"'Those are her two boys, twins born shortly after the marriage. The house is illuminated as to-morrow the two young men are to be consecrated priests, and their mother is giving a feast in their honour.'
"On the morrow the husband went home, made himself known, presented each of his two sons with a sack of gold coins, gave his wife all the beautiful presents he had bought for her; then he went to church and assisted at the ceremony of the consecration. After that he gave all his old friends a splendid feast, which lasted eight days; and he told them how, for twenty-five years, he had served the devil, who was by no means as black as he is painted."
"I wonder," said the child, "if he got thin again after the feast."
"I don't know," replied Milena, "for the story stops there."
"No, it doesn't, for my papa said that many people tried to go and offer themselves as cooks to the devil, but that they had never been heard of since then."
"And now I'll take you home. Perhaps we'll meet gospa Mara on our way."
"No, we'll not meet her," said the child, abruptly.
"Why? Because Uros has come home?"
"But Uros hasn't come home."
"How do you know?"
"I know, because Capitan Milenko came this morning and told gospa Mara that Josko Vranic had killed Uros, and so she went off at once to the Convent of St. George, where——"
Milena heard no more. A deadly faintness came over her; she loosened the grasp of the door she had clutched, her legs sank under her, and she fell lifeless on the ground.
The urchin looked at her astonished. He, for a moment, gave up sucking his peach-stone; then he turned on his heels and scampered home to inform his mother about what had happened.
When Mara reached the convent, it was with the greatest difficulty, and only through the persuasive influence of her uncle, Danko Kvekvic, that she was allowed to see her son. Uros, moreover, had to be transported from the cell into which he had been carried, into a room near the church—a sort of border-land between the sanctuary and the convent. Even there she was only allowed to remain till nightfall.
"Tell me," said Mara, to the ministering monk (a man more than six feet in height, and who, in his black robes, seemed a real giant), "tell me, do you think he might pass away during the night while I am not with him?"
"No, I don't think so. He is young and strong; he is one of our sturdy race—a Iugo Slav, not a Greek, or an effete Turk eaten away by vice and debauchery. He'll linger on."
"Still, there is no hope?"
"Who can tell? I never said there was none. For me, as long as there is a faint spark of life, there is always hope."
"Still, you have administered the sacrament to him?"
"You wouldn't have him die like a dog, would you?" answered the priest, combing out his long white beard with his fingers.
"No, certainly not."
"Besides, we all take the sacrament when we are in bodily health. Your son came to himself for a few moments, and we seized the opportunity to administer to him the Holy Communion and pray with him; it does no harm to the body, whilst it sets the troubled mind at ease."
Danko Kvekvic, Mara and Milenko crossed themselves devoutly.
"It cannot be denied," continued the monk, "that our patient lies there with both his feet in the grave. Still, God is omnipotent. I have seen many a brave man fall on the battlefield——"
"You have been in war?" asked Milenko, astonished.
"Bearing the Cross and tending the wounded."
"Still, it is said that at times you wielded the gun with remarkable dexterity," interrupted Danko Kvekvic, with a keen smile.
"Do people say so? Well, what if they do? I am sure no harm is meant by it; for, if my memory does not deceive me, the very same thing was said about a priest who is no monk of our order, Danko Kvekvic, and who, for all that, is said to be a holy man."
"Well, well, we all try to serve our God and our country as well as we can; and no doubt we have done our best to save our flag from being trampled in the dust, or a fellow-countryman's life when in danger. But I interrupted you; tell me what you have seen on the battlefield."
"Nothing, except blood spilt; but I was going to say that I've seen many a man linger within the jaws of death for days together, and then be snatched from danger when his state became desperate."
"By your skill, father," said Mara, "for we are all aware that you know the secrets of plants, and that you have effected wonderful cures by means of simples."
"Aye, aye! perhaps I have been more successful than the learned doctors of Dunaj" (Vienna) "or Benetke" (Venice); "still, shall I tell you the secret of my cures?"
Mara opened her eyes in wonder. "I thought it was only a death-bed secret transmitted from one dying monk to his successor," said she.
"We are not wizards," said the old man, with a pleasant smile; "we make no mystery of the herbs we seek on the mountains, and even the youngest lay-brother is taught to concoct an elixir or make a salve for wounds."
"But the secret you spoke of?" said Mara.
"It is the pure life-giving air of our mountains, the sobriety of our life, our healthy work in the open fields or on the wide sea. Our sons have in their veins their mothers' blood, for every Serb or Montenegrin woman is a heroine, a brave juna-kinja, who has often suckled her babe with blood instead of milk. These are the secrets with which we heal dying men."
Then, turning to Milenko, he added:
"You, too, must be a brave young man, and wise even beyond your years. You have the courage of reason, for you do not lose your head in moments of great danger. We have already heard how you saved several precious lives from the waves, and now, if your friend does recover—and, with God's help, let us hope he will—it is to you, far more than to anyone else, that he will owe his life. A practised surgeon could surely not have bandaged the wound and stopped the hemorrhage better than you did. Your father should have sent you to study medicine in one of the great towns."
Mara stretched forth her hand and clasped Milenko.
"You never told me what you had done, my boy," said she, while the tears trickled down her cheeks.
