On reaching the first vines, Bellacic was surprised to perceive that all the leaves were limp, withering or dry. The next vines were even in a worse condition. He walked on, and, to his horror, he perceived that the whole of his vineyard was seared and blasted, as if warm summer had all at once changed into cold, bleak, frosty winter. Every stem had been cut down to the very roots. Gloomy and disconsolate he walked about, with head bent down, kicking every vine as he went on; all, all were fit for firewood now. It was not only a heavy loss of money, it was something worse. All his hopes, his pride, seemed to be crushed, humbled by it. He had loved this vineyard almost as much as his wife or his son, and now it was obliterated from the surface of the earth.
Had it been the work of Nature or the will of God, he would have bowed his head humbly, and said: "Thy will be done"; but he was exasperated to think that this had all been the work of a man—the vengeance of a coward—a craven-hearted rascal that, after all, he had never harmed, for this could be only Vranic's doing. In his passion he felt that if he had held the dastard at that moment, he would have crushed him under his feet like a reptile.
As Bellacic slowly arrived at the other end of the vineyard, he felt that just then he could not retrace his steps and cross the whole of his withering vines once more. He stopped there for a few moments, and looked around; then it seemed to him as if he had seen a man crouch down and disappear behind the bushes.
Could it be Vranic coming to gloat over him and enjoy his revenge? or was it not an image of his over-heated imagination?
He stood stock-still for a while, but nothing moved. He went slowly on, and then he heard a slight rustling noise. He advanced, crouching like a cat or a tiger, with fixed, dilated eyes and pricked-up ears. He saw the bushes move, he heard the sound of footsteps; then he saw the figure of a man bending low and running almost on all fours, so as not to be seen.
It was Vranic; now he could be clearly recognised. Bellacic ran after him; Vranic ran still faster. All at once he caught his foot on a root that had shot through the earth; he stumbled and fell down heavily. As he rose, Bellacic came up to him.
"Villain, scoundrel, murderer! is it you who——? Yes, it could be no other dog than you! Moreover, you wanted to see how they looked."
"What?" said Vranic, ghastly pale, trembling from head to foot.
"What?—I really don't know what you mean."
"Do you say that you haven't cut down my vines?"
"I cut your vines? What vines?"
"Have, at least, the courage of your cowardly deeds, you sneak."
Thereupon Bellacic gave him a blow which made him reel. Vranic began to howl, and to take all the saints as witnesses of his innocence.
"Stop your lies, or I'll pluck that vile tongue of yours out of your mouth, and cast it in your face!"
Vranic thereupon took out his knife and tried to stab Bellacic. The two men fought.
"Is that the knife with which you cut my vines?"
"No; I kept it for you," replied Vranic, aiming a deadly blow at his adversary.
Bellacic parried the blow, and in the scuffle which ensued Vranic dropped his knife as his antagonist overpowered him and knocked him down.
Although Vranic was struggling with all his might, he was no match for Bellacic, who pinned him down and managed to pick up the dagger.
"You have cut down all my vines; now you yourself 'll have a taste of your own knife."
"Mercy! mercy! Do not kill me!"
"No, no; I'll not kill you," said Bellacic, kneeling down upon him; then, bending over him and catching hold of his right ear, he, with a quick, firm hand, severed it at a stroke.
Vranic was howling loud enough to be heard miles off.
"Now for the other," said Bellacic. "I'll nail them to a post in my vineyard as a scarecrow for future vermin of your kind."
Vranic, however, wriggled, and, with an effort, managed to rise; then he took to his heels, holding his bleeding head and yelling with pain and fear.
Bellacic made no attempt to stop him, or cut off his other ear, as he had threatened to do; he quietly walked away, perfectly satisfied with the punishment he had inflicted on the scoundrel. Instead of returning home he thought it more prudent to go and spend the night in the neighbouring convent, and thus avoid any conflict with the police.
Bellacic, who had ever been generous to the monks, was now welcomed by the brotherhood; the best wine was brought forth and a lay servant was at once despatched to town to find out what Vranic had done, and, on the morrow, one of the friars themselves went to reconnoitre and to inform Mara that her husband was safe and in perfect health.
Upon that very day the Spera in Dio cast anchor in the harbour of Budua, and Uros reached home just when the police had come to arrest his father for having cut off Vranic's ear; and the confusion that ensued can hardly be described.
For the sake of doing their duty, the guards, who were Buduans, made a pretence of looking for Bellacic; they knew very well that he would not be silly enough to wait till they came to arrest him.
