"What is the matter?" said Milenko; "bad news from home?"
For all answer Uros handed the letter he had just been reading to his friend; it was as follows:—
"My dear Son,—The present lines are to inform you that we are both well, your mother and myself, though, indeed, I have been suffering with rheumatic pains in my right shoulder and in my left leg, as well as occasional cramps in my stomach, for which the barber has cupped me several times. As for your mother, she always suffers with sore eyes, and though she tries to cure herself with vine-water and the dew which the flowers distil on St. John's Eve, which is a specific, as you know, still, it has not afforded her great relief. She is also often ailing with a pain in her side; but these are only trifles. Therefore, I hope that this letter will find you, Milenko and the captain in as good health as that which we at present enjoy, and that you have had a good and prosperous voyage. Here, at Budua, things are always about the same. The weather has hitherto been very favourable to the crops, and, with God's help, we must hope for a good harvest, though the wind having blown down almost all the blossoms of the almond-trees, there will be but little fruit. As for the vines, little can be said as yet; whilst having had a good crop of olives last year, we cannot expect much this autumn.
"Our town is always very quiet. A fire only broke out here not long ago, and it burnt down a few houses. As it was believed to have been caused on account of a karvarina, bloodshed, as usual, ensued. Another fact, which somewhat upset our town, was the death of Vranic, who was found murdered in Radonic's house whilst Milena was spending the evening with us. You may well understand how astonished every one was, for Radonic and Vranic had been friends from their youth. Although no one was ever very fond of Radonic, still nobody regretted Vranic, who, as you know, was gifted with the evil eye; and although I myself, not being superstitious, do not believe that persons can harm you simply by looking at you, still it is useless to go against facts. Poor Milena, who was the first to enter the house after the murder—although your mother had accompanied her thither—was seized by such a terrible fright that she remained soulless for many hours, and has been ill ever since, though with care and good food we hope to bring her round.
"I was marvelled to hear how you fell in with the Giulianics, and that your ship saved them from death. It is certainly a dispensation of Providence, and—not being an infidel Turk—I do not see Kismet in everything that happens; still, the hand of the Almighty God is clearly visible in all this.
"Giulianic and I were friends when he, Markovic and myself were poor folk, struggling hard to live and to put by a penny for a rainy day. All three of us have, thank Heaven, succeeded beyond our expectations, for I am glad to hear, by your account as well as his own, that he is in such good circumstances.
"One day—long before you were born—talking together and joking, we made each other a kind of promise, more for the fun of the thing than for anything else, that if we should have, the one a son, and the other a daughter, we should marry them to each other. Not to forget our promises, we exchanged tobacco-pouches. To tell you the truth, not having heard of the Giulianics for so many years, I had all but forgotten my promise, and I daresay he looked at his own pledge as a kind of joke. On receiving your letter, however, I at once wrote to this old friend, sending him back his gold-embroidered pouch and redeeming mine. He at once wrote back a most affectionate letter, saying that he was but too happy to give his daughter to the young man who had saved Ivanka's life, but, apparently, had stolen away her heart. Therefore, my dear son, you may henceforth consider yourself engaged to the girl of your choice; and may the blessing of God and of the holy Virgin rest on you both for ever.
"Your mother wishes me to tell you not to forget your prayers morning and evening, to try and keep all the fasts, and to light a candle to St. Nicholas whenever you go on shore, so that he may keep you from storms and shipwrecks. Besides, she bids me tell you, that if you want more underclothing, to write to her in time, so that she may prepare everything you need.
"Your loving father,
"Milos Bellacic."
Whilst Milenko was reading this letter, doubt returned several times within his heart, and began to gnaw at it. As soon as he had finished, he handed it back to Uros, and seeing his honest eyes fixed upon him, as if asking for consolation, all doubts were at once dispelled.
"Well," said Uros, "it isn't enough to think that Milena is ill, but all this complication must arise."
"As for Milena," replied Milenko, "she is much better; here is a letter from my mother, written after yours, in which she says that she is quite out of danger."
Comforted with the idea that the woman he loved was better, Uros could not help smiling, then almost laughing.
Milenko looked at him, astonished.
"After all, this is your fault," said Uros.
"Mine?"
"Of course; you would insist in allowing old Giulianic to believe you were myself; now there is only one thing left for you."
"What?"
"To act your part out."
"I don't quite understand."
"Go to Nona, and marry Ivanka at once; when married, Giulianic will have to give you his blessing."