"What I did was little enough; besides, did Uros ever tell you how he saved my life and dragged me out of prison at Ragusa?" and Milenko thereupon proceeded to tell them all how he had been accused of manslaughter, and in what a wonderful way he had been saved by his friend.
"In my grief I have always one consolation," said Mara; "should the worst happen, one son is left me, for they are pobratim," said she, turning to the monk.
"What has become of the murderer? Has he been arrested?" asked
Kvekvic of Milenko.
"He took to the rocks and disappeared like a horned adder. At that moment I only thought of Uros, who would have bled to death had he been left alone."
"Oh, those Vranics are a cursed race! The Almighty God has not put a sign on them for nothing. This one has a cast in his eye, so that men should keep aloof from him. They are all a peevish, fretful, malicious race," said Kvekvic.
"Their blood turns to gall," added the monk.
"Oh, but I'll find him out, even if he hide himself in the most secret recess!" quoth Milenko, turning towards Mara. "I'll not rest till my brother's blood is avenged."
"'Tooth for tooth, eye for eye,' say our Holy Scriptures," and Danko
Kvekvic crossed himself.
"Amen!" added the monk, following his example.
Just then Uros opened his eyes. He came to his senses for a few seconds, and, seeing his mother, his pupils seemed to dilate with a yearning look of love. She pressed his hand, and he slightly—almost imperceptibly—returned the pressure. His lips quivered; he was about to speak, when he again closed his eyes and his senses began once more to wander. The monk bathed his lips with the cordial he was administering him. The patient, apparently, had again fallen off to sleep.
Just then the sound of the convent bell was heard.
"I am sorry," said the old caloyer, turning towards his guests, "but I have to dismiss you now; the bell you have just heard summons us to vecernjca. When our prayers are over, the doors of our house are closed for the night—no one comes in or goes out after evensong."
"But we two can surely remain with you to-night," said Kvekvic, pointing to Milenko.
"Surely Father Vjekoslav will readily give you permission to be our honoured guests as long as you like, if he has not already granted it; but——" (here the old man hesitated).
"But what?" asked Kvekvic.
"The gospa," said the monk, turning towards Mara, "must return home."
"Yes, I know," added Mara, sighing as she got up.
"Still," quoth the good caloyer, "we shall take great care of him, and to-morrow morning you can come as early as you like."
The poor mother thanked the good old man; she slightly brushed off the curls from her boy's forehead, kissed him with a deep-drawn sigh, and with tearful eyes rose to go.
"Thank you for all the care you have taken of my child; thank you, uncle Danko, for all your kindness," and she kissed the priest's and the monk's hands, according to the custom of the Slavs.
Just then, a young lay-monk came to inform Mara that someone was asking for her. It was Milenko's mother, who had come up to the convent door to ask how Uros was getting on, and to see if she could be of any use, for Milenko, with his usual thoughtfulness, had begged his mother to come in the evening and accompany her friend back home.
"Go, Milos, and join the brethren in their prayers," said Danko
Kvekvic. "I shall recite my orisons here, beside my nephew's bed."
The monk and Milenko accompanied the forlorn mother to the convent door, and bade her be of good cheer; then they went to church to take part in the evening service.
When the candles were all put out, and echoes of the evening-song had died away, they all slowly, and with stately steps, wended their way to the refectory, where a simple repast was spread out for them. Being Friday, the frugal supper consisted of vegetarian food; there were tomatoes baked with bread-crumbs, egg-plants stuffed with rice, and other such oriental dishes. The dessert, especially, was a sumptuous one, not only on account of the thickly-curded sour milk, but of the splendid fruit which the convent garden afforded. There were luscious plums as big as eggs; large, juicy and fragrant peaches, the flesh of which clung to the stone; huge water-melons, the inside of which looked like crimson snow, and melted away as such, and sweet-scented musk-melons; above all, big clusters of grapes of all shapes and hues; rosy-tinted, translucent berries, looking like pale rubies; dark purple drupes covered with pearly dust, which seemed like bunches of damsons; big white Smyrna grapes of a waxy hue, the small sultana of Corinth, and the long grapes that look like amber tears.
Milenko, notwithstanding the grief he felt, made a hearty meal, for, except a bit of bread, broken off as he walked along from his father's loaf, and a draught of wine, he had scarcely tasted food the whole of that day; therefore, he was more than hungry. Supper being over, and a short thanksgiving prayer having been offered, Milenko found himself all at once surrounded by the monks, who pressed him with questions, for childish curiosity was their prevailing weakness.
They were especially interested in the theatrical performances the young man had witnessed at the Fenice of Venice, for they were amazed to hear that the grand ladies of the town, all glittering with costly gems, sat in boxes, where they exhibited to all eyes their naked arms and breasts, whilst they looked at young girls in transparent skirts hardly reaching their knees, who kept dancing on the tips of their toes, or twirled their legs over their partners' heads. Hearing such lewdness the saintly men were so greatly shocked that they crossed themselves demurely, and the eldest shook their heads, and said, reproachfully, that such dens of infamous resort were not places for modest young men to go to.
After that, Milenko told them of the last great invention, the boats that went without sails, but which had two huge wheels moved by fire; at which the monks again crossed themselves, and said that those were the devil's inventions, and that if things continued at such a rate, God would have to send another flood and destroy the world once more.
