hold on an empty stomach than on a satiated one.'
"I was young and hungry; the smell of the food was good; I did not wait to be asked twice. I never remembered to have tasted anything so delicious. It was not soup, but a kind of savoury stew, containing vegetables and meat—anolla-podridaof ham, beef and poultry. After that, they offered me some fragrant drink, which soon made me feel drowsy, and then sent me off to sleep again. I woke early the next morning, when they were about to start on their daily wanderings. With my head still muddled with sleep, I was helped into the cart, and sat down between my new friend and her husband.
"That life in the open air, the kindness and good-humour of the people amongst whom I lived, soothed and quieted me. All ideas of suicide vanished entirely from my mind. Self-murder is an unknown thing amongst gipsies. Besides, my friend assured me, again and again, that I should soon become a very great lady, and then all my enemies would be at my mercy.
"'But how shall I ever repay you for your kindness?' I asked.
"'The day will come when the hand of persecution will be uplifted against us; then you alone will protect us.'
"In the meanwhile I was treated like a queen by all of them. Moreover, they were a wealthy band, possessing not only horses, carts and tents, but also money. They might have lived comfortably in some town, or settled as farmers somewhere; but their life was by far too pleasant to give it up. Heedless, jovial, contented people, their only care seemed to be where they were to have their next meal.
"A few months afterwards, my daughter was born in a tent, not far from Warsaw."
"She must have been a great comfort to you," quoth the Baron, thinking he ought to say something appropriate.
"A comfort? The unwished-for child of a man that had blighted my life, a comfort? No, indeed, Baron. In fact, I saw very little of this daughter of mine; a young gipsy nursed her and took care of her. My own parents had taught me what love was. My husband's mother—a grand lady—thought that the Neva was the best cradle for her unborn grandchild. Besides, other work was waiting for me than nursing and rearing Anya.
"Count Yarnova one day met our band of gipsies on the road, and he stretched his ungloved hand to have his fate read and explained. My friend—no ordinary fortune-teller—was well versed in palmistry, and a most lucid thought-reader; she told him that before the year was out he would be a married man.
"'In a few days,' added she, 'on Christmas Eve, you will see your young bride in your own mirror; you will see her again after a few days, and she will tend upon you and cure you from a fever when the doctor's help will be worse than useless. As soon as you get well you will start on a journey; then you will stop for some days in two large towns, both of which begin with the same letter; there you will see again that beautiful child you saw on Christmas Eve.'
"'But when and where shall I meet her, not as a vision, but as a real person?'
"The Baron wore on the forefinger of his right hand a kind of magic ring, in which a little crystal ball was set. The gipsy lifted the Baron's hand to her eyes and looked at the crystal ball for a few seconds.
"'It is spring,' said she; 'the trees are in bloom, and Nature wears her festive garb. In a splendid saloon, where all the furniture is of gold and the walls are covered with rich silks, I see a handsome young girl dressed in spotless white, holding a guitar and singing; behind her there is a mass of flowers; around her gentlemen and ladies are listening to the sound of her sweet voice.'
"Count Yarnova was a Swedenborgian, and he not only believed in the occult art, but had dabbled himself in magic, until his rather weak mind was somewhat unhinged. He, of course, did not doubt the truth of what the gipsy had foretold him; moreover, he was right, because everything happened exactly as she had predicted.
"On Christmas Eve the Count was alone in his room sitting at a little table reading, and glancing every now and then, first at a clock, afterwards at a huge cheval-glass opposite the alcove. All the servants of the house, except his valet—a young gipsy of our band —had gone to Mass, according to the custom of the place. At half-past eleven my friends accompanied me to the Count's palace; the valet opened the door noiselessly and led me unseen, unheard, in the alcove. I was dressed in white and shrouded in a mass of silvery veils. On the stroke of twelve I appeared between the two draped columns which formed the opening of the alcove; the light hanging in the middle of the room was streaming on me, and my image, reflected in the glass, looked, in fact, like a vision. The Count, seeing it, heaved a deep breath, started to his feet, drew back, stood still for an instant, uttered an exclamation of surprise, then made a step towards the looking-glass. At that moment the valet opened the door as if in answer to his master's summons. The Count looked round, thus giving me time to slip away; when he glanced again at the mirror I had disappeared. Then the thought came to him that the image he had seen within the glass was only the reflection of some one standing in the alcove; he ordered the valet to look within the inner part of the room, and when the servant man assured him that there was nobody, he ventured to look in it himself. The valet swore that nobody had come in the house, and by the time the servants returned from midnight Mass I was already far away.