"Oh! but——"
"But what?"
"I don't think Ivanka will consent."
"If she loves you she will. I wish it was as easy for me to marry
Milena as it is for you to wed Ivanka."
"But wouldn't it be better to get the father's consent?"
"Old people are stubborn; once they get a thing into their heads, it's difficult to get it out again."
"Yes, but if——"
"With 'buts' and 'ifs' you'll never marry."
"What are you discussing?" said the captain, coming up.
"Oh! I was simply saying that only a daring man deserves to wed the girl he loves," said Uros.
"Of course; don't you know the story of Prince Mathias?"
"No," replied the young man.
"Well, then, as we have nothing to do just now, listen, and I'll tell it to you."
Once, in those long bygone times when rats fought with frogs, tortoises ran races with hares and won them, pussies went about in boots, and—I was going to add—women wore breeches, but, then, that would not be such an extraordinary occurrence even now-a-days; well, in those remote times, there lived a King who had a beautiful daughter, as fair as the dawning sun, and as wise as an old rabbi versed in the Kabala. In fact, she was so handsome and so learned that her reputation had spread far and wide, and many a Prince had come from far away beyond the sea to offer his hand and heart to this wonderful Princess. She, however, would have none of them, for she found that, although they—as a rule—rode like jockeys, drove like cabmen and swore like carters, they were, on the whole, slow-coaches; none of them, for instance, were good at repartee, none could discuss German pessimism, and all—on the contrary—found that life was worth living; so she would have nothing to do with them.
She, therefore, send heralds to all the Courts of Chivalry to proclaim that she would only wed the Prince who, for three successive nights, could sit up and watch in her room, without falling asleep and allowing her to escape.
Every Prince who heard of the proclamation thought it a good joke, and the candidates for the Princess's hand greatly increased. A host of Durchlauchten from the most sacred Protestant empire of Germany, flocked—Armen-reisender fashion—and offered to sit up in the Princess's room for three nights, or even more if she desired it.
Alas, for the poor Highnesses! every one paid the trial with his life. The Princess—who knew a thing or two—provided for their entertainment an unlimited supply of Lager Bier, and, moreover—it was a cruel joke—she had a few pages read to them of the very book each one had written, for, in those literary times, every Prince was bound to write a book. At the end of the first chapter every Prince snored.
It happened that Prince Mathias—the only son and heir of a queen who reigned in an out-of-the-way island, which was believed by its inhabitants to be the centre of the world—heard of this strange proclamation. He was the very flower of chivalry in those days, strong as a bull, handsome as a stag—though rather inclined to be corpulent—brave as a falcon, and as amorous as a cat in spring-time. He at once resolved to risk his head, and go and spend the three nights in the Princess's bedroom.
His mother—a pious old lady, an excellent housekeeper, much attached to her domestics, and known throughout the world as an elegant writer of diaries—did her utmost to dissuade her son from his foolish project; but all her wise remonstrances were in vain. Prince Mathias, who was not the most dutiful of sons, allowed his mother to jaw away till she was purple in the face, but her words went in by one ear and out by the other; he remained steadfast to his purpose. Seeing at last that praying and preaching were of no avail, Her Gracious Majesty consented to her son's departure with royal grace. She doled out to him a few ducats, stamped with her own effigy, and, knowing his unthrifty ways, she said to herself: "He'll not go very far with that." Then she presented him with a shawl to keep him warm at nights, and she blessed him with her chubby hands, begging him to try and keep out of mischief now that he had reached the years of discretion.
Mathias, wrapped up in his shawl, went off to seek his fortune. As he was tramping along the high-road, he happened to meet a stout, sleek-headed man who was lounging on the roadside.
The Prince—who was very off-handed in his ways, and not very particular as to the company he kept, or to the number of his attachments, as the Opposition papers said—hailed the stout, sleek-headed man.
"Whither wanderest thou, my friend?" said Mathias to the loafer.
"I tramp about the world in search of happiness," quoth he.
"You're not a German philosopher, I hope?" asked the Prince, terror-stricken.
"I'm a true-born Dutchman, sir," retorted the loafer, with much dignity.
"Give us your paw," said His Highness.
The friends shook hands.
"What's your trade, my man?"
"Well, I'm a kind of Jack-of-all-trades, without any trade in particular—and yours?"
"I'll be a kind of general overseer some day or other."
"Good job?"
