"Here," said the uncle, "take this florin to get a glass of wine on the way, and I hope I'll never see her any more—nor," he added to himself—"you either."
It was a warm day, and the cook was heavy. The poor man was in a great perspiration; his throat was parched; the road was dusty and hilly. After an hour's march he stopped at a roadside inn to drink a glass of wine. He quaffed it down at a gulp and then he had another, and again another, so that when he came out everything was rather hazy and blurred. Seeing some carts of hay at the door which were going to the next town, he asked permission to get on top of one of the waggons. The permission was not only granted, but the carter even helped him to hoist his sack on top. The smith, in return, got down and offered the man a glass of wine for his kindness. Then he again got on the cart and went off to sleep. An hour or two afterwards, when he awoke, the sack was gone. Had it slipped down? had it been stolen from him?—he could not tell. He did not ask for it, but he only congratulated himself at having so dexterously got rid of the cook, and at once went back home.
That evening his children had hardly been put to bed when the door was opened, and his uncle, looking pale and scared, came in panting.
"She's back, she's back!" he gasped.
"Who is back?" asked the astonished smith.
"Why, she, the cook."
"Alive?" gasped the smith.
"No, dead in the sack."
"Then how the deuce did she get back?"
"How? I ask you how?"
"I really don't know how. I dug a hole ten feet deep, half filled the hole with lime, then the other half with stones and earth, and I planted a tree within the hole, and covered the earth all around with sods. It gave me two days' work. I'll take and show you the place if you like."
The priest looked at his nephew, bewildered.
"But, tell me," continued the smith, "how did she come back?"
"Well, they brought me a waggon of hay, and on the waggon there was a sack, which I thought must contain potatoes or turnips which some parishioner sent me, so I had the sack put in the kitchen. When the men had gone I undid the sack, and to my horror out pops the cook's ugly head, staring at me with her jutting goggle-eyes and her gaping mouth, looking like a horrid jack-in-the-box. Do come and take her away, or she'll drive me out of my senses; but come at once."
The smith went back to the priest's house, tied the cook in the sack, and then putting the sack on his shoulders, he carried his load away. He had made up his mind to go and chuck her down one of those almost bottomless shafts which abound in the stony plains of the Karst.
He walked all night; at daybreak he saw a man sleeping on the grass by the highway, having near him a sack exactly like the one he was carrying.
"What a good joke it'll be," thought he, "to take that sack and put mine in its stead."
He at once stepped lightly on the grass, put down the cook, took up the other sack, which was much lighter than his own, and scampered back home as fast as his weary legs could carry him.
An hour afterwards the sleeping man awoke, took up his sack, which he was surprised to find so much heavier than it had been when he had gone off to sleep, and then went on his way.
That evening the priest came back to his nephew's house, looking uglier and more ghastly, if possible, than the evening before. Panting and gasping, with a weak and broken voice:
"She's back again," he said in a hoarse whisper.
The smith burst out laughing.
"It's no laughing matter," quoth the priest, with a long face.
"No, indeed, it isn't," replied the nephew; "only, tell me how she came back."
"A pedlar, an honest man whom I sometimes help by lending him a trifle on his goods—merely out of charity—brought me a sack of shoes, begging me to keep it for him till he found a stall for to-morrow's fair. I told him to put the sack in the kitchen, and he did so. When he had gone, I thought I'd just see what kind of shoes he had for sale, and whether he had a pair that fitted me. I opened the sack, and I almost fainted when I saw the frightful face of the cook staring at me."
"And now," asked the smith, "am I to carry her away again, for you know, uncle, she is rather heavy; and besides——"
"No," replied the priest; "I'll go away myself for a few days; during that time drown her, burn or bury her; in fact, do what you like with her, as long as you get rid of her. Perhaps, knowing I'm not at home, she'll not come back. In the meanwhile, as you are my only relation, come and live in my house and take care of my things as if they were your own; and they'll be yours soon enough, for this affair has made an old man of me."
The priest went home, followed by his nephew. Arriving there, he went to the stable, saddled the mare, got on her, gave his nephew his blessing, bade him take care of his house, and trotted off. No sooner had he gone than the smith saddled the stallion, then went and took the cook out of the sack, tied her on the stallion's saddle, then let the horse loose to follow the mare.
The poor priest had not gone a mile before he heard a horse galloping behind him, and, fearing that it was the police coming to bring him back, he spurred the mare and galloped on; but the faster he rode, the quicker the stallion galloped after him.
Looking round, the priest, to his horror and dismay, saw his cook, with her eyes starting wildly out of their sockets, and her horrid mouth gaping as black as the hole of hell, chasing him, nay, she was only a few yards behind.
The terrified priest spurred on the mare, which began to gallop along the highway; but withal she flew like an arrow, the stallion was gaining ground at every step. The priest, fainting with fear, lost all his presence of mind; he then spurred the mare across country. The poor animal reared at first, and then began to gallop over the stony plain; no obstacles could stop her, she jumped over bushes and briars, stumbling almost at every step.