Milenko would have willingly escaped from his persecutors, but he still had to answer many questions about his life on board, the hardships he had had to undergo, the storms his ship had met with.
The medical monk had gone to take his place at Uros' bedside, and Danko Kvekvic, after having had some supper, had come out to breathe the fresh air on the convent's terrace, where all the caloyers had assembled before retiring to rest.
The scene was a most lovely one. Behind the terrace the high mountains rose dark against the sky; nearer, the black rocks had furry, velvety, and satin tints, for, under the dark and dusky light of the disappearing twilight, the stones seemed to have grown soft; whilst, on the other side, the broad expanse of the sea looked like a mass of some hard burnished metal.
The utter quietness, the perfect peace and rest which pervaded the whole scene, rendered the sense of life a pleasurable feeling; still, it is doubtful whether most of those holy men—who had never known the real wear and tear of life—felt all the bliss of that beatific rest.
"Now," said Kvekvic to Milenko, "you can come and see your friend, who, I am sorry to say, seems to be sinking; then you must retire to rest; you'll soon have to start with your ship, and you should not unfit yourself for your task."
"No," pleaded Milenko; "it is, perhaps, the last watch we shall keep together; therefore, let me stay by his bedside. But, tell me, is he really getting worse?"
"The fever is increasing fast, notwithstanding the father's medicines."
"Had we not better have a doctor from Budua or Cattaro?"
"I don't think their skill could be of much use, for I really think his hours are numbered here below—although he is young, and might struggle back to life; darkness, albeit, is gathering fast around him."
Milenko, with a heavy heart, went back to the sufferer's cell, where some other monks, also versed in the art of healing, had gathered around him in a grave consultation. They all said to Milenko that there was still hope; but, one by one, they all left the room, making the sign of the Cross, and recommending him to God, as if human aid could do nothing more for him.
Poor Milenko felt as if all the nerves of his chest had contracted painfully; life did not seem possible without the friend, the constant companion of his infancy.
As it was agreed that Danko Kvekvic should stay up with the old monk, all the other caloyers went off to sleep; but presently one of the younger brothers came in, bearing a tray of fragrant coffee, cooked in the Turkish fashion.
"Oh, thank you!" said Kvekvic, rubbing his hands, "I think you must have guessed my wishes, for, to tell you the truth, I was actually pining for a draught of that exhilarating beverage, one of the few good things we owe to the enemies of our creed, for, in fact, I know of few beverages that can be compared to a cup of fragrant coffee."
"As far as luxuries go, the Turks are certainly our masters; not only in confectionery, in sweet-scented sherbet, but even in cooking we are rude barbarians compared to them."
"They certainly are hedonists, who know how to render life pleasurable."
"Aye," said the monk, sternly, "theirs is the broad path leading to perdition." Then, after a slight pause, he added: "What is that book thou hast brought with thee, Blagoslav?"
"I thought," replied the young man, somewhat bashfully, "I might help you to pass your long vigil by reading to you; that is, of course, if it be agreeable to you."
The poor fellow stammered, and stopped, seeing the little success his proposal seemed to elicit.
"Blagoslav," retorted the old man, gravely, "vanity caused the archangel's downfall, and vanity is thy besetting sin. Blagoslav, thou knowest that thou readest well, for thou hast too often been praised for it, and now thou seizest every opportunity to hear the sound of thine own voice, which, I freely grant, is a pleasant one."
"Let us hear it, then," said Danko Kvekvic, kindly; "besides, I firmly believe that brother Blagoslav's intentions were good and——"
"Danko Kvekvic," said the old man, gruffly, "you are not a general favourite and an important man in Budua for nothing; you have the evil knack of flattering people's foibles."
"Come, come!" said the priest, good-humouredly, "should we pat a cat on the right side or on the wrong side?" Then, turning to Blagoslav, he added: "I, for myself, shall be thankful to you for beguiling away the long hours by reading something to us."
The young man, who had stood with his eyes cast down, and as still as a statue, sat down on a stool by the table and opened his book.
"What volume of ancient lore have you there?" asked the priest, pleasantly.
"'The Lives of the Saints,' written by a holy monk of our order." Then, looking up at the old monk, "Which Life shall I read?" he asked.
"Begin with that of our patron saint, Prince George of Cappadocia. It is a holy legend, which we, of course, all know, for the peasant often sings it at his plough, the shepherds say it to one another whilst tending their sheep, and"—turning to Milenko—"I suppose you, too, have often recited it at the helm when keeping your watch on the stormy sea."
"Yes, and invoked his holy name in the hour of danger." Thereupon
Milenko crossed himself, and the others followed suit.
"It is one of our oldest legends; still, always a very pleasant one to hear, especially if it is well read. But, before you begin, Blagoslav, let me first set the sufferer's pillow straight and administer to his wants; then we shall listen to your reading without disturbing you."
The old man suited his actions to his words—felt Uros' pulse, gave him with a spoon some drops of cordial, and afterwards sat down.
"Now we are ready," said he to the young monk.
Blagoslav thereupon began as follows:—
All hail, O Bosnia! fairest of all lands,
Renowned throughout the world since many an age;
The springtide of the year renews thy bloom,
And with the spring St. George's Day is nigh.
He was the greatest glory of the Cross,
Who taught our fathers Christ's most holy creed.