"Used to be much better—too many strikes nowadays."
"I see; it ruins the trade, does it?"
"Our trade especially."
"So?"
"But what's your name?" asked the Prince.
"Well, I'm generally known as 'The Big One.' You see, I can stretch out my stomach to such a pitch that I can shelter a whole regiment of soldiers in it. Shouldn't you like to see me do the trick?"
"Swell away!" ejaculated the Prince.
The Big One thereupon puffed and puffed himself out, and swelled himself to such a pitch that he blocked up the highway from one side to the other.
"Bravo!" cried the Prince; "you're a swell!"
"I'm a sell," said The Big One, smiling modestly.
"A cell, indeed! But, I say, where did you learn that trick?"
"Up in Thibet."
"You're an adept, are you?"
"I am," said the loafer.
Mathias crossed himself devoutly.
"I say, don't you want to accompany me in my wanderings, in a sans facon way?"
"And take pot-luck with you?" said the adept, with a wink.
Mathias took the hint. He jingled the few dollars he had in his pocket, counted the six gold ducats his mamma had given him, and reckoned the enormous amount of food his new friend might consume. On the other hand, he bethought himself how useful a man who could swallow a whole regiment might be in case of an insurrection; so he shrugged his shoulders, and muttered to himself:
"There'll be a row at the next meeting of the Witena-gemote, when my debts 'll have to be paid; but if they want me to keep up appearances, they must fork out the tin." Thereupon, turning to The Big One, he added, magnificently: "It's a bargain."
"You're a brick," said The Big One.
On the morrow they met another tramp, so tall and so thin that he looked like a huge asparagus, or like a walking minaret. His name was The Long One; and he could, even without standing on tiptoe, lengthen himself in such a way as to reach the clouds. Moreover, every step he made was the distance of a mile.
As he, too, was seeking his fortune, the Prince took him on in his suite.
The day after that, as the three were going through a wood, they came across a man with such flashing eyes that he could light a conflagration with only one of his glances. Of course, they took him on with them.
After tramping about for three days, they got to the castle where the wonderful Princess lived. Mathias held a council with his friends, and told them of his intentions. Then he changed his gold ducats, pawned his mother's shawl, bought decent clothes for the tramps, and made his entrance into the town with all the pomp and splendour due to his rank.
As he was travelling incog., he sent his card—a plain one without crown or coat-of-arms—to the King of the place, announcing that he had come with his followers to spend three nights in his daughter's bedroom.
"Followers not admitted," replied the King.
"All right!" retorted the Prince, ruefully.
"You know the terms, I suppose?"
"Death or victory!"
The King made him a long speech, terse and pithy, as royal speeches usually are. The Prince, who listened with all attention, tried to yawn without opening his mouth.
"Yawn like a man!" said the King; "I don't mind it, do you?" said he to the prime minister, who had written the speech.
"I'm used to it," said the premier.
"Well! do you persist in your intention?" asked the King at the end of the speech.
"I do!" quoth the Prince.
"Then I'll light you up to my daughter's door."
Having reached the landing of the second floor, the King shook hands with the Prince and his followers; he wished them good-night; still, he lingered for a while on the threshold.
Mathias was dazzled with the superhuman beauty of the royal maiden, who was quite a garden in herself, for she was as lithe as a lily, as graceful as a waving bough, with a complexion like jasmines and roses, eyes like forget-me-nots, a mouth like a cherry, breasts like pomegranates, and as sweet a breath as mignonette.
She could not hide the admiration she felt for Mathias, and congratulated him especially on never having written a book.
When the old King heard that Mathias was not an author, he was so sorely troubled that he took up his candle and went off to bed.
No sooner had His Majesty taken himself off than The Big One went and crouched on the threshold of the door; The Long One made himself comfortable on one of the window-sills; The Man with the Flashing Eyes on the other. All three pretended to go off to sleep, but in reality they were all watching the Princess, who was carrying on a lively conversation with Mathias.
"Do you like Schopenhauer?" asked the royal maiden, with a smile like a peach blossom opening its petals to the breeze.
"I like you," said Mathias, looking deep in the eyes of the young girl, who at once blushed demurely.
"But you don't answer my question," she said.
"Well, no," quoth Mathias; "I don't like Schopenhauer."
"Why not?"
"Because we differ in tastes."
"How so?"
"You see, I'm rather fond of the girls; he isn't."
"Of all girls?" asked the Princess, alarmed.