Mara, like all women in such an emergency, was thoroughly upset to see the police in her house. She threw her arms round her son, and begged him to keep quiet, and not to interfere in the matter, lest their new masters' wrath should be visited upon him. Anyhow, as the police tried to make themselves as little obnoxious as they possibly could, and as they went through their duties with as much grace, and as little zeal, as possible, Uros did not interfere to prevent them from discharging their unpleasant task.
The poor mother wept for joy at seeing her son, and for grief at the thought that her husband was an exile from his house at his time of life; but just then the good friar came in and brought news from Bellacic, and comforted the family, saying that in a very few days the whole affair would be quieted, and their guest would be able to come back home.
"And will he remain with you all that time?" asked Mara.
"We should be very pleased to have him," replied the friar; "but for his sake and ours, it were better for him to cross the mountain and remain at Cettinje till the storm has blown over."
"And when does he start?"
"This evening."
"May I come and see him before he goes?" asked Mara.
"Certainly, and if you wish to go at once, I'll wait here a little while longer, just not to awaken suspicion."
Mara, therefore, went off at once, and the friar followed her a quarter of an hour afterwards.
Uros, on seeing Milena, felt as if he were suffocating; his heart began to beat violently, and then it seemed to stop. He, for a moment, gasped for breath. She, too, only recovering from her illness, felt faint at seeing him.
Uros found her looking handsomer and younger than before; her complexion was so pale, her skin so transparent, that her eyes not only looked much larger, but bluer and more luminous than ever. To Uros they seemed rather like the eyes of an angel than those of a woman. Her fingers were so long and thin; her hand was of a lily whiteness, as it nestled in Uros' brown, brawny and sunburnt one.
All her sprightliness was gone; the roguish smile had vanished from her lips. Not only her features, but her voice had also changed; it was now so pure, so weak, so silvery in its sound; so veiled withal, like a voice coming from afar and not from the person sitting by you. It was as painful to hear as if it had been a voice from beyond the grave, and it sent a pang to the young man's heart.
As he put his arm around her frail waist, the tears rose to his eyes, and he could hardly find the words, or utter them softly enough, to say to her: "Milena, srce moja," (my heart) "do you still love me?"
"Hush, Uros!" said she, shuddering; "never speak to me of love again."
"Milena!"
"Yes," continued she, sighing, "my sin has found me out. Had I behaved as I should have done, so many people would not have come to grief. Vranic might still have been alive."
"But you never gave him any encouragement, did you?" said Uros, misunderstanding her meaning.
The tears started to her eyes. Weak as she was, she felt everything acutely.
"Do you think I could have done such a thing? And yet you are right; I used to be so light once; but that seems to me so long, so very long ago. But I have grown old since then, terribly old; I have suffered so much."
"I was wrong, dearest; forgive me. I remember how that fiend persecuted you. I was near sending him to hell myself, and it was a pity I didn't; anyhow, I was so glad when I heard that Radonic had——"
"Hush! I was the cause of that man's death. Through it my husband became an outcast, and now your father has been obliged to flee from his home——"
"How can you blame yourself for all these things? It is only because you have been so ill and weak that you have got such fancies into your head; but now that I am here, and you know how much I love you——"
She shuddered spasmodically, and a look of intense pain and wretchedness came over her features.
"Never speak of love any more, unless you wish to kill me."
Uros looked at her astonished.
"I know that in all this I am entirely to blame; but if a woman can atone for her sin by suffering, I think——"
"Then you do not love me any more?" asked Uros, dejectedly.
She looked up into his eyes, and, in that deep and earnest glance of hers, she seemed to give up her soul to him. If months ago she had loved him with all the levity of a reckless child, now she loved him with all the pathos of a woman.
Uros caught her in his arms and pressed her to his heart. She leaned her head on his shoulder, as if unable to keep it upright; an ashy paleness spread itself over all her features, her very lips lost all their colour, her eyelids drooped; she had fainted. Uros, terrified, thought she was dying, nay, dead.
"Milena, my love, my angel, speak to me, for Heaven's sake!" he cried.
After a few moments, however, she slowly began to recover, and then burst into a hysteric fit of sobbing.
When at last she came again to her senses, she begged Uros never to speak to her of love, as that would be her death.
"Besides," added she, "now that I am better, I shall return to my parents, for I can never go back to that dreadful house of mine. I could never cross its threshold again."
Uros was dismayed. He had been looking forward to his return with such joy, and now that he was back, the woman he worshipped was about to flee from him.
"Do not look so gloomy," said she, trying to cheer him; "remember that——"
Her faltering, weak voice died in her throat; she could not bring herself to finish her phrase.
"What?" asked Uros, below his breath.
"That I'm another man's wife."
"Oh, Milena! don't say such horrible things; it's almost like blasphemy."