The priest, palsied with terror, as ghastly pale as a ghost, could not help turning round; alas! the cook was always at his heels. His fear was such that he almost dropped from his horse. He lashed the poor mare, forgetful of all the dangers the plains of the Karst presented, for the ground yawned everywhere—here in huge, deep clefts, there in bottomless shafts; or it sank in cup-like hollows, all bordered with sharp, jagged rocks, or concealed in the bushes that surround them. His only thought was to escape from the grim spectre that pursued him. The lame and bleeding mare had stopped on the brink of one of these precipices, trembling and convulsed with terror. The priest, who had just turned round, dug his spurs into the animal's sides; she tried to clear the cleft, but missed her footing, and rolled down in the abyss. The stallion, seeing the mare disappear, stopped short, and uttered a loud neigh, shivering with fear. The shock the poor beast had got burst the bonds which held the corpse on his back, and the cook was thus chucked over his head on the prone edge of the pit.
A few days afterwards some peasants who happened to pass by found the cook sitting, stiff and stark, astride on a rock, seemingly staring, with eyes starting from their sockets and her black mouth gaping widely, at the mangled remains of her master's corpse.
As the priest had told the clerk that he was going away for a few days, everybody came to the conclusion that his cook, having followed him against his will, had frightened the mare and thus caused her own and her master's death.
The smith having been left in possession of his uncle's house, as well as of all his money and estates, and being, moreover, the only legal heir, thus found himself all at once the richest man in the village. As he was beloved by everybody, all rejoiced at his good luck, especially all those who owed money to the priest and whose debts he cancelled.
"You liked this story?" said the old man to Vranic, as soon as he had finished.
"Yes," replied the tailor, thinking of the ghastly, livid corpse, with grinning, gaping mouth, and glassy, goggle eyes, galloping after the priest, and wondering whether she was like the vampire. "Yes, it's an interesting story, but rather gruesome."
"Well, but it's only a story, and, whether ghastly or lively, it's only words, which—as the proverb says—are evanescent as soap-bubbles. Now," continued he, "if you want to go off to sleep, look at this," and he gave him a bit of cardboard, on which were traced several circles; "look at it till you see all these rings wheeling round. When they disappear, you'll be asleep."
The old man put the bit of cardboard before Vranic, who leaned his elbows on the table and his head between the palms of his hands, and stared at the drawing. Five minutes afterwards he was fast asleep.
When he awoke the next morning, his head was not only aching, but his weakness had so much increased that he had hardly strength enough to stand on his feet. He, therefore, made up his mind to go to the parish priest, and lay the whole matter before him.
Priests are everywhere but fetich men; therefore, if they have burnt witches for using charms and philters, it is simply because these women trespassed on their own domains, and were more successful than they themselves. Of what use would a priest be if he could not pray for rain, give little sacre coeur bits of flannel as talismans against pestilence, or brass medals to scare away the devil? A priest who can do nothing for us here below, must and will soon fall into discredit. The hereafter is so vague and indefinite that it cannot inspire us with half the interest the present does.
The priest whom Vranic consulted was of the same opinion as the tailor. He, too, believed that probably his brother had become a vampire, who nightly left the tomb to go and suck his blood. For his own sake, as well as for that of the whole town, it would be well to exorcise the ghost. The matter, however, had to be kept a profound secret, as the Government had put its veto on vampire-killing, and looked upon all such practices as illegal.
It was, therefore, agreed that Vranic, together with his relations and some friends, should go to the curate's about ten o'clock at night; there the curate would be waiting for them with another priest; from there the little party would stealthily proceed to the cemetery where the ceremony was to be held.
The Friday fixed upon arrived. The night was dark, the weather sultry; a storm had been brooding in the heavy clouds overhead and was now ready to burst every moment.
As soon as the muffled people got to the gate of the burying-ground the mortuary chapel was opened to them by the sexton. The priests put on their officiating robes, recited several orisons appropriate to the occasion; then, with the Cross carried before them, bearing a holy-water sprinkler in their hands, followed by Vranic and his friends—all with blessed tapers—they went up to the murdered man's tomb. The priest then bade the sexton dig up the earth and bring out the coffin.
The smell, as the pit was being dug lower down, became always more offensive; but when, at last, the rotting deal coffin was drawn out and opened, it became overpoweringly loathsome. The corpse, however, being found in a good state of preservation, there could be no doubt that the dead man was a vampire. It is true that the tapers which everyone held gave but a dim and flickering light; moreover, that the stench was so sickening that all turned at once their heads away in disgust; still, they had all seen enough of the corpse to declare it to be but seemingly dead. The priest, standing as far from it as he possibly could, began at once to exorcise it in the name of the Trinity, the Virgin and all the saints; to sprinkle it with holy water, commanding it not to move, not to jump out of its box and run away—for these ghouls are cunning devils, and if one is not on the alert they skedaddle the moment the coffin is opened. Our priest, however, was a match even for the dead man, and his holy-water sprinkler was uplifted even before the lid of the loathsome chest was loosened.
The storm which had been threatening the whole of that day broke out at last. No sooner had the sexton begun to dig the grave than the wind, which had been moaning and wailing round the stones and wooden crosses, began to howl with a sinister sound. Then, just as the priest uttered the formula of the exorcism—when the coffin was uncovered and the uncanny corpse was seen—a flash of lurid lightning gleamed over its livid features, and the rumbling thunder ended in a tremendous crash; the earth shook as if with the throes of childbirth; hell seemed to yawn and yield forth its fulsome dead. As the priest sprinkled the corpse with holy water, the rain came down in torrents as if to drown the world.