Now God again has granted us His gifts—
The life-awakening dews, the greenwood shade,
The sun's bright rays which warm the fruitful meads,
And melt the snow that lingers still a while
Upon the high and hoary mountain-tops;
The flowers fair that grow amongst the grass,
The blood-red rose that sheds its fragrance far,
The tawny swallows, from the sunny South,
That twitter sweetly 'neath the thatched eaves,
Are all the gifts that God sends every year
To Bosnia. Still He grants a greater boon;
This is the gladsome day of great St. George.
For though our land can boast of valiant knights,
Of warlike princes, eke of holy men,
Still greater far than all was voyvod George
Who whilom was of Cappadocia Duke.
He killed the grisly dragon that of yore
Laid waste the land around Syrene's white walls,
And freed the country from a fearful scourge.
Far down a lake full many fathoms deep,
There dwelt this dragon dreadful to behold;
For from his round red eyes he shot forth flames,
And spouted from his snout a sooty smoke
That burnt and blasted all around the mere.
This dragon daily slew those daring knights,
Who, mounted all on prancing, warlike steeds
Had gone to try their strength against the beast;
For on his ghastly green and scaly skin
They bent and broke, or blunted, their best blades,
As striking on the dragon's horrid hide
Was worse than hitting at a coat of mail,
Or cleaving some hard, flinty rock in twain;
So, therefore, like an Eastern potentate,
He reigned and ruled the region round Syrene.
It was a terror-striking sight to see
The horrid beast rise out in snaky coils,
And rear his head with widely-gaping mouth,
As towards the town he hissed with such a din
That shook the strong and battlemented walls;
Thereon to satisfy his hungry maw.
The craven townsfolk, all appalled with fear,
Would—as a dainty morsel—send the beast
Some lovely maiden in the prime of youth.
If naught was offered to the famished beast,
He lifted up his huge and bat-like wings,
And flapping, leapt upon the town's white walls;
There, gripping 'twixt his sharp and cruel claws,
Whoever stood thereby within his reach,
He mauled and maimed, and gulped down men by scores,
Until the ground seemed all around to be
A marsh of mangled flesh and muddy gore,
With skulls half split and jagged, splintered bones.
When each and every man within the town
Had offered up his child unto the fiend,
And every mother wept from early morn,
And saw at night her child in dreadful dreams,
They told the King his turn had come at last
To offer up his daughter to the beast—
His cherished child, the apple of his eye,
The only heir of all his wide domains.
Oh! brother mine, hadst thou but seen just then
The hot and blinding tears rush from his eyes,
Whilst cruel grief convulsed his manly frame;
At such a woful sight you would have thought
It was some abject woman, not a King,
Who, crouching low, was sobbing on the ground.
He kissed his child and said: "My daughter dear,
Woe worth the day that thou art reft from me!
For now, alas! who is to wear my crown,
Who is to grace my throne when thou art gone?"
When last he ceased to weep, he bade the maids
To deck his daughter out in richest dress,
With costly Orient pearls and priceless gems,
E'en as she were to wed the mighty Czar;
And then he said: "My daughter, as thy suite,
Take thou with thee my dukes, my noblest peers,
And likewise all the ladies of the land,
In sable garments clad to grace thy steps.
Still, let us hope some help may come at last,
And, meanwhile, pray the great god Alkoron.
In dire distress all earthly help is vain;
Alone, thy god may come to thy behest
And free thee from the dreadful dragon's claws."
The mother hugged her daughter to her heart,
The forlorn father blessed his weeping child,
Who then departed to her dismal doom;
And as she crossed the squares, the crowded streets,
The flutes and timbrels played a wailing dirge,
That might have melted e'en a heart of stone.
Behind her walked the lords of high degree,
Then all the noble ladies of the land,
All clad in widow's weeds and trailing veils.
It was, indeed, a grand and glorious sight
To witness all this pageantry of woe,
The stately show of grief, the pomp of tears.
The sun that shone upon the Princess's robes,
Now glittered brightly on the gold brocade;
Her eight rings sparkled all with costly gems,
For each alone was worth at least eight towns;
Her shining girdle, wrought of purest gold,
Was studded o'er with coral and turquoise;
Around her throat she wore a row of pearls,
Iridescent, all brought from far-off seas.
Upon her brow she bore the regal gem,
Which glittered in the sun with such a sheen
That every eye was dazzled by its light.
The maid, moreover, was of beauty rare,
Of tall and slender form, yet stately mien,
And graceful as the topmost bough that bends,
Or branchlet bowing 'neath the summer breeze;
Within her hand she held some lilies white,
The symbols of a young and modest maid.
She crossed with tearful eyes the crowded streets;
With grace she greeted every child she met,
And all—whose hearts were not as cold as clay—
Shed bitter tears at such a sight of woe,
And sighing, said: "Alas, her mother dear!"
At last when she had almost reached the lake,
The mighty dukes, her father's noble peers,
As well as every lady of her suite,
Appalled with fear, now bade her all farewell,
And hastened back to town before the beast
Arose from out the mere to seize his prey.
Now, God Almighty chose to show His love
Not only to the crowd that stood aghast,
But unto all the region round Syrene.
He, therefore, sent His servant, saintly George,
To turn them from their evil ways to Christ.