"The Count had not been well for some days, and the shock he received upset his nerves in such a way that he took to his bed with a kind of brain fever. I attended him during his illness whilst he was delirious, and when he recovered he had a slight remembrance of me, just as of a vision we happen to see in a dream. He asked if a young girl had not tended him during his illness; his valet and the other servants told him that a mysterious stranger had come to take care of him, and that she had soothed him much more by placing her hand upon his brow, than all the doctor's stuff had done; still, no one had ever seen her before, or knew where she had come from.
"As soon as the Count was strong enough to travel, he decided to go and visit some of the large towns of Europe, thus hoping to find me.
"The vigilant eye of the police had long suspected Yarnova of being an agitator; some letters addressed to him, and some of his own writings on occult lore, had been strangely misinterpreted, and from that time a constant watch had been held over him. No sooner had he started than information was sent to the police that he was conspiring against the Government, and thus I managed to be sent after him and watch over him. Money, passports, and letters of introduction to the ambassadors were handed to me.
"Vienna was one of the towns where he stopped for a few days. A follower of Cagliostro's was at that time showing there the phantoms of the living, and those of the dead—not for money, of course, but for any slight donation the visitors were pleased to give. The gipsy, who accompanied Yarnova as valet, came to inform me that the Count intended to go to this spiritualistic séance. The medium was also acquainted of the fact, and for a slight consideration I was allowed to appear before the public as my own materialised spirit. How most of the ghosts were shown to the public, I cannot tell; I only know that I appeared on a dimly-lighted stage, behind a thick gauze curtain, wrapped up in a cloud of tulle, whilst harps and viols were playing some weird funereal dirges. The people—huddled all together in a dark corner—saw, I fancy, nothing but vague, dim forms passing or floating by; but they were so anxious to be deceived that they would have taken the wizard at his word, even if he had shown them an ape and told them it was their grandmother.
"When Yarnova saw me, he got so excited that it was with the greatest difficulty that he could be kept quiet.
"On the morrow the Count started for Venice, this being the nearest town the name of which began with the same letter as Vienna. We got there on the last days of the Carnival; an excellent time for the purpose I had in hand, as the whole town seemed to have gone stark mad. The Piazza San Marco was like a vast pandemonium, where dominoes of every hue glided about, and masks of every kind walked, ran and capered, or pushed their way through the dense crowd, chattering, laughing, shouting. Bands of music were playing in front of several coffee-houses, people were blowing horns; in fact, the uproar was deafening. Dressed up as a Russian gipsy, and masked, I met the Count on the square, and I told him all that had happened to him from the day he had met the gipsies on the road. I only managed to escape from him when he was stopped by a wizard—his own valet—who told him he would see again that evening, at the masked ball of the Venice theatre, the beautiful girl whose vision he had seen in his own castle on Christmas Eve.
"The Count, of course, went to the masked ball, followed by his valet and myself, both in dominoes. Seeing a box empty, I went in it, remained rather in the background, took off my hood and appeared in the white veils, as he had already seen me twice. As soon as I appeared, the valet, who was standing behind his master, laid his hand on the Count's shoulder and whispered to him: 'Yarnova, look at that lady in that box on the second tier—the third from the stage.' The Count saw me, uttered an exclamation of surprise, turned round to find out who had spoken to him; but the black domino had slipped away amongst the crowd. I remained in the same position for a few moments, then I put on my domino and mask and left the box. I met the Count coming up, but, in the crowd, he, of course, did not notice me.