Although the noise was deafening, still some of the men affirm that they heard the corpse lament and entreat not to be killed; but the priest, a tall, stalwart man of great strength and courage, went on perfectly undaunted, paying no heed to the vampire, mumbling his prayers as if the man prostrate before him was some ordinary corpse and this was a commonplace, every-day funeral.
The priest, having reached in his orisons the moment when he uttered the name of Isukrst, or God the Son, Josko Vranic, who stood by, shivering from head to foot, and looking like a cat extracted from a tub of soap-suds, drew out a dagger from under his coat, where it had been carefully concealed from the ghost's sight, and stabbed the corpse. It was, of course, a black steel stiletto, for only such a weapon can kill a vampire. He should have stabbed the dead man in his neck and through the throat, but he was so sick that he could hardly stand; besides, his candle that instant went out, and, moreover, he was terribly frightened, for although he was stabbing but a corpse, still that corpse was his own brother.
A flash of lightning which followed that instant of perfect darkness showed him that the dagger, instead of being stuck in the dead man's neck, was thrust in the right cheek.
The ceremony being now over, the priests and their attendants hastened back to the chapel to take shelter from the rage of the storm, as well as to escape from the pestilential stench.
The sexton alone remained outside to heap up the earth again on the uncanny corpse, and shut up the grave.
"Are you sure you stabbed the corpse in the neck, severing the throat, and thus preventing it from ever sucking blood again?" asked the priest.
"Yes, I believe I have," answered Vranic, with a whining voice.
"I don't ask you what you believe; have you done it—yes, or no?" said the ecclesiastic, sternly.
"Well, just as I lifted my knife to stab, the candle went out. I couldn't see at all; the night was so dark; you all were far from me. Besides, as I bent down, the smell made me so sick that——"
"You don't know where you stabbed?" added the priest, angrily.
"He stabbed him in the cheek!" said the sexton, coming in.
"Fool!" burst out the priest, in a stentorian voice.
"I was sure this would be the case," cried out one of the party.
"Vranic has always been a bungler of a tailor."
"You have done a fine piece of work, you have, indeed, you wretch!" hissed the priest, looking at Vranic scornfully.
"You have endowed that cursed brother of yours with everlasting life," said the other priest, "and now the whole town will be infested with another vampire for ever!"
"Do you really think so?" asked Vranic, ready to burst out crying.
"Think so!" said all the other men, scornfully. "To bring us here in the middle of the night with this storm, to stifle us with this poisonous stench, and this is the result!"
"But really——" stammered Vranic.
"Anyhow, he'll not leave you till he has sucked the last drop of blood from your body."
The storm having somewhat abated, all the company wended their way homewards, taking no notice of the tailor, who followed them like a mangy cur which everyone avoids.
That night, Vranic had not a wink of sleep. No one would have him in his house; nobody would sleep with him, for fear of falling afterwards a prey to the vampire. As soon as he lay down and tried to shut his eyes, the terrifying sight appeared before him. The festering ghost with the horrible gash in the cheek, just over the jaw-bone, was ever present to his eyes; nor could he get rid of the loathsome, sickening stench with which his clothes, nay, his very body, seemed saturated. If a mouse stirred he fancied he could see the ghost standing by him. He hid his head under the bed-cover not to see, not to hear, until he was almost smothered, and every now and then he felt a human hand laid on his head, on his shoulder, on his legs, and his teeth chattered with fear.
The storm ceased; still, the sky remained overcast, and a thin, drizzling rain had succeeded the interrupted showers. The dreadful night came to an end; he was happy to see the grey light of dawn succeed the appalling darkness. Daylight brought with it happier thoughts.
"Perhaps," said he to himself, "my brother was no vampire, after all! Perhaps the blade of the dagger, driven in the cheek, had penetrated slantingly into the neck, severed the throat, and thus killed the vampire; for something must have happened to keep the ghost away."
On the next day Vranic remained shut up at home. He felt sure that his own relations would henceforth hate him, and his acquaintances would stone him if they possibly could. Nothing makes a man not only unjust, but even cruel, like fear, and no fear is greater than the vague dread of the unknown. That whole day he tried to work, but his thoughts were always fixed either on the festering corpse he had stabbed or on the coming night.
Would the ghoul, reeking of hell, come and suck up his blood?
As the light waned his very strength began to flow away, his legs grew weak, his flesh shivered, the beating of his heart grew ever more irregular.
He lighted his little oil-lamp before it was quite dark, looked about stealthily, trembling lest he should see the dreaded apparition before its time, started and shuddered at the slightest noise.
He was weary and worn out by the emotions of the former sleepless night; still, he could not make up his mind to go to bed. He placed his elbows on the board, buried his head within his hands, and remained there brooding over his woes. Without daring to lift up his eyes or look around, he at times stretched out his hand, clutched a gourd full of spirits and took a sip. Time passed, the twilight had faded away into soft, mellow darkness without; but in the tailor's room the little flickering light only rendered the shadows grim and gruesome.
Drink and lassitude at last overpowered the poor man; his head began to get drowsy, his ideas more confused; the heaviness of sleep weighed him down.