The Knight came to the mere just when the maid
Remained alone to weep upon her fate,
Forsaken as she seemed by God and man.
The Knight, who saw her from afar, sped on
With all due haste; then leaping from his steed,
He strode up by her side and asked her why
She stood there by the lake appalled, aghast.
For all reply the Princess only sobbed,
And with her hand she bade him quickly go.
"Can I afford no help?" then asked the Knight.
"Flee fast away, spur on your sprightly steed;
With all due haste, take shelter in the town;
Uprising from the waters of the lake,
The hungry dragon now doth take his meal;
So hie thee hence. Just see, the waters move;
Thou hast no time to tarry here to speak."
But George, undaunted by her words, replied:
"Fair maiden, dry your eyes and trust in me.
Or rather trust in God, who sent me here."
"What shall I do, fair Knight?" the maid replied.
"Forswear," he answered, "all thy gods of clay,
And bow with meekness to the name of Christ,
Whose Cross we bear to reach a better life;
For, with His mighty help, I hope to slay
The hellish beast that haunts this lonely land;
So, therefore, stand aside and let me fight."
Now, when the girl had heard these words of hope,
She hastened to reply unto the saint,
"If God doth grant thee superhuman might,
That wonders as the like thou canst achieve;
If thou hast strength enough to slay the fiend
And free me from this awful fate of mine,
I shall forsake my god, false Alkoron,
And bow with thee unto thine own true God,
Extolling Him as mightier of the two.
If thou wilt also show me how the sign
Of that most mystic Cross is made, Sir Knight,
I shall then cross myself both morn and eve.
Moreover, thou shalt have most costly gifts,
As well as all the gems I bear on me."
She had but hardly uttered these few words
When, lo! the waters blue began to heave,
And bubble up with foam, and then the beast
Upreared on high his dark and scaly head,
That looked just like some sharp and jagged cliff,
'Gainst which small shipwrecked smacks are dashed at night.
Then, rising from the lake, the horrid beast
Began to spout the water like a whale,
And bellow with a loud, appalling noise,
Just like the crocodiles that lurk unseen
Amongst the sedges growing by the Nile;
The roaring ended in a hollow moan,
As when the hot simoon begins to blow
In fitful blasts across the Libyan plain.
The Princess stood thereby and shook with fear;
She almost fainted at that dreadful sight.
St. George's warlike steed began to rear,
And prance and tremble; then it tried to flee;
But curbing it with might, and wheeling round,
The Knight with clashing strokes attacked the beast.
His sabre, striking on that scaly skin,
Struck forth a shower of sparks that glittered bright
Like ocean spray tossed by the wind at night,
Or glowing iron 'neath the smithy's sledge,
Or when the kindling steel is struck 'gainst flint.
The monster lifted then its leathern wings
And, bat-like, tried to fly. It only looked
Like some old hen alighting from its perch;
With flutt'ring wings outspread it floundered down,
And was about to fall upon the Knight
And crush him 'neath its huge and massy weight;
Or grasp him with its sharp and cruel claws,
Just as an eagle pounces on a lamb.
But George, invoking Mary to his help,
Bent down and wheeled aside; then with one stroke
He plunged his sword within the dragon's side,
Just near the heart, beneath the massy wings.
A flood of dark red blood at once gushed out,
Which forthwith tinged the water with this gore.
The monster yelled aloud with such a din
That shook the white and battlemented walls
Then, writhing like a trodden newt or worm
It wallowed in the dust and seemed to die.
But still, before the dragon passed away,
The Knight undid his long and silken scarf,
And bound it round the monster's scaly neck;
He handed then the scarf unto the maid,
Who now drove on the dragon like a lamb.
They both went through the gate within the town,
Between the gaping crowd that stood aside
To let them pass, amazed at such a sight;
And thus they crossed the streets and crowded squares,
Until they reached the lofty palace gate.
There 'neath the pillared portal stood the King,
Who stared astounded at the sight he saw.
The saintly Knight alighted from his steed,
And bowing low, he said in accents clear:
"Believe in God the Father, mighty King,
Believe in God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost;
Forsake for aye thy lying gods of clay,
And Sire, let all Syrene with bended knee,
Confess the Lord and make the mystic sign
Of Jesus Christ, who died upon the Cross.
If thou provoke the anger of the Lord,
Far greater scourges might then hap to thee."
The King, who saw his own dear child alive,
Shed tears of joy and clasped her to his heart,
And gladly then—and without more ado—
There in the midst of all the gathered crowd,
With all his Court, he made the mystic sign
That scares the foe of man in darkest hell;
Then bowing down confessed the name of Christ.
Thereon the saint unsheathed the mighty sword,
And with a blow struck off the scaly head.
The dragon, that till then had scourged the town,
Lay wriggling low amidst the throes of death,
And wallowed in a pool of dark red blood,
Emitting a most foul and loathsome smell.
Still, at the ghastly sight all stared well pleased,
Nay, some threw stones and hit the dying beast,
For 'gainst a fallen foe; the vile are brave.
And during all this time the kind old King
Had tried to show the gratitude he felt;
He led the saint within his palace halls,
For there he hoped to grant him many a boon.
"Thou art, indeed," said he, "most brave and true,
Endowed by God with superhuman might,
And as a token of my heartfelt thanks
Accept this chain of gold, for 'tis the meed
Of daring deeds, the like of which thou didst.