"And still it's true; besides——"
Her voice, which had become steady, broke down again.
"Besides what?" said Uros, after a moment's pause, leaving her time to breathe.
"You'll be a husband yourself, some day," she added in an undertone.
"Never," burst forth Uros, fiercely, "unless I am your husband."
"Hush!" said she, shuddering with fear and crossing herself. "Your father wishes you to marry, and—I wish it too," she added in a whisper.
"No, you don't, Milena; that's a lie," he replied, passionately.
"Could you swear it on the holy Cross?"
"Yes, Uros, if it's for your good, I wish it, too. You know that
I——"
Her pale face grew of deep red hue; even her hands flushed as the blood rushed impetuously upwards.
"Well?" asked Uros, anxiously.
"That I love you far more than I do myself."
He clasped her in his arms tenderly, and kissed her shoulders, not daring to kiss her lips.
"Would it be right for me to marry a young girl whom I do not love, when all my soul is yours?"
"Still," said she, shuddering, "our love is a sin before God and man."
"Why did you not tell me so when I first knew you? Then, perhaps, I might not have loved you."
Milena's head sank down on her bosom, her eyes filled with tears, there was a low sound in her throat. Then, in a voice choking with sobs, she said:
"You are right, Uros; I was to blame, very much to blame. I was as thoughtless as a child; in fact, I was a child, and I only wanted to be amused. But since then I have grown so old. Lying ill in bed, almost dying, I was obliged to think of all the foolish things I said and did, so——"
"So you do not love me any more," he said, abruptly; but seeing the look of sorrow which shadowed Milena's face, he added: "My heart, forgive me; it is only my love for you that makes me so peevish. When you ask me to forget you——"
"And still you must try and do so. The young girl your father has chosen for you——"
"Loves some one else," interrupted Uros.
Milena looked up with an expression of joy she vainly tried to control. The young man thereupon told her the mistake which had taken place, and all that had happened the last time he and his friend had been at Zara.
"Giulianic has taken a solemn oath that I shall never marry his daughter, and as Milenko is in love with her, I hope my father will release his friend from the promise——"
Just then the door opened, and Mara came in.
"Well, mother," said Uros, "what news do you bring to us?"
"Your father is safe, my boy. He left this morning for Montenegro; by this time he must have crossed the border. On the whole, the police tried to look for him where they knew they could not find him. He left word that he wishes to see you very much, and begs you to go up to Cettinje as soon as you can."
"I'll go and see Milenko, so that he may take sole charge of the ship, and then I'll start this very evening."
"No, child, there is no such hurry! Rest to-night; you can leave to-morrow, or the day after."
Having seen Milenko, and entrusted the ship for a few days entirely to him, Uros started early on the next morning for the black mountains.
Mara could hardly tear herself away from him. She had been waiting so eagerly for his arrival, and now, when he had come home, she was obliged to part from him.
"Do not stay there too long, for then you will only return to start, and I'll have scarcely seen you."
"No, I'll only stay there one or two days, no more."
"And then I hope you'll not mix up in any quarrel. I'm so sorry you've come back just now."
"Come, mother," said Uros, smiling pleasantly as he stood on the doorstep before starting, "what harm can befall me? I haven't mixed up in any of the karvarina business, nor am I running away as an outlaw; if we have some enemies they are all here, not there. I suppose I'll find father at Zwillievic's or some other friend's house. Your fears are quite unfounded, are they not?"
All Uros said was quite true, but still his mother refused to be comforted. As he bade Milena good-bye, "Remember!" she whispered to him, and she slipped back into her room.
Did she wish him to remember that she was Radonic's wife?
Uros thereupon started with a heavy heart; everybody seemed to have changed since he had left Budua.
The early morning was grey and cloudy, and although Uros was very fond of his father, and anxious to see him, still he was loth to leave his home.
At the town gate Uros met Milenko, who had come to walk part of the way with him. Uros, who was thinking of his mother and especially of Milena, had quite forgotten his bosom friend. Seeing him so unexpectedly, his heart expanded with a sudden movement of joy, and he felt at that moment as if they had met after having been parted for ages.
"Well?" asked Milenko, as they walked along. "Do you remember when we first started from Budua, we thought that we'd have reached the height of happiness the day we'd sail on our own ship?"
"I remember."
"The ship is almost our own, and happiness is farther off than ever."
"Wait till we come back next voyage, and things might look quite different then."
The sun just then began to dawn; the dark and frowning mountains lost all their grimness as a pale golden halo lighted up their tops; drowsy nature seemed to awake with a smile, and looked like a rosy infant does when, on opening its eyes, it sees its mother's beaming face.