All at once he was roused from his lethargy by a sound of rushing winds. He hardly noticed it when it blew from afar, like the slight breeze that ruffles the surface of the sea; but, now that it came nearer, he remembered having heard it some evenings before. He grew pale, panted, and then his breath stopped, convulsed as he was by fear.
As upon the previous night, the wind was lost in the distance, and then in the stillness of the night he heard the low, hushed sound of footsteps coming from afar; but they drew nearer and ever nearer, with a heavy, slow, metrical step. The night-walker was near his house, at his door, on his threshold. The loathsome, sickening smell of corruption grew stronger and stronger. Now it was as overpoweringly nauseous as when he had bent down to stab his dead brother. The sound of footsteps was now within his room; the spectre must surely be by his side. He kept his eyes tightly shut and his head bent down. A cold perspiration was trickling from his forehead and through his fingers on to the table.
All at once, something heavy and metallic was thrown in front of him. Although his eyes were tightly shut, he knew that it was the black dagger that his brother had come to bring him back, and he was not mistaken.
Was there a chuckle just then?
Almost against his will he opened his eyes, lifted his head, and looked at his guest. The vampire was standing by his side grinning at him hideously, notwithstanding the gash in his right cheek.
"Thank you, brother," said he, in a hollow, mocking voice, "for what you did yesterday; you have, in fact, given me everlasting life; and, as one good turn deserves another, you soon will be a vampire along with me. Come, don't look so scared, man; it's a pleasant life, after all. We sleep soundly during the day, and, believe me, no bed is so comfortable as the coffin, no house so quiet as the grave; but at night, when all the world sleeps and only witches are awake, then we not only live, but we enjoy life. No cankering care, no worry about the morrow. We have only fun and frolic, for we suck, we suck, we suck."
Vranic heard the sound of smacking lips just by his neck, the vampire had already laid his hands upon him.
He tried to rise, to struggle, but his strength and his senses forsook him; he uttered a choked, raucous sound, then his breath again stopped spasmodically, his face grew livid, he gasped for breath, his face and lips got to be of a violet hue, his eyes shut themselves, as he dropped fainting in his chair.
A few days after Radonic had been brought back dying, Uros was walking down the mountain path leading from the heights of Montenegro to the Dalmatian coast. He was even in higher spirits than he was usually wont to be.
His father had accompanied him to the frontier, and on the way he had opened his heart to him, and told him of his love for Milena, and even obtained his consent for his marriage, which might take place as soon as her widowhood was over. Bellacic, moreover, had promised to write to his friend, Giulianic, to release him from his pledge.
The day, as it dawned now, was a glorious one, bright, clear and fresh. After the storm and rain of the day before, the dark crags of the Cernagora seemed but newly created, or only just arisen out of the glittering waters that stretched down below in a translucent, misty mass of sluggish streams flowing through a cloudy ocean.
The breeze that blew from the mountain-tops seemed to him like some exhilarating, life-giving fluid. Exercise—not prolonged as yet —rendered his senses of enjoyment keener; he felt happy with himself and with the world at large. He was in one of those rare moods in which a man would like the earth to be a human being, so as to clasp it fondly to his breast, as he does a child, or the woman he loves.
Although he did not rejoice at Radonic's death, still, as he loved Milena, it was natural that he was glad the obstacle to his happiness had been removed, and a wave of joy seemed to rise from his heart upwards as his nerves tingled with excitement at the thought that in a few months she might be his wife.
Therefore, with his blithe and merry character, ever prone to look on the bright side of life, it is easy to imagine his buoyancy of spirits as he walked down to Budua. Every step was bringing him nearer her; before the sun had reached its zenith he would be at home, clasping her in his arms; she—Milena—would be his for ever, and he crossed his arms and hugged himself in his excited state of mind.
Then he began to imagine Milenko's delight when he would hear that he, too, could marry the girl he loved.
It is not to be wondered at that he thought the earth a good dwelling-place, and that life—taking it on the whole—was not only worth living, but very pleasant besides. It is true, he said to himself, that man sometimes mars the work of God with his passions; still, karvarinas were the clouds of life, enhancing the beauty of the bright days which followed sudden showers. Sullen and malicious men like Vranic and his brood were buzzing insects, more tedious than harmful to their fellow-creatures.
Such were the thoughts that flitted through his mind as he walked briskly along, singing as blithely as a lark. As he had, the day before, sent word to Milenko that he would be back on the morrow, he stopped at every turn of the road, and, shading his eyes with his hand, he looked down the road, hoping to see his friend's graceful figure coming to meet him, as was sure to be the case.
He had never been separated from Milenko for so many days, and now that he was about to see him, his longing seemed to increase at every step.
As for Milenko, being of a more sensitive character, and having remained on board, he had missed his friend even more keenly than Uros had done. He would have started to meet him at early dawn, but he had been obliged to remain behind and look after the ship's cargo, that had been delayed the evening before on account of some trifling incident—for, sometimes, things of no importance in themselves lead to the most dreadful calamities. Likewise, the string of one of Milenko's shoes broke, so he stopped to tie it; after some steps it broke again. He stopped once more, pulled off his shoe, unlaced it, tied the string as well as he could. After a quarter of an hour the string of the other shoe broke too; he had again to stop and mend it. More than five minutes was thus lost; besides, the loose strings not only made him linger, but even slacken his pace.