This diamond ring till now adorned my hand;
I give it thee. Besides, my gallant Knight,
One half of all my land will now be thine;
Nor even then can I requite thy worth,
Except by granting thee my only child,
My darling daughter, as thy loving bride."
The saint, however, thanked for all these gifts,
And bowing low, he said unto the King:
"Thy gratitude to God alone is due,
For I am but a tool within His hand;
'Tis He who sent me here to kill the beast,
That hell had sent to waste and scourge your land.
Without His help, a man is but a reed,
A blade of grass that bends beneath the breeze,
A midge that ne'er outlives a single night;
To thy distress He lent a listening ear,
And freed thee from that foul and fiendish beast.
Then dash thy foolish gods of stone and brass,
Build shrines and temples, praise His holy name.
Still, for thy gifts accept my heartfelt thanks;
My task, howe'er, is that to go and preach
The name of Jesus Christ from town to town.
To Persia straightway I must wend my way
And there declare the love of God to man."
Thereon he took his leave and went away
To preach in distant lands a better life;
Converting men of high and low degree.
To Alexandra, who then reigned in Rome,
He bore the tidings of Christ's holy name;
And God e'er granted to this voyvod saint
The might of working strange and wond'rous deeds.
At last he met a saintly martyr's death,
And shed his precious blood for Jesus Christ.
To Thee, St. George, we now devoutly pray,
To be our intercessor with the Lord,
That He vouchsafe His mercy to us all.
The sun had already set as Mara and her friend left the convent gates and slowly wended their way homewards. The mother's heart was heavily laden with grief, for although the holy men had done their best to comfort and encourage her, still doubt oppressed her, and she kept asking herself whether she would still find her son alive on the morrow. Now the darkness which slowly spread itself over the open country, and rendered the surrounding rocks of a gloomier hue, the broad, blue sea of a dull, leaden tint, only made her sadness more intense.
Dusk softens the human heart; it opens it to those tender emotions unfelt during the struggle of the day, whilst the raging sun pouring from above enkindles the fierce passions lurking in the heart. That dimness which spreads itself over the world at nightfall, wrapping it up as in a vaporous shroud, has a mystic power over our nature. That clear obscure mistiness seems to open to the mind's eye the distant depths of borderland; we almost fancy we can see dim, shadowy figures float past before us. The most sceptic man becomes religious, superstitious and spiritual at gloaming.
The two women hardly spoke on their way; both of them prayed for the sufferer lying in the convent; but whilst they prayed their minds often wandered from Uros to Milena, who had been left at home ailing. When they arrived at the gates of the town night had already set in. Mara hastened home with her friend, but Milena was not there; they both went to Radonic's house to look for her. They were afraid lest, in her state of health, she might have heard of her husband's death.
A dreary night awaited the women there. After the child had left her, Milena, who had fallen into a swoon, had been delivered of a son; but the infant, uncared for, and finding the world bleak and desolate, had fled away, without even waiting for the holy water and the salt to speed it forth to more blessed regions.
Milena had only been roused to life by the throes of childbirth, and no sooner had her deliverance taken place than she again fainted away.
Mara's neighbour having, in the meanwhile, been informed by her little boy of Milena's illness, hastened at once to her help. Moreover, on her way thither, she called the babica (or midwife), but when she reached Radonic's house, she found the new-born infant a cold corpse and the mother apparently dead. The two women did their utmost to recall Milena to life, but all their skill was of no avail. At last, at their wits' end, a passer-by was hailed and begged to go for the doctor at once.
When Mara came, all hopes of rousing Milena to life had been despaired of, but what the skill of the scientific practitioner and of the wise old woman could not bring about, was effected simply by Mara's presence. After Uros' mother had stood some time by her side, stroking her hair, pressing her hand on the sufferer's clammy forehead, and whispering endearing words in her ear, Milena opened her eyes. Seeing Mara standing beside her, the sight of that woman whom she loved, and whose son she doated on, slowly roused her to life. Consciousness, little by little, crept back within her. When she heard from the mother's lips that Uros was not dead, nay, that there was hope of his recovery, she whispered:
"If I could only see him once more, then I should be but too happy to die."
After this slight exertion she once more fainted, but she was soon afterwards brought back again to life, and Mara then was able to make her take the cordial the doctor had prepared for her.
A few hours later, when the physician took his leave for the night, prescribing to the women what they were to do, he and the midwife warmly congratulated each other, not doubting that their skill had snatched the young woman out of the jaws of death.
After a night of pain and restlessness, Milena, early on the next morning, exhausted as she was, fell into a quiet, death-like sleep. Mara then left her to return to the Convent of St. George to see if Uros were still alive and how he was getting on. Milenko's mother went with her. They had not been away long when Milena, shuddering, uttered a loud cry of terror, sat up in her bed and looked straight in front of her.
"What is the matter?" said the midwife, running up to the bedside.
"Don't you see him standing there?" cried the awe-stricken woman.
"There is nobody, my dear; nobody at all."
"Yes! Radonic, my husband, all covered with wounds! He is dying—he is dead!" and Milena, appalled, stared wildly at the foot of the bed.
"It is your imagination; your husband is with your father at
Cettinje."