The two friends walked on. Uros spoke of the woman he loved, and
Milenko listened with a lover's sympathy.
Milenko walked with his friend for about two hours; then he bade Uros good-bye, promising him to go at once to his mother and Milena, and tell them how he was faring.
Uros began to climb up the rugged path leading towards Montenegro. After a quarter of an hour, the two friends stopped, shouted "Ahoy!" to each other, waved their hands and then resumed their walk. Towards nightfall Uros reached the village where Zwillievic lived.
With a beating heart, sore feet and aching calves he trudged on towards the house, which, as he hoped, was to be the goal of his journey. As he pushed the door open he shuddered, thinking that instead of his father he might happen to find Milena's husband.
The apartment into which he entered was a large and rather low room, serving as a kitchen, a parlour, a dining and a sleeping room. It was, in fact, the only room of the house. Its walls were cleanly whitewashed; not a speck of dust could be seen anywhere, nor a cobweb amidst the rafters in the ceiling. The inner part was used for sleeping purposes, for against the walls on either side there were two huge beds. By the beds, two boxes—one of plain deal, like the chests used by sailors; the other, made of cypress-wood and quaintly carved—contained the family linen. In the middle of the room stood a rough, massive table, darkened and polished by daily use, and some three-legged stools around it. The walls were decorated with the real wealth of the family—weapons of every shape, age and kind. Short guns, the butt ends of which were all inlaid with mother-of-pearl; long carbines with silver incrustations; modern rifles and fowling-pieces; swords, scimitars, daggers, yatagans; pistols and blunderbusses with niello and filigree silver-work, gemmed like jewels or church ornaments. These trophies were heirlooms of centuries. Over one of the beds there was a silver- and gold-plated Byzantine icon, over the other a hideous German print of St. George. The Prince of Cappadocia, who was killing a grass-green dragon, wore for the occasion a yellow mantle, a red doublet and blue tights. Under each of these images there was a fount of holy water and a little oil-lamp.
As Uros stepped in, Milena's mother, who was standing by the hearth, preparing the supper, turned round to see who had just come in. She looked at him, but as he evidently was a stranger to her, she came up a step or two towards him.
"Good evening, domacica," for she was not only the lady of the house, but the wife of the head of the family and the chief of the clan, or tribe.
"Good evening, gospod," said she, hesitatingly.
"You do not know me, I think. I am a kind of cousin of yours, Uros
Bellacic."
"What, is it you, my boy? I might have known you by your likeness to your mother; but when I saw you last you were only a little child, and now you are quite a grown-up man," added she, looking at him with motherly fondness. "Have you walked all the way from Budua?"
"Yes, I left home this morning."
"Then you must be tired. Come and sit down, my boy."
"I am rather tired; you see, we sailors are not accustomed to walk much. But tell me first, have you seen my father? Is he staying with you?"
"Yes, he came yesterday. He is out just now, but he'll soon be back with Zwillievic. Sit down and rest," said she, "and let me give you some water to wash, for you must be travel-sore and dusty."
As Uros sat down, she, after the Eastern fashion, bent to unlace his opanke; but he, unaccustomed to be waited upon by women, would not allow her to perform such a menial act for him.
He had hardly finished his ablutions when his father and the gospodar came in. Seeing his son, Bellacic stretched out his arms and clasped him to his heart. Then they began talking about all that had taken place since they had seen each other; and, supper being served, Uros, while he ate with a good appetite, related all the adventures of his seafaring life, and did his best to keep his father amused. At the end of the meal, when everyone was in a good-humour, the pipes being lit and the raki brought forth, he told them how Milenko had fallen in love with the girl who ought to have been his bride, how she reciprocated his affection, and the many complications that followed, until Giulianic swore, in great wrath, that he, Uros, should never marry his daughter. Although this part of the story did not amuse the father as much as it did the rest of the company, still it was related with such graphic humour that he could not help joining in the laughter.
On the morrow, Bellacic, wanting to have a quiet talk with his son, proposed that they should go and see a little of the country, and, perhaps, meet Radonic, who was said to be coming back from the neighbourhood of Scutari.
As they walked on, Bellacic spoke of his lost vineyard, and of his rashness in cutting off Vranic's ear; then he added:
"Remember, now that you are going back to Budua, you must promise me that, as long as you are there, you'll not mix up in this stupid karvarina business. I know that I am asking much, for if we old men are hasty, recommending you who are young and hot-headed to be cool is like asking the fire not to burn, or the sun not to shine; still, for your mother's sake and for mine, you'll keep aloof from those reptiles of Vranics, will you not?"
Uros promised to do his best and obey.
"I'd have liked to see you married and settled in life," and Bellacic cast a questioning glance at his son.