Uros went down singing snatches of some merry song, little thinking that the delay in meeting his friend would almost cost him his life.
The news of Radonic's death had soon been spread about Budua, and he, who had never been a favourite during his lifetime, became a hero after death. The Samson-like way in which he had fought was extolled, the number of wounds he had received, the hundreds of Turks he had killed went on daily increasing. His dauntless courage, his bold feats, his cunningness in council were becoming legendary; in fact, he was for some time a second Marko Kraglievic. The Vranite party —especially after the night of the burying-ground affair—had dwindled into nothing. The Radonites ruled the day.
Earless Vranic, as he was called everywhere, was galled by his defeat; his envious, jealous disposition could find no rest. Being, moreover, doomed to a certain death, he found himself like a stag at bay, and he almost felt at times the courage of despair.
The radiant day which followed the dreadful night when the vampire appeared to him brought no change to Vranic's gloom. He was too much like a night-bird now to feel any pleasure at the sight of the sunlit sky. Like an owl he shunned the light, and only prowled about when every man had shut himself up in his house. He dreaded the sight of a human face on account of the scowl of hatred he was sure to see there, for he knew that everyone looked upon him not as a man, but as the bloodsucker he would soon become.
Having recovered from his fainting-fit after the visit of the voukoudlak, he almost lost his senses again, seeing the black dagger on the table in front of him. With a fluttering heart, and aching head and tottering limbs, he walked about his room, asking himself what he should do and how he could escape the wretchedness of his present life. Suicide never came into his head, for, in spite of all his misery, life still was dear to him. The best thing would, perhaps, be to leave Budua for a short time, and thus frustrate the vampire.
As he had to go and pay the priest for the ceremony of the exorcism, he decided to ask, and perhaps take, his advice upon what he was to do and where he should go. He went grudgingly, indeed, to pay a large sum of money for a ceremony which had been of no avail, and although it had not been the priest's fault if the ghost had not been killed, still the money was being thrown away, for all that.
Before leaving the house, he took the black dagger, washed and scrubbed it with fine sand to cleanse it from the offensive smell it had, then he put it in his breast pocket, where he had had it some nights before. With heavy steps he trudged towards the priest's house at dawn, before the people of the town were up and about the streets. The priest, who was an early riser, had just got up. Vranic, with unwilling hands, undid the strings of his purse, and counted out, with many a sigh, the sum agreed upon, for the priest would not bate a single cent. Then Vranic, with his eyes gloating on the silver dollars, told the clergyman how the vampire had appeared to him and overcome him.
"Aye," said the priest, "I was afraid that would be the case."
"And now I'd like to leave the town, for I might thus avoid the vampire."
"The best thing you could do."
"Yes, but where am I to go in order to escape the ghost?"
"I think the best place for you is the Convent of St. George. Surely the spectre 'll not follow you there in those hallowed walls, amongst all those saintly men."
"Yes, but will the brotherhood receive me?"
"Tell them that I sent you. Moreover, I'll call myself during the day and speak to them. May I add that, perhaps, you'll be induced to turn caloyer yourself some day or other. Meanwhile, a little charity to the convent would render your stay more agreeable. You know the brotherhood is poor."
Vranic thanked the priest, and promised to be guided by his advice; still, he could not help thinking of all the money this new scheme might cost him. It is true, if he turned friar, he might get rid of the vampire, but would he not also lose all his money into the bargain?
Which was the greater evil of the two—to be sucked of all his blood, or drained of all his money?
Out of the town gate, far from the haunts and scowling faces of men, he breathed a little more at ease. Were they not all a set of grasping, covetous ghouls, whose only aim was to wrench all he had from him? The dazzling sunshine and the dancing waves, far from soothing him, only irritated him, for he fancied that all the world was blithe, merry and happy, and he alone was miserable. He thought how happy he, too, might have been had that cursed karvarina not taken place. He had never felt any deep hatred against Radonic, nor had he any real reason for disliking him; for, to be true to himself, his brother's murder had been an incident, not an accident, in his life. It was not Radonic's fault if the ghost-seer had become a vampire after his death. All his grudge was rather against Bellacic, who had helped to frustrate him of a good round sum of money, owed to him for his brother's blood. He hated him especially for having inflicted a bodily and moral wound by cutting off his ear, rendering him thus an object of everlasting scorn in the whole town.
Radonic was dead, but Bellacic lived to triumph over him. If he could only wreak his vengeance upon him he might pacify the vampire's rage; if not, he could always make his escape into the convent. With these thoughts in his head, he clutched the handle of the dagger and, as he did so, he shivered from head to foot with a kind of hellish delight.
Just then he fancied he heard a distant chuckle and looked round. He could see nobody. It was only his imagination. Almost at the same time he heard a voice whisper softly in his ear:
"Use this dagger against my enemies better than you did against me, and then, perhaps, you might be free."
Was it his brother ordering him what he was to do? Instead of stopping at the convent, should he go on to Montenegro, waylay Bellacic and murder him?
He had been walking, or rather, crawling quietly on, for about two hours; the sun was high up in the sky, the day was hot, the road dusty, and, worn out by sleeplessness, by worry and, above all, by the great loss of blood, he was now overcome by weariness and weakness. The monastery was at last in sight; still, he felt as if he could hardly crawl any further on; so, undecided as he was, he sat down at the side of some laurel-bushes to rest and make up his mind as to what he was to do.