"All girls in general, but you in particular," added Mathias with a wink.
The young girl thought it advisable to change the conversation.
After a while the Princess began to yawn.
"Sleepy, eh?" said Mathias, with a smile.
"I feel as if a rain of poppies was weighing down my eyelids."
"Have a snooze, then."
"I'm afraid you'll feel rather lonely, sitting up by yourself all night."
"Oh! don't mind me," said Mathias; "I never turn in very early; besides, I'll have a game of patience."
"But I've got no cards to offer you," said the Princess.
"I have; I never travel without a pack in my pocket."
"You're sharp."
"Sharper than many who think themselves sharp."
Mathias settled himself comfortably at a table and began to play. The
Princess undressed, said her prayers, then went off to bed.
The Prince played one, two, three games; then he felt his throat rather dry, and would have given half of his kingdom for a glass of grog; than he began to wonder if there was any whisky in the house.
Just then, he heard the three men snoring, and the little Princess purring away like a wee kitten. He stretched his arms and his legs, for he felt himself getting stiff. He then tried to play another game, but he could not go on with it; for he kept mistaking the hearts for the diamonds, and then could no more distinguish the clubs from the spades. He also began to feel chilly, and was sorry not to have his mammy's shawl to wrap himself up in. He, therefore, laid his elbows on the table, and his head between the palms of his hands, and stared at the Princess, whom he fancied looked very much like the sleeping beauty at the waxworks.
Little by little his eyelids waxed heavy, his pupils got to be smaller and smaller, his sight grew blurred, and then everything in front of him disappeared. Prince Mathias was snoring majestically.
"It took him a long time to drop off, but he's asleep at last," said the Princess, with a sigh.
She thereupon changed herself into the likeness of a dove, and flew out of the window where The Long One was asleep. Only, on making her escape, she happened to graze the sleeping man's hair. He forthwith started up, and, seeing that the Princess's bed was empty, he at once gave the alarm, and woke The Man with the Flashing Eyes, who cast a long look in the darkness outside. That burning glance falling upon the dove's wings singed them in such a way that she was obliged to take shelter in a neighbouring tree. The Man with the Flashing Eyes kept a sharp watch, and the splendour of his pupils, shining on the bird, were like the revolving rays of a lighthouse. The Long One thereupon put his head out of the window, stretched out his hand a mile off, grasped the dove, and quietly handed her to Mathias.
No sooner had Mathias pressed the dove to his heart than, lo and behold! he found that he was clasping in his arms, not a bird, but the Princess herself.
Mathias could not help uttering a loud exclamation of surprise; the three men uttered the selfsame exclamation. All at once the door of the Princess's bedroom flew open with a bang. The old King appeared on the threshold, with a dip in his hand. His Majesty looked very much put out.
"I say, what's all this row about?" said he; "billing and cooing at this time of the night, eh?" Thereupon His Majesty frowned.
The Princess nestled in Mathias's arms, blushing like a peony, for she saw that the flowing sleeves of her nightgown were dreadfully singed, and she knew that the colour would never go off in the wash.
The King, casting a stealthy look round the room, saw the cards on the little table by the Princess's bed, and pointing them out to Mathias with a jerk of his thumb:
"I see your little tricks, sir, and with your own cards, too; gambling again, eh?"
Mathis looked as sheepish as a child caught with his finger in a jam-pot. The King thereupon snuffed the wick of his candle with his own royal fingers, picked up the ermine-bordered train of his night-gown and stalked off to bed, without even saying good-night again.
"Your father's put out," said Mathias to the Princess.
"He's thinking of the expense you'll be putting him to, you and your suite."
"What! is he going to ask us to dinner?"
"Can't help it, can he?" and the Princess chuckled.
On the second night the Princess flew away in the likeness of a fly; but she was soon brought back. On the third night she transformed herself into a little fish, and gave the three men no end of trouble to fish her out of the pond in which she had plunged.
At last the Princess confessed herself vanquished. Mathias had been the only one of all her suitors who had managed to get her back every time she had escaped; moreover, she had been quite smitten by his jovial character and convivial ways.
The old King, however, strenuously disapproved of his daughter's choice. Mathias was not a Durchlaucht, he had never written a book, and, moreover, he played patience with his own pack of cards. He, therefore, resolved to oppose his daughter's marriage, and, being an autocrat, his will was law in his own country.