"No, no; I tell you he's there; help him, or he'll bleed to death!" and the poor woman, exhausted, fell back on her bed unconscious.
The midwife shuddered, for, although she saw nobody, she was quite sure that the apparition seen by Milena was no fancy of an overheated brain, but Radonic's ghost, that had come to visit his wife, for the news of the heyduk's death had been carefully withheld from Milena.
The midwife went to the fount of holy water, took the blessed sprig of olive which was over it, dipped it into the fount and sprinkled the bed and the place where the ghost had stood, uttering all the while the appropriate prayer for the purpose. Then she sprinkled Milena, and made the sign of the Cross over her. After that she gave her some drops of cordial, and little by little brought her back to her senses, vowing all the while not to remain alone again in that haunted house.
When Milena recovered, "My husband is dead, is he not?" she asked.
"But—no," said the midwife, hesitatingly.
"You know he is. Did you not see him standing there? He had one wound on the head and several in the breast."
The elderly woman did not answer.
"When did he die?" quoth Milena.
"Some days ago; but——"
"He was killed by the Turks, was he not?"
"Yes."
"Why did no one tell me?"
"Because they were afraid to upset you."
"He is dead," said Milena to herself, staring at the spot where she had seen her husband, "dead!" Then she heaved a deep sigh of relief.
The midwife tried to comfort her, but she did not seem to heed her words.
"My babe is dead, all are dead!"
Presently the doctor came in to see how she was getting on.
"Is Uros dead?" was Milena's first question.
"No, he is still alive; a message came from the convent this morning."
"But is there any hope of recovery?"
"If he has lasted on till to-day he may yet pull through; he is young and healthy."
"Can I get up to-day?" asked Milena, wistfully.
"Get up?" asked the doctor, astonished.
"Yes."
"Did you hear her?" said the physician, turning towards the midwife. "She asks if she can get up. Yes, you can get up if you wish to kill yourself."
A look of determination settled in the young woman's eyes; but neither the doctor nor the midwife noticed it.
"Anyhow, it is a good sign when the patient asks if he can get up, except in consumption," added the physician, taking his leave. "If you keep very quiet, and lie perfectly still, without tossing about and fretting, you'll be able to get up in a few days."
Milena pressed her lips, but did not say anything in reply; only, after a little time:
"Do I look very ill?"
"No, not so very ill, either."
"Give me that looking-glass," she added.
The midwife hesitated.
"Is that the way you are going to lie still and get well; you must know that yesterday you were very ill."
"I know; but please hand me the looking-glass."
The midwife did as she was bid. Milena took up the glass and looked at herself scrutinisingly, just like an actor who has made up his face.
"I am very much altered, am I not?"
"Oh, but it'll be all over in one or two days! Wait till to-morrow, and——"
"But to-day I think people would hardly recognise me?"
"Oh, it is not quite as bad as that! besides——"
Milena opened her eyes questioningly, and looked at the midwife.
"I care very little whether I am good-looking or not; whom have I to live for now?"
"Come, you must not give up in that way. You are but a child, and have seen but little happiness up to now; you are rich, free, handsome; you'll soon find a husband, only don't talk, take a cup of this good broth, and try to go to sleep."
"Very well, but I know you are busy, so go home and send me your daughter; she can attend upon me; besides, gospa Markovic will soon be here."
The midwife hesitated.
"Go," said Milena; "I'll feel quieter if you go."
"But you must promise me to keep very quiet, and not to attempt, on any account, to get up."
"Certainly," said Milena; "the doctor said I was not to rise; why should I disobey him? Besides, where have I to go?"
The midwife, after having tucked her patient carefully in bed and made her as cosy as she could, went off, saying that her daughter would soon come to her.
Milena, with anxious eyes and a beating heart, watched the midwife, and, at last, saw her go away and close the door after her. She waited for some time to see that she did not return; then she gathered up all her strength, and tried to rise.
It was, however, a far more difficult task than she had expected, for she fancied that she had fallen from the top of a high mountain into a chasm beneath, and that every bone in her body had been broken to splinters. If she had been crushed under horses' hoofs, she could not have felt a greater soreness all over her body. Still, rise she would, and she managed to crawl slowly out of her bed.
Her legs, at first, could hardly hold her up; the nerves and muscles had lost all their strength, she fancied the bones had got limp; her back, especially, seemed to be gnawed by hungry dogs.
Having managed to get over her first fit of faintness, she, holding on to the bed and against the wall, succeeded in dragging herself towards the table and dropped into a chair.
She sat there for a while, making every effort to overcome her faintness, but she felt so sick, so giddy, and in such pain, that her head sank down on the table of its own weight, and she burst out crying from sheer exhaustion.
When she had somewhat recovered, she slowly undid her long tresses, and her luxuriant hair fell in waves down to the ground. She shook her head slightly, as if to disentangle the wavy mass, plunged her fingers through the locks to separate them, and felt them lovingly, uttering a deep sigh of regret as she did so; then after a moment's pause, she shrugged her shoulders, took up a pair of scissors, and, without more ado, she clipped the long tresses as close to her head as she possibly could, carefully placing each one on the table as she cut it off. Then she felt her head, which seemed so small, so cold, and so naked; she took up a mirror with a trembling hand and quivering lips pulled down at each corner. After she had seen her own reflection in the glass, she burst into tears. She had hardly put down the mirror, when Frana, the midwife's daughter, came in.