He had not been sitting there a quarter of an hour, blinking at the sun, like an owl, when he heard snatches of an unknown song, wafted from afar. It was not one of the plaintive lays of his own country, but a lively, blithe Italian canzonet, with trills that sounded like the merry warbling of a lark. The singing stopped—it began again, then stopped once more; after that he heard a light, brisk step coming towards him. A man who could sing and walk in such a way must surely be happy, he thought. Then, without knowing who the man was, he hated him for being happy. Why should some people have all the sweetness, and others all the gall of life? he asked himself. Is not this world a fool's paradise for him and a dungeon for me? In my wretchedness he seems to taunt me with his mirth. Well, if ever I become a vampire, the first blood I'll suck is that man's; and I'll drain the very last drop, for it must be warm and sweet.
Just then the light-hearted singer passed by the laurel-bushes, without perceiving the owl-like man half hidden behind them. Vranic, lifting up his head, saw the flushed face, the sparkling eyes, the red and parted lips of his enemy's son—the youth who, by his beauty and his criminal love, had been the cause of all the mischief. Had it not been for him, his brother would probably not have been murdered, and, what was far worse, become a voukoudlak. Instinctively he clasped the handle of his dagger, and the words he had heard a little while before rang once more in his ears, urging him to make good use of the knife now that an opportunity offered itself. Besides, would not his revenge be a far keener one in killing this young man, his father's only son, than in murdering Bellacic himself? This was real karvarina, and his lost ear would be dearly paid for.
Uplifted by a strength which was not his own, urged on almost unconsciously, Vranic jumped up and ran after the merry youth.
Uros just at that moment had perceived Milenko at a distance, and, hurrying down to meet him, he, in his joy, had not heard the fiend spring like a tiger from behind the bush and rush at him with uplifted knife.
Milenko, seeing Vranic appear all at once, with a dagger in his hand, stopped, uplifted both his hands, and uttered a loud cry of terror, threat and anger.
Uros, for an instant, could not understand what was happening; but hearing someone running after him, and already close to his heels, he turned round, and to his horror he saw Josko Vranic scowling at him. The face, with its blinking eyes and all its nerves twitching frightfully, had a fierce and fiendish expression—it was, in fact, just as he had seen it in the glass on New Year's Eve, at the fatal stroke of twelve.
A moment of overpowering superstitious terror came over Uros; he knew that his last hour had arrived. In his distracted state, Uros had only time to lift up his arm in an attitude of self-defence, but Vranic was already upon him, plunging the sharp-pointed blade in his breast. The youth uttered a low, muffled groan, staggered, put his hands instinctively to the deep gash, as if to stop the blood from all rushing out; then he fell senseless on the ground.
Vranic plucked the poniard out of the wound mechanically; his arm fell heavily of its own weight. Then, struck with a sudden terror, not because he saw Milenko rushing up, but because he was bewildered at what he had so rashly done, he, after standing quite still for a moment, turned round and fled.
Milenko had already rushed to his friend's side; he was clasping him in his arms, lifting him up with the tender fondness of a mother nursing a sickly babe. Alas! all his loving care seemed vain; the point of the dagger must have entered within his heart, and death had been instantaneous.
Milenko did not lose his presence of mind for an instant; nor did he try to run after the murderer. He took off his broad sash which he wore as a belt, tore up his shirt, rolled a smooth stone in the rag, and with this pad (to stop up the blood) he bandaged up the wound as tightly as he possibly could. Then he took up his friend in his arms, and although Uros was a heavier weight than himself, still his life of a sailor had strengthened his muscles to such a degree that he carried his burden, if not with ease, at least, not with too great difficulty, down to the neighbouring convent.
It was well known in town that some of the holy men were versed in medicine, and especially that the secret of composing salves, and the knowledge of simples with which to heal deadly wounds, was transmitted by one friar on his death-bed to another. Still, when Milenko had laid down his friend upon a bed, the wisest of these wise men shook their heads gravely and declared the case to be a desperate one. The head surgeon said that, if life were not already extinct—as Milenko had believed—still the youth's recovery could only be brought about by a miracle, for he was already beyond all human help.
Milenko felt his legs giving way. A cold, damp draught seemed to blow on his face.
"He might," continued the old man, "last some hours; he might even linger on for some days."
"Anyhow," added another caloyer, "we have time to administer the Holy
Sacrament and prepare him for heaven."
"Oh, yes! there is time for that," quoth the doctor, shrugging his shoulders; "but, before the wine and bread, I'll prepare the cathartic water with which to wash the wound, for while there is life a doctor must not give up hope."
"Then," said Milenko, falteringly, "I can leave him to your care, and run and fetch his mother; he'll not pass away till my return?"
"Not if you make every possible haste."
"You promise?"
"He is in God's hands, my son."
With a heavy heart, and with the tears ever trickling down his cheeks, Milenko ran down the mountain, and all the way from the convent to the gates of Budua. He stopped to take breath before Bellacic's house, and then he went in, and, composing his face as well as he could, he gently broke the terrible news to the forlorn mother.