Mathias, however, presented the King with a packet of photographs that he happened to have about him; they were all respectable ladies of his acquaintance, belonging to different corps de ballet. So while the King was trying to find out, with a magnifying-glass, what Miss Mome Fromage had done with her other leg—like the tin soldier in Andersen's tale—Mathias ran off with the Princess.
Then the King got dreadfully angry and ordered his guards to run after the fugitives.
The Princess, hearing the tramp of horses' feet, asked The Man with the Flashing Eyes to look round and see who was pursuing them.
"I see a squadron of cavalry riding full speed," said The Man with the Flashing Eyes.
"It's my father's body-guard."
"Hadn't we better hide in a bush, and leave them to ride on?" asked
Mathias.
"No," replied the Princess.
Seeing the horsemen approach, she took off the long veil she wore at the back of her head, and threw it at them.
"As many threads as there are in this veil, may as many trees arise between us."
In a twinkling, a dense forest arose, like a drop-scene, between the fugitives and the guards.
Mathias and his bride had not gone very far, when they heard again the sound of horses.
The Man with the Flashing Eyes looked round and saw again the King's body-guard galloping after them.
"Can you dodge them again?" asked Mathias.
The Princess, for an answer, dropped a tear, and then bade it swell into a deep river between them and their pursuers.
The river rolled its massy waters through the plain, while Mathias and his bride strolled away unmolested.
Again they heard the sound of horses' hoofs; again the guards were about to seize the runaways; again the Princess, drawing herself up in all the majesty of her little person, stretched out her arm threateningly, and ordered the darkness of the night to wrap them up as with a deep shroud.
At these words, The Long One grew longer and ever longer, until he reached the clouds; then, taking off his cap, he deftly clapped it on half of the sun's disc, leaving the royal guards quite in the shade.
When Mathias and his bride were about ten miles off, The Long One strode away and caught up with them after ten steps.
Mathias was already in sight of his own castellated towers, when the clatter of horses was again heard close behind them.
"There'll be bloodshed soon," said the Prince to his bride.
"Oh! now leave them all to me," said The Big One; "it's my turn now."
The lovers, followed by The Long One and The Man with the Flashing Eyes, entered the city by a postern, whilst The Big One squatted himself down at the principal gate and puffed himself out; then he opened his mouth as wide as the gate itself, so that it looked like a barbican. Thus he waited for the dauntless life-guards, who, in fact, came riding within his mouth as wildly as the noble six hundred had ridden within the jaws of death.
When the last one had disappeared, The Big One rose quietly, but at the same time with some difficulty, and tottered right through the town. It was an amusing sight to see his huge bloated paunch flap hither and thither at every step he made. Having reached the opposite gate, he again crouched down, opened his capacious mouth and spouted out all the life-guards, horses and all; and it was funny to see them ride off in a contrary direction, evidently hoping to overtake the fugitives soon, whilst the Prince, his bride and his suite were on the battlements, splitting with laughter at the trick played on their pursuers.
The old Queen was rejoiced to see her truant son come back so soon, and, moreover, not looking at all as seedy as he usually did after his little escapades. Still, she could not help showing her dissatisfaction about two things. The first was that Mathias had pawned her parting gift; the second that the Princess had come without a veil.
This last circumstance was, however, easily explained; and then Her Most Gracious Majesty allowed the light of her countenance to shine on her future daughter-in-law.
The Long One was forthwith sent back to the old King, asking him, by means of a parchment letter, to come and assist at his daughter's wedding. His Majesty, hearing who Mathias really was, hastened to accept the invitation. He donned his crown, took a few valuables with him in a carpet-bag, fuming and fretting all the time at having to start—like a tailless fox—without his body-guard. Just as he was setting out, The Long One, stretching his neck a few miles above the watch tower and looking round, saw the horsemen riding back full speed towards the castle. The old King hearing this news, shook his head, very much puzzled, for he could not understand how the horsemen, who had ridden out by one gate, could be coming back by the other. The Long One explained to the King (what they never would have been able to explain themselves) that they had simply ridden round the world and come back the other side. His Majesty, who would otherwise have had all his guards put to death, forgave them right graciously, and to show Mathias that he bore him no ill-will, he presented him, as a wedding gift, with a valuable shawl he had just got second-hand at a pawnbroker's. That gift quite mollified the old Queen, and forthwith, as by enchantment, all the clouds looming on the political horizon disappeared, and the nuptials of Mathias and the Princess took place with unusual splendour.