Uros looked down and twisted the ends of his short and crisp moustache.
"It is true you are very young still; it is we—your mother and I —who are getting old."
Uros continued to walk in silence by his father's side.
"If Ivanka is in love with your friend, and Giulianic is willing to give her to him, I am not the man to make any objections. The only thing I'd like to know is whether it is solely for Milenko's sake that you acted as you did."
Uros tried to speak, but the words he would utter stuck in his throat.
"Then it is as I thought," added Bellacic, seeing his son's confusion; "you love some one else."
Uros looked up at his father for all reply.
"Answer me," said Bellacic, tenderly.
"Yes," said the young man, in a whisper.
"A young girl?"
"No."
"A married woman?" asked the father, lifting his brows with a look of pain in his eyes.
"Yes."
"A relation of ours?"
"Yes."
"Milena?"
Uros nodded.
Just then, as they turned the corner of the road, they met a crowd of men coming towards them; it was a band of blood-stained Montenegrins returning from an encounter with the Turks. They were bearing a wounded man upon a stretcher.
"Milena would have been the girl your mother and I might have chosen for your bride; and, indeed, we have learnt to love her as a daughter; but fate has decreed otherwise."
They now came up to the foremost man of the band.
"Who is wounded?" asked Bellacic of him.
"Radonic," answered he.
"Is the wound a bad one?"
"He is dying!" replied the Montenegrin, in a whisper.
Vranic, having found out that the Austrian law could do nothing for him, except punish him for his crime in cutting down the vines of a man who had done him no harm, shut himself up at home to nurse his wounded head, to brood over his revenge, and pity himself for all the mishaps that had befallen him. The more he pitied himself, the more irritable he grew, and the more he considered himself a poor persecuted wretch. He durst not go out for fear of being laughed at; and, in fact, when he did go, the children in the streets began to call him names, to ask him what he had done with his ears, and whether he liked cutting people's vines down.
With his bickering and peevish temper, not only his fast friends grew weary of him, but his own family forsook him; his very brother, at last, could not abide his saturnine humour, and left him. He then began to drink to try and drown his troubles; still, he only took enough to muddle his brains, and, moreover, the greater quantity of spirits he consumed the more sullen he grew.
Having but one idea in his head—that is, the great wrong that had been done to him—he hardly fell asleep at nights but he was at once haunted by fearful dreams. His murdered brother would at once appear before him and ask him—urge him—to avenge his death:
"While you are enjoying the inheritance I left you, I am groaning in hell-fire, and my murderer is not only left free, but he is even made much of."
Masses were said for the dead man's soul, still that was of no avail; Vranic's dreams got always more frightful. The morina, the dreadful mara or nightmare, took up its dwelling in the tailor's house. No sooner did the poor man close his eyes than the ponderous ghost came hovering over him, and at last crushed him with its weight. The sign of the pentacle was drawn on every door and window. A witch drew it for him on paper with magical ink, and he placed the paper under his pillow. He put another on the sheets; then the nightmare left him alone, and other evil spirits came in its stead. Not knowing the names of these evil spirits or their nature, it was a difficult task to find out the planet under which they were subjected, the sign which they obeyed, and what charm was potent enough to scare them away.
One night (it was about the hour when his brother had been murdered) the tailor was lying on his bed in a half-wakeful slumber—that is to say, his drowsy body was benumbed, but his mind was still quite awake, when all at once he was roused by the noise of a loud wind blowing within the house. Outside, everything was perfectly quiet, but inside a distant door seemed to have been opened down in some cellar, and a draught was blowing up with a moaning, booming sound. You might have fancied that a grave had been opened and a ghastly gale was blowing from the hollow depths of hell below, and that it came wheezing up. It was dreadful to hear, for it had such a dismal sound.
Perhaps it was only his imagination, but Vranic thought that this mysterious draught was cold, damp and chilly; that it had an earthy, rank smell of mildew as it blew by him.
He lay there shivering, hardly daring to breathe, putting his tongue between his chattering teeth not to make a noise, and listening to that strange, weird blast as at last it died far away in a faint, imperceptible sigh.
No sooner had the sound of the wind entirely subsided than he heard a cadenced noise of footsteps coming from afar. Were these steps out of the house or inside? he could not tell. He heard them draw nearer and ever nearer; they seemed to come across the wall of the room, as if bricks and stones were no obstacle to his uncanny visitor; now they were in his room, walking up to his bed. Appalled with terror, Vranic looked towards the place from where the footsteps came, but he could not see anybody. Trembling as if with a fit of palsy, he cast a fearful, furtive glance all around, even in the furthermost corner of the room; not the shadow of a ghost was to be seen; nevertheless, the footsteps of the invisible person grew louder as they approached at a slow, sure, inexorable pace.
At last they stopped; they were by his bed. Vranic felt the breath of a person on his very face.
Except a person who has felt it, no one can realise the horror of having an invisible being leaning over you, of feeling his breath on your face.
Vranic tried to rise, but he at once came in close contact with the unseen monster; two cold, clammy, boneless hands gripped him and pinned him down; he vainly struggled to get free, but he was as a baby in the hands of his invisible foe. In a few seconds he was entirely mastered, cowed down, overcome, panting, breathless. When he tried to scream, a limp, nerveless hand, as soft as a huge toad, was placed upon his mouth, shutting it up entirely, and impeding all power of utterance. Then the ponderous mass of the ghost came upon him, crushed him, smothered him. Fainting with fear, his strength and his senses forsook him at the same time, and he swooned away.
When he came back to life, the cold, grey light of the dawning day, pouring in through the half-closed shutters, gave the room a squalid, lurid look. His head was not exactly paining him, but it felt drained of all its contents, and as light as an empty skull, or an old poppy head in which the seeds are rattling. He looked around. There was nothing unusual in the room; everything was just as it had been upon the previous evening. Had his struggle with the ghost been but a dream? He tried to move, to rise, but all his limbs were as weary and sore as if he had really fought and been beaten. Nay, his whole body was as weak as if he had had some long illness and was only now convalescent. He recalled to mind all the details of the struggle, he looked at the places where he felt numb and sore, and everywhere he remarked livid stains which he had not seen before. He lifted himself up on his right elbow; to his horror and consternation, there were two or three spots of blood upon the white sheet.
He felt faint and sick at that sight; he understood everything. His had not been a dream; his gruesome visitor was a frightful ghost, a terrible vukodlaki, which had fought with him and sucked his blood. His brother had become a loathsome vampire; he was the first victim.
For a moment he remained bewildered, unable to think; then when he did manage to collect his wandering senses, the terrible reality of his misfortune almost drove him mad again.
The ghost, having tasted his blood, would not leave him till it had drained him to the very last drop. He was a lost man; no medical aid could be of any use; nourishing food, wine and tonics might prolong his agony a few days longer and no more. He was doomed to a sure death. Daily—as if in a decline—he saw himself wasting away, for the vampire would suck the very marrow of his bones.
His was a dreary life, indeed, and yet he clung to it with might and main. The days passed on wearily, and he tried to hope against hope itself; but he was so weak and dispirited that the slightest noise made him shiver and grow pale. An unexpected footstep, the opening or shutting of a door, slackened or accelerated the beating of his heart.
With fear and trembling he waited for night to come on, and when the sun went down—when darkness came over the earth—his terror grew apace. Still, where was he to go? He had not a single friend on the surface of the earth. He, therefore, drank several glasses of spirits, muttered his prayers and went to bed. No sooner had he fallen asleep than he fell again a prey to the vampire.
On the third night he determined not to go to bed, but to remain awake, and thus wait for the arrival of his gruesome guest. Still, at the last moment his courage failed him, so he went to an old man who lived hard by. He promised to make him a new waistcoat if he would only give him a rug to sleep on, and tell him a story until he got drowsy.
The old man complied willingly, above all as Vranic had brought a bukara of wine with him, so he at once began the story of
In the village of Steino there lived an old priest who was exceedingly wealthy, but who was, withal, as miserly as he was rich. Although he had fields which stretched farther than the eye could reach, fat pastures, herds and flocks; although his cellars were filled with mellow wine, his barns were bursting with the grace of God; although abundance reigned in his house, still he was never known to have given a crust of bread to a beggar or a glass of wine to a weary old man.
He lived all alone with a skinflint of an old cook, as stingy as himself, who would rather by far have seen an apple rot than give it to a hungry child whose mouth watered for it.
Those two grim old fogeys, birds of one feather, cared for no one else in this world except for each other, and, in fact, the people in Steino said——, but people in villages have bad tongues, so it's useless to repeat what was said about them.
The priest had a nephew, a smith, a good-hearted, bright-eyed, burly kind of a fellow, beloved by all the village, except by his uncle, whom he had greatly displeased because he had married a bonny lass of the neighbouring village of Smarje, instead of taking as a wife the——, well, the cook's niece, though, between us and the wall, the cook was never known to have had a sister or a brother either, and the people——, but, as I said before, the people were apt to say nasty things about their priest.
The smith, who was quite a pauper, had several children, for the poorer a man is the more babies his wife presents him with—women everywhere are such unreasonable creatures—and whenever he applied to his uncle for a trifle, the uncle would spout the Scriptures in Latin, saying something about the unfitness of casting pearls before pigs, and that he would rather see him hanged than help him.
Once—it was in the middle of winter—the poor smith had been without any work for days and days. He had spent his last penny; then the baker would not give him any more bread on credit, and at last, on a cold, frosty night, the poor children had been obliged to go to bed supperless.
The smith, who had sworn a few days before never again to put his foot in the priest's house, was, in his despair, obliged to humble himself, and go and beg for a loaf of bread, with which to satisfy his children on the morrow.
Before he knocked at the door, he went and peeped in through the half-closed shutters, and he saw his uncle and the cook seated by a roaring fire, with their feet on the fender, munching roasted chestnuts and drinking mulled wine. Their shining lips still seemed greasy from the fat sausages they had eaten for supper, and, as he sniffed at the window, he fancied the air was redolent with the spices of black-pudding. The smell made his mouth water and his hungry stomach rumble.
The poor man knocked at the door with a trembling hand; his legs began to quake, he had not eaten the whole of that long day; but then he thought of his hungry children, and knocked with a steadier hand.
The priest, hearing the knock, thought it must be some pious parishioner bringing him a fat pullet or perhaps a sleek sucking-pig, the price of a mass to be said on the morrow; but when, instead, he saw his nephew, looking as mean and as sheepish as people usually do when they go a-begging, he was greatly disappointed.
"What do you want, bothering here at this time of the night?" asked the old priest, gruffly.
"Uncle," said the poor man, dejectedly.
"I suppose you've been drinking, as usual; you stink of spirits."
"Spirits, in sooth! when I haven't a penny to bless me."
"Oh, if it's only a blessing you want, here, take one and go!"
And the priest lifted up his thumb and the two fingers, and uttered something like "Dominus vobiscum," and then waved him off; whilst the old shrew skulking near him uttered a croaking kind of laugh, and said that a priest's blessing was a priceless boon.
"Yes," replied the smith, "upon a full stomach; but my children have gone to bed supperless, and I haven't had a crust of bread the whole of the day."
"'Man shall not live by bread alone,' the Scriptures say, and you ought to know that if you are a Christian, sir."
"Eh? I daresay the Scriptures are right, for priests surely do not live on bread alone; they fatten on plump pullets and crisp pork-pies."
"Do you mean to bully me, you unbelieving beggar?"
"Bully you, uncle!" said the burly man, in a piteous tone; "only think of my starving children."
"He begrudges his uncle the grub he eats," shrieked the old cat of a cook.
"I'd have given you something, but the proud man should be punished," said the wrathful priest, growing purple in the face.
"Oh, uncle, my children!" sobbed the poor man.
"What business has a man to have a brood of brats when he can't earn enough to buy bread for them?" said the cook, aloud, to herself.
"Will you hold your tongue, you cantankerous old cat?" said the smith to the cook.
The old vixen began to howl, and the priest, in his anger, cursed his nephew, telling him that he and his children could starve for all he cared.
The smith thereupon went home, looking as piteous as a tailless turkey-cock; and while his children slept and, perhaps, dreamt of kolaci, he told his wife the failure he had met with.
"Your uncle is a brute," said she.
"He's a priest, and all priests are brutes, you know."
"Well, I don't know about all of them, for I heard my great-grandmother say that once upon a time there lived——"
"Oh, there are casual exceptions to every rule!" said her husband.
"But, now, what's to be done?"
"Listen," said the wife, who was a shrewd kind of woman; "we can't let the children starve, can we?"
"No, indeed!"
"Then follow my advice. I know of a grass that, given to a horse, or an ox, or a sheep, or a goat, makes the animal fall down, looking as if it were dead."
"Well, but you don't mean to feed the children with this grass, do you?" said the smith, not seeing the drift of what she meant.
"No; but you could secretly go and give some to your uncle's fattest ox."
"So," said the husband, scratching his head.
"Once the animal falls down dead, he'll surely give it to you, as no butcher 'll buy it; we'll kill it and thus be provided with meat for a long time. Besides, you can sell the bones, the horns, the hide, and get a little money besides."
"And for to-morrow?"
"I'll manage to borrow a few potatoes and a cup of milk."
On the next day the wife went and got the grass, and the smith, unseen, managed to go and give it to his uncle's fattest ox. A few hours afterwards the animal was found dead.
On hearing that his finest ox was found in the stable lying stiff and stark the priest nearly had a fit; and his grief was still greater when he found out that not a man in the village would offer him a penny for it, so when his nephew came he was glad enough to give it to him to get rid of it.
The cook, who had prompted the priest to make a present of the ox to his nephew, hoped that the smith and all his family would be poisoned by feeding on carrion flesh.
"But," said the uncle, "bring me back the bones, the horns, and the hide."
To everyone's surprise, and to the old cook's rage, the smith and his children fed on the flesh of the dead ox, and throve on it. After the ox had all been eaten up, the priest lost a goat, and then a goose, in the same way, and the smith and his family ate them up with evident gusto.
After that, the old cook began to suspect foul play on the part of the smith, and she spoke of her suspicions to her master.
The priest got into a great rage, and wanted to go at once to the police and accuse his nephew of sorcery.
"No," said the cook, "we must catch them on the hip, and then we can act."
"But how are we to find them out?"
After brooding over the matter for some days, the cook bethought herself that the best plan would be to shut herself up in a cupboard, and have it taken to the nephew's house.
The priest, having approved of her plan, put it at once into execution.
"I have," said the uncle to the nephew, "an old cupboard which needs repairing; will you take it into your house and keep it for a few days?"
"Willingly," said the nephew, who had not the slightest suspicion of the trap laid to catch him.
The cupboard was brought, and put in the only room the smith possessed; the children looked at it with wonder, for they had never seen such a big piece of furniture before. The wife had some suspicion. Still, she kept her own counsel.
Soon afterwards the remains of the goose were brought on the table, and, as the children licked the bones, the husband and wife discussed what meat they were to have for the forthcoming days—was it to be pork, veal, or turkey?
As they were engrossed with this interesting topic, a slight, shrill sound came out of the cupboard.
"What's that?" said the wife, whose ears were on the alert.
"I didn't hear anything," said the smith.
"Apshee," was the sound that came again from the cupboard.
"There, did you hear?" asked the wife.
"Yes; but from where did that unearthly sound come?"
The wife, without speaking, winked at her husband and pointed to the cupboard.
"Papshee," was now heard louder than ever.
The children stopped gnawing the goose's bones; they opened their greasy mouths and their eyes to the utmost and looked scared.
"There's some one shut in the cupboard," said the smith, jumping up, and snatching up his tools.
A moment afterwards the door flew open, and to everyone's surprise, except the wife's, the old cook was found standing bolt upright in the empty space and listening to what they were saying.
The old woman, finding herself discovered, was about to scream, but the smith caught her by the throat and gave her such a powerful squeeze, that before knowing what he was doing, he had choked the cook to death.
The poor man was in despair, for he had never meant to commit a murder—he only wanted to prevent the old shrew from screaming.
"Bog me ovari! what is to become of me now?"
"Pooh!" said the wife, shrugging her shoulders; "she deserves her fate; as we make our bed, so must we lie."
"Yes," quoth the smith, "but if they find out that I've strangled her, they'll hang me."
"And who'll find you out?" said she. "Let's put a potato in her mouth and lock up the cupboard again; they'll think that she choked herself eating potatoes."
The smith followed his wife's advice, and early on the morrow the priest came again and asked for his press.
"Talking the matter over with the cook," said he, "I've decided not to have my cupboard repaired, so I've come to take it back."
"Your cook is right," said the smith's wife; "she's a wise old woman, your cook is."
"Very," said the priest, uncomfortably.
"There's more in her head than you suppose," said the wife, thinking of the potato.
"There is," said the priest.
"Give my kind respects to your cook," said the wife as the men were taking the cupboard away.
"Thank you," said the priest, "I'll certainly do so."
About an hour afterwards the priest came back, ghastly pale, to his nephew, and taking him aside said:
"My dear nephew—my only kith-and-kin—a great misfortune has befallen me."
"What is it, uncle?" asked the smith.
"My cook," said the priest, lowering his voice, "has—eating potatoes—somehow or other—I don't know how—choked herself."
"Oh!" quoth the smith, turning pale, "it is a great misfortune; but you'll say masses for her soul and have her properly buried."
"But the fact is," interrupted the priest, "she looks so dreadful, with her eyes starting out of their sockets, and her mouth wide open, that I'm quite frightened of her, and besides, if the people see her they'll say that I murdered her."
"Well, and how am I to help you?"
"Come and take her away, in a sack if you like; then bury her in some hole, or throw her down a well. Do whatever you like, as long as I am rid of her."
The smith scratched his head.
"You must help me; you are my only relation. You know that whatever I have 'll go to you some day, so——"
"And when people ask what has become of her?"
"I'll say she's gone to her—her niece."
"Well, I don't mind helping you, as long as I don't get into a scrape myself."
"No, no! How can you get into trouble?"
The priest went off, and soon afterwards the smith went to his uncle's house, and taking a big sack, shoved the cook into it and tied the sack up, put it on his shoulders and trudged off.