Mara was a most courageous woman. Far from fainting and requiring all attendance upon herself, she bethought herself at once of the difficulty in the way, for she knew that no women were admitted into a convent of monks. One person alone might help her. This was her uncle, a priest of high degree, and a most important personage in the town.
She hastened to his house, and, having explained matters to him, she implored him to start at once with her for the Convent of St. George and obtain for her the permission she required. The good man, although he hated walking, was not only very fond of his niece, but loved Uros as his own son, so he acceded at once to her request and set out with her, notwithstanding that it was nearly dinner-time, and not exactly an hour suited for a long up-hill walk. Milenko, having broken the news to Mara, hastened to his own house to inform his parents of the great misfortune. His father, snatching up a loaf of bread and a gourd of wine, started at once with him. He would go as far as the convent, enquire there how Uros was getting on, and then hasten on to Montenegro and inform Bellacic of what had taken place. When they all got to the convent they found that Uros was still alive and always unconscious.
Just when Milenko had got back to the convent he remembered that, in his hurry to go and return, he had forgotten one person, dearer to his friend, perhaps, even than father or mother; that person was Milena.
When the news of Radonic's death reached Budua, Milena made up her mind to return to her father's house. Still, she was rather weak to undertake the journey, and, moreover, she would not go there until Uros had come back.
On the morning on which Uros was expected she had gone to her own house, to put things in order previous to her departure, and Mara had promised to come and see her that afternoon, and take her home with her.
Time passed; Milena was sitting in her house alone, waiting for her friend. At every step she heard outside, her heart would begin to beat faster, and with unsteady steps she would go to the window, hoping to see Uros and his mother; but she was always disappointed. Her sufferings had told their tale upon her thin pale face, which, though it had lost all its freshness, had acquired a new and more ethereal kind of beauty. Her large and lustrous eyes—staring at vacancy—seemed to be gazing at some woful, soul-absorbing vision. The whole of that day she had been a prey to the most gloomy forebodings.
All at once a little urchin of about four or five summers stood on the doorstep.
"Gospa Milena," lisped the little child, "I've come to see you."
It had been a daring deed to wander all the way from home by himself, and he was rather frightened.
This child was the son of one of Mara's neighbours, whom Milena had of late made a pet of, and whom she had sometimes taken along with her when coming to her house.
Milena turned round and looked at the little child, that might well have been taken for an angel just alighted from heaven, for the slanting rays of the setting sun shining through his fair, dishevelled, curly locks seemed to form a kind of halo round his little head.
"Have you come all the way from home to see me?"
"Yes," said the child, staring at her to see whether she was cross.
"I've come for you to tell me a story."
Milena caught up the boy and covered him with kisses. She was about to ask him if he knew whether Uros had returned, but the question lingered for an instant on her lips; then she blushed, and feared to frame her thoughts in words. Anyhow, it was a very good excuse to shut up her house and take the little boy back home.
"Will you tell me a story?" persisted the urchin.
"Yes," said Milena, smiling, "for you must be tired and hungry, too."
She went into the orchard behind the house, and presently came back with a huge peach, which made the child's eyes glisten with pleasure.
"Now, come and sit down here, and when you've finished your peach
I'll take you home."
Thereupon she sat down on her favourite seat, the doorstep, and the child nestled by her side.
"What story shall I tell you?"
"One you've already told me," replied the boy, for, like almost all children, he liked best the stories he already knew.
Milena then began the oft-repeated tale of
"Once a farmer's only son married a very young girl——"
"How old was she?" interrupted the child.
"She was sixteen."
"Last time you told me she was fifteen."
"So she was, but that was a year ago. They had a very grand wedding, to which all the people of the village were invited——"
"Not the village, the town," said the child.
"You are right," added Milena, correcting herself.
"For eight days they danced the Kolo every night, and had grand dinners and suppers."
"What had they for dinner?"
"They had roast lambs, castradina, chickens, geese——"
"And also sausages?"
"Yes; and ever so many other good things."
"But what had they for supper?"
"They had huge loaves of milk-bread and cakes with raisins——"
"Had they also peaches?" asked the boy, with his mouth full, whilst the juice of his own luscious peach was trickling down his chin.
"Yes; they had also grapes, melons and pomegranates; so when every guest had eaten till he could hardly stand, all squatted on the floor and sucked sticks of sugar-candy. When the eight days' feasting was over, the bridegroom weighed himself and, to his dismay, found that he was eight pounds lighter than on the eve of his marriage."
"Why?" asked the child, with widely-opened eyes.
"Because," answered Milena, with a slight smile and the faintest of blushes, "because, I suppose, he had danced too much."
"But if he ate till he couldn't stand?"
"Anyhow," continued Milena, "he was so frightened when he saw how much he had lost in weight that he made up his mind to run away and leave his wife at home."
"But why?" quoth the urchin.
"Because he thought that if he kept getting thin at that rate, nothing would soon be left of him. He, therefore, made a bundle of his clothes and went off in the middle of the night. He walked and walked, and after a few days, at early dawn, he got to a bleak and desolate country, where there was nothing but huge rocks, sharp flints, and sandy tracts of ground. Far off he saw a large castle, with high stone walls and big iron gates. Being very tired and not seeing either a tree or a bush as far as eye could reach, he went and knocked at one of the gates. An elderly gentleman, dressed in black, came to open, and asked him what he wanted.