The young girl, seeing Milena, whom she had expected to find in bed, sitting on the chair with all her hair clipped off, remained rooted to the spot where she was standing.
"Milena, dear, is it you?"
"Yes," replied Milena, mournfully.
"But why did you get up? and why have you cut off your beautiful hair?" asked the midwife's daughter, scared.
"My hair burdened my head; I could not bear the weight any more; besides——"
The young girl looked at Milena, wondering whether she were in her right senses, or if the grief of having lost her husband and her child had not driven her to distraction.
"Besides what, Milena?"
"Well, I am not for long in this world, you know!"
"Do not say such foolish things; and let me help you back to bed."
Milena shook her head, and fixing her large and luminous deep blue eyes on the young girl, she said, wistfully:
"Listen, Frana. Uros is dying, perhaps he is dead! I must see him once more. I must go to him, even if I have to die on the way thither!"
"What! go to the Convent of St. George?"
Milena nodded assent.
"But what are you thinking about? How can you, in your state, think of going there?"
"I must, even if I should have to crawl on all-fours!"
"But if you got there, if I carried you there, they would never let you go in; you know women——"
"Yes, they will; that's why I've cut off my hair."
"I don't understand."
"I'll dress up as a boy; you'll come with me; you'll say I'm your brother, and Uros' friend. You'll do that for me, Frana?"
And Milena lifted up her pleading eyes, which now seemed larger than ever and lighted up with an inward ethereal fire.
The young girl seemed to be hypnotised by those entreating eyes.
"But where will you find the clothes you want?"
"If you can't get me your brother's, then borrow or buy a suit for me; but go at once. You must get me a cap, and all that is required, but go at once."
"Very well; only, in the meantime, go to bed, take some broth, and wait till I return."
"But you promise to come back as quickly as you can?"
"Yes, if you are determined to put your life in danger, and——"
"And what?"
"If you don't care what people say."
"Frana, if ever you love a man as I love Uros, you will see that you will care very little for your own life, and still less for what people might say about you."
Frana helped Milena to go to bed again. She made her take a cup of broth, with the yolk of an egg beaten into it; placed, on a chair by her bed, a bowl of mulled wine, which she was to take so as to get up her strength; put away the long locks of hair lying on the table, and at last she went off.
Presently, Milenko's mother came to see Milena, and stayed with her till Frana returned, and then she was persuaded to go back home. When she had gone, Frana undid the bundle she had brought, took out a jacket, a pair of wide breeches and leggings, the opanke; lastly, the small black cap with its gold-embroidered crimson crown.
Frana helped Milena to dress, and, in her weak state, the operation almost exhausted her. The broad sash, tightly wound round her waist, served to keep her up, and, leaning on Frana's arm, she left the house.
"I have managed to find a cart for you, so we need not cross the town, but go round the walls, in order that you may not be seen; besides, the cart will take us to the foot of the mountain, not far from the convent."
"How shall I ever be able to thank you enough for what you have done for me, Frana?"
"By getting over your illness as quickly as possible, for if any harm should come of it my mother 'll never forgive me, and I don't blame her."
The sun was in the meridian when the cart arrived at the foot of the mountain and the two friends alighted. As they climbed the rough and uneven path leading up to the convent, Milena, though leaning on Frana's strong arm, had more than once to stop and rest, for at every step she made the pain in every joint, in every muscle, was most acute. It seemed as if all the ligaments that bind the bones of the skeleton together had snapped asunder, and that her body was about to fall to pieces. Then she felt a smarting, a fire that was burning within her bowels, and which increased at every effort she made; in fact, had it not been for the young girl, she would either have sunk by the roadside or crawled up—as she had said herself—on all-fours.
Her head also was aching dreadfully, her temples were throbbing, and she was parched with fever. Her limbs sank every now and then beneath her weight; still, her love and her courage kept her up, and she trudged along without uttering a word of complaint. At last they reached the convent. Then her strength gave way. Anxiety, pain and shame overpowered her, and she fell fainting on the threshold. Frana summoned help; but, before the monks came, Milena had recovered, and was sitting down on a bench to rest.
In the meanwhile Uros was lingering on—a kind of death in life; the vital flame was flickering, but not entirely extinguished; the ties that fastened the soul to life were still strong. Towards midnight he had sat up in his bed, and—as the monks thought—the Virgin and Christ had appeared to him, then he had, for some time, not given any further signs of consciousness. Nay, the monks were so sure the sufferer was passing away, that they, in fact, began reciting the prayers for the dying. They did so with much fervour, regarding Uros almost as a saint, for never had mortal man been so highly favoured by the Deity. Little by little, however, life, instead of ebbing away, seemed to return; but the sufferer's mind was quite lost.
In the morning, first his father had come, together with his friend
Janko, and a little while afterwards Mara came.
The monks related to the wondering parents how the Virgin had appeared, bringing with her the infant Christ for him to kiss. Milenko, however, kept his peace, feeling sure that if he expressed an opinion as to the weird apparition, his words would be regarded as blasphemy.
Coming to himself, Uros recognised his parents, and as Mara bent upon him to kiss his brows:
"Milena," whispered Uros, almost inaudibly.