The Princess gave up her freaks of disappearing in the middle of the night, Mathias never played patience with his own cards any more, and both set their people an example of conjugal virtue.
High posts at Court were created for the Prince's three friends, and they, indeed, often showed themselves remarkably useful. For instance, if a Prime Minister ever showed himself obstreperous, The Long One would stretch out his arm, catch him by the collar of his coat, and put him for a few days on some dark cloud under which the thunder was rumbling. If a meddling editor ever wrote an article against the prevailing state of things, The Man with the Flashing Eyes cast a look at his papers, and the fire brigade had a great ado to put out the conflagration that ensued. If the people, dissatisfied with peace and plenty, met in the parks to sing the Marseillaise, The Big One had only to open his mouth and they at once all went off as quietly as Sunday-school children, and all fell to singing the National Anthem. Anarchy, therefore, was unknown in a land so well governed, and flowing with milk and honey.
The Spera in Dio having reached Gravosa, it discharged the timber it had taken for Ragusa, and loaded a valuable cargo of tobacco from Trebigne in its stead. The ship was now lying at anchor, ready to set sail with the fresh morning breeze.
It was in the evening. The captain was in hopes to start on the morrow; for at night it is a difficult task to steer a ship through that maze of sunken rocks and jagged reefs met with all along the entrance of the Val d'Ombla.
The pobratim had been talking together for some time. Uros had tried to persuade his friend to go and marry Ivanka before the mistake under which her father was labouring had been cleared up; but the more the plan was discussed, the less was Milenko convinced of its feasibility.
Uros at last, feeling rather sleepy, threw himself into his hammock, and soon afterwards closed his eyes. Milenko, instead, stood for some time with his arms resting on the main-yard, smoking and thinking, his eyes fixed on the moon, in its wane, now rising beyond the rocky coast, from which the cypresses uplifted their dark spires, and the flowering aloes reared their huge stalks.
The warm breeze blew towards him a smell of orange blossoms from the delightful Val d'Ombla, and the fragrancy of the Agnus castus, the Cretan sage, and other balmy herbs and shrubs from that little Garden of Eden—the Island of La Croma. Feeling that he could not go to sleep, even if he tried, and finding the earth so fair, bathed as it was now by the silvery light of the moon, he made up his mind to go on shore and have a stroll along the strand.
What made him leave the ship at that late hour, and go to roam on the deserted shore? Surely one of those secret impulses of fate, of which we are not masters.
He had walked listlessly for some time on the road leading to Ragusa, when he heard the loud, discordant sounds of two men, apparently drunk, wrangling with each other. The men went on, then stopped again, then once more resumed their walk; but, at every step they made, their voices grew louder, their tones angrier. Both spoke Slav; but, evidently, one of the two must have been a foreigner. Milenko followed them, simply for the sake of doing something. When he got nearer, he understood that the cause of the quarrel was not a woman, as he had believed at first, but a sum of money which the Slav had lent to the foreigner.
As they kept repeating the selfsame things over and over, Milenko got tired of their discussion and was about to turn back. Just then, however, the two men stopped again. The Slav called the stranger a thief, who in return apostrophised him as a dog of a Turk. From words they now proceeded to blows; but, drunk as they apparently were, they did not seem to hurt each other very much. Milenko hastened on to see the struggle, for there is a latent instinct, even in the most peaceable man's nature, that makes him enjoy seeing a fight.
By the time Milenko came in sight of the two men, they had begun to fight in real earnest; blows followed blows, kicks kicks; the Slav —or rather, Turk—roused by the stranger's taunts, seemed to be getting over his drunkenness. He was a tall, powerful man, and Milenko saw him grip his adversary by his neck. Then the two men grappled with each other, reeled in their struggle, then rolled down on the ground. He heard the thud of their fall. Milenko hastened to try and separate them. As he got nearer he could see them clearly, for the light of the moon fell upon them. The stronger man was holding his adversary pinned down, and was muttering the same curses over and over again; but he did not seem to be ill-using him very much.
"Leave me alone," muttered the other, "or, by my faith, it'll be so much the worse for you!"
"Your faith! you have no faith, you dog of a giaour!" growled the other.
"I have no faith, have I? Well, then, here, if I have no faith!"
Milenko, for a moment, saw a knife glitter in the moonlight, then it disappeared. He heard at the same time a loud groan. He ran up to help the man from being murdered, regardless of his own safety.
The powerful man was trying to snatch the knife from his adversary's hand, but, as he was unable to do so, he rose, holding his side, from which the blood was rushing.
"Now you'll have your money!" said the little man, with a hideous laugh, and he lifted up his hand and stabbed his adversary repeatedly.
Milenko pulled out his own knife as he reached the spot, but he only got in time to catch the dying man in his arms and to be covered with his blood.
The murderer simply looked at his adversary, and hearing him breathe his last, "He's done for," he added; then he turned on his heels and disappeared.
Poor Milenko was stunned for a moment, as he heard the expiring man's death-rattle.
What could he do to help him? Was life ebbing? had it ebbed all away? he asked himself. Was he dead, or only fainting? could he do nothing to recall him to life?
As he was lost in these thoughts he heard the heavy tramp of approaching feet, and before he could realise the predicament in which he had placed himself, the night-watch had come up to the spot and had arrested him as the murderer.
"Why do you arrest me?" said he. "I have only come here by chance to help this poor man."
"I daresay you have," said the sergeant, taking the blood-stained dagger from his hand.
"But I tell you I do not even know this poor man."
"Come, it's useless arguing with us; you'll have to do that with your judges. March on."
"But when I tell you that I only heard a scuffle and ran up——"
"Then where's the murderer?" asked one of the guards.
"He's just run off."
"What kind of a man was he?"
"I hardly saw him."
"And where do you come from?" asked the sergeant.
"From on board my boat, the Spera in Dio, now lying at Gravosa."
"And where were you going to?"
"Nowhere."
"Oh! you were taking a little stroll at this time of the night?"
The men laughed.
"Come, we're only wasting time——"
"But——"
"Stop talking; you'll have enough of that at Ragusa."
"But I tell you I'm innocent of that man's death."
"You are always innocent till you are about to be hanged, and even then sometimes."
Milenko shuddered.
Thereupon the guards, taking out a piece of rope, began tying the young man's hands behind his back.
"Leave me free; I'll follow you. I've nothing on my conscience to frighten me."
Still, they would not listen to him, but led him away like a murderer. They walked on for a little more than half-an-hour on the dark road, and at last they arrived at Porta Pilla, one of the gates of Ragusa. They crossed the principal street, called the Stradone, and soon reached the Piazza dei Signori. The quiet town was quieter than ever at these early dawning hours. The heavy steps of the guards resounded on the large stone flags with which the town is paved, and re-echoed from the granite walls of the churches and palaces.
Poor Milenko was conducted to the guard-house, and when the sergeant stated how he had been found clasping the dead man, holding, moreover, the blood-stained dagger in his hand, he, without more ado, was thrust into the narrow cell of the prison.
Alone, in utter darkness, a terrible fear came over him. How could he ever prove that he had not murdered the unknown man with whose blood his clothes were soaked?
The assassin was surely far away now, and, even if he were not, he doubtless knew that another man had been caught in his stead, and he, therefore, would either keep quiet or stealthily leave the town. If he had at least caught a glimpse of the murderer's face, then he might recognise him again; but he had seen little more than two dark forms struggling together. Nothing else than that.
Then he asked himself if God—if the good Virgin—would allow them to condemn him to death innocently? He fell on his knees, crossed himself, and uttered many prayers; but, during the whole time, he saw his body hanging on the gallows, and, with that frightful sight before his eyes, his prayers did not comfort him much.
Then he began to fancy that he must have been guilty of some sin for which he was now being punished. Though he recalled to mind all his past life, though he magnified every little misdemeanour, still he could not find anything worthy of such a punishment. He had kept all the fasts; he had gone to church whenever he had been able to do so; he had lighted a sufficient number of candles to the saints to secure their protection. If, at times, he had been guilty of cursing, of calling the blessed Virgin Mary opprobrious names, he only had done so as a mere habit, as everybody else does, quite unintentionally. The priest—at confession—had always admonished him against this bad habit; but he had duly done penance for these trifling sins, and he had got the absolution.
He asked himself why he was so unlucky. He had not fallen in love with his neighbour's wife, nor asked for impossible things. Why could not life run on smoothly for him, as it did for everybody else? What devil had prompted him to leave his ship at a time when he might have been quietly asleep? Then the thought struck him that, after all, this was only a bewildering dream, from which he would awake and laugh at on the morrow.
He got up, walked about his narrow cell, feeling his way in the darkness. Alas! this was no dream.
Then he thought of his parents; he pictured to himself the grief they would feel at hearing of his misfortune. His mother's heart would surely burst should he be found guilty and be condemned to be hanged. And his father—would he, too, believe him to be a murderer?
He again sank on his knees, and uttered a prayer; not the usual litanies which he had been taught, but a Kyrie Eleison, a cry for help rising from the innermost depths of his breast.
The darkness of the prison was so oppressive that it seemed to him as if his prayer could never go through those massive stone walls; therefore, instead of being comforted, doubt and dread weighed heavily upon him. In that mood he recalled to his mind all the incidents of a gloomy story which had once been related to him about a little Venetian baker-boy, who, like himself, had been found guilty of manslaughter. This unfortunate youth had been imprisoned, cruelly tortured, and then put to death. When it was too late, the real murderer confessed his guilt; but then the poor boy was festering in his grave.
Still, he would not despair, for surely Uros must, on the morrow, hear of his dreadful plight, and then he would use every possible and impossible means to save him.
But what if the ship started on the morrow, leaving him behind, a stranger in an unknown town?
The tears which had been gathering in his eyes began to roll down his cheeks in big, burning drops, and now that they began to flow he could not stop them any more. He crouched in a corner, and, as the cold, grey gloaming light of early dawn crept through the grated window of his cell, his heavy eyelids closed themselves at last; sleep shed its soothing balm on his aching brain.
Not long after Milenko had gone on shore, Uros woke suddenly from his sleep. He had dreamt that a short, dark-haired, swarthy, one-eyed man, with a face horribly pitted by small-pox, was murdering his friend; and yet it was not Milenko either, but some one very much like him.
He jumped up, groped his way to his mate's hammock and was very much astonished not to find him there. Having lost his sleep, he lit a cigarette and went to look down into the waters below. The sea on that side of the ship was as smooth and as dark as a black mirror. He had not been gazing long when, as usual, he began to see sparks, then fiery rods whirling about and chasing each other. The rods soon changed into snakes of all sizes and colours, especially greenish-blue and purple. They twirled and twisted into the most fantastic shapes; then they all sank down in the waters and disappeared. All this was nothing new; but, when they vanished, he was startled to behold, in their stead, the face of the pitted man he had just seen in his sleep stare at him viciously with his single eye. He drew back, frightened, and the face vanished. After an instant, he looked again; he saw nothing more, but the inky waters seemed thick with blood.
The next morning Milenko was looked for everywhere uselessly. Uros, who was the last person that had seen him, related how he had gone off to sleep and had left him leaning on the main-yard. At first, every one thought that he had gone on shore for something, and that he would be back presently; but time passed and Milenko did not make his appearance. The wind was favourable, the sails were spread, they had only to heave the anchor to start; everybody began to fear that some accident had happened to him to detain him on shore. Uros was continually haunted by his dream, especially by the face of the single-eyed man. He offered to go in search of his friend.
"Well," replied the captain, "I think I'll come with you; two'll find him quicker than one alone, for now we have no time to lose."
They went on shore and enquired at a coffee-house, but the sleepy waiters could not give them any information. They asked some boatmen lounging about the wharf, still with no better success. A porter from Ragusa finally said that he had heard of a murder committed that night on the road, but all the particulars were, as yet, unknown. Doubtless it was a skirmish between some smugglers and the watch.
Anyhow, when Uros heard of bloodshed, his heart sank within him, and the image of the swarthy man appeared before the eyes of his mind, and he fancied his friend weltering in a pool of dark blood.
"Had we not better go at once to Ragusa? we might hear something about him there?" said the captain to Uros.
"But do you think he can have been murdered?"
"Murdered? No; what a foolish idea! He had no money about him; he was dressed like a common sailor; he could not have been flirting with somebody's sweetheart. Why should he have been murdered?"
The two men hired a gig and drove off at once. When they reached Ragusa, they found the quiet town in a bustle on account of a murder that had taken place on the roadside. The old counts and marquises of the republic forgot their wonted dignity—forgot even their drawling way of speaking—and questioned the barber, the apothecary, or the watch at the town gate with unusual fluency.
A murder on the road to Gravosa! A most unheard-of thing. Soon people would be murdered within the very walls of the town! Such things had never happened in the good olden times!
"And who was the murdered man?" asked one.
"A stranger."
"And the murderer?"
"A stranger, too; a mere boy, they say."
"Oh! that explains matters," added a grave