"'I come,' said the bridegroom, 'to see if you are, perhaps, in want of a serving-man.'
"'You come in the nick of time,' said the old man, grinning. 'I'll take you as my cook; you'll not have much to do.'
"'But,' answered the young man, 'I'm not very clever as a cook.'
"'It doesn't matter; you'll only have to keep a pot boiling and be ever stirring what's in it.'
"He then led the young man into a kind of underground kitchen, where there was an immense pot hanging on a hook, and underneath a roaring fire was burning. Then the old gentleman gave the youth a ladle as big as a shovel, and bade him stir continually, and every now and then add more fuel to the fire.
"The youth stirred on and on for twenty-five years, and then he grew tired and stopped for a while. When he was about to begin again he heard a voice coming out of the cauldron, which said:
"'You've been mixing us up for a good long while; couldn't you let us have a little rest?'
"The cook—who was no more a youth, but an elderly man—got frightened. He left the kitchen and went to find his master.
"'Well,' said the elderly gentleman, who was not a day older than he had been twenty-five years before, 'what is it you want?'
"'I'm rather tired of always stirring that pot, and I'd like to go home.'
"'Quite right,' replied the master. 'I suppose you want your wages?'
"He then went to an iron box and took out two big sacks of gold coins.
"'You have served me faithfully, and I'll pay you accordingly. This money is yours.'
"The man took the money and thanked his master.
"'I'll give you, moreover, some advice, which is, perhaps, worth more than the money itself. Listen to my words, and remember them. Upon leaving me, always take the high road; on no account go through lanes and byways. Never put up for the night at little hostelries, but always stop at the largest inns. Whenever you are about to commit some rash act, defer your purpose till the morrow. Lastly, when people speak badly of the devil, tell them that he is less black than he is painted.'
"The man thanked his master and went off. He walked for some time on the highway, and then he met another traveller, who was walking in the same direction. After a few hours they came to a crossway.
"'Let us take this path, for we'll get to the next town two hours sooner,' said the traveller.
"The devil's cook was about to follow the stranger's advice, when he heard his master's words ringing in his ears: 'Always take the high road, and on no account go through lanes and byways.'
"He, therefore, told his fellow-traveller how he had pledged his word to his master to follow his advice. As neither could persuade the other, they parted company, promising each other to meet again at nightfall, at the neighbouring town.
"As soon as the devil's cook reached the inn where he was to spend the night, he asked for his new friend, and, on the morrow, he was grieved to hear that a wayfarer, answering to the traveller's description, had been murdered the day before, when crossing the lonely byway leading to the town.
"The devil's cook set out once more on his way, and he was soon overtaken by a party of merry pedlars, all journeying towards his native town, where, a few days afterwards, there was to be a fair held in honour of a patron saint. He made friends with all of them, especially as he bought silk kerchiefs, dresses and trinkets, as presents for his wife. They trudged along the high road, avoiding all short cuts, lanes and byways. In the evening they came to a large village, where they were to pass the night.
"'Let us stop here,' said one of the party, pointing to a tavern by the roadside; 'I know the landlord; the cooking is very good, nowhere can you get a better glass of wine; and besides, it is much cheaper than at the large inn farther down.'
"The devil's cook was already on the threshold, when he again remembered his master's words:
"'Never put up at little hostelries, but always stop at the larger inns.'
"He, therefore, parted from his company, and went off by himself to the next inn.
"He had his supper by himself, and then, being very tired, he went off to bed. In the middle of the night he was awakened by a very loud noise and a great bustle. He got out of bed, and, going to the window, he saw the sky all red, and the village seemed to be in flames. He went downstairs, and he was told that the little tavern by the roadside was burning. It appears that the travellers who had stopped there had all got drunk. Somehow or other they had set fire to the house, and, in their sleep, had all got burnt.
"The devil's cook was again grateful to his master for his good advice, and on the morrow he once more set out on his way alone.
"In the evening he at last reached his native town. He was surprised at the many changes that had taken place since he had left it twenty-five years before. On the square, just in front of his own house, a large inn had been built; therefore, instead of going at once to his wife's, he went to pass the night at the inn, and see what was taking place at home.
"From the windows of the inn he saw all his house illuminated, and people coming in and going out as if some wedding or other grand feast were taking place. Then, in one of the rooms of the first floor he saw his wife—now a buxom matron—together with two handsome youths in priest's attire. To his horror and dismay, he saw her hugging and fondling the young men, who were covering her with kisses. At this sight he got into such a rage that he took out his pistol."
"No," said the child, interrupting, "he took up his gun, which was in a corner of the room."
"Quite right," answered Milena; "he took up his gun, aimed at his wife, and was about to shoot, when he fancied he heard his master's voice saying:
"'Whenever you are about to commit some rash act, put off your purpose till the morrow.'
"He, therefore, thought he would postpone his revenge till the next day, and he went downstairs to have his supper.
"'Who lives opposite,' he asked of the landlord, 'in that house where they seem to be having such grand doings?'
"'A very virtuous woman,' quoth the host, 'whose husband disappeared in a strange, mysterious way on the eighth day of the wedding feast, and has never been heard of since.'
"'And she never married again?'
"'No, of course not.'
"'But who are those two handsome priests that are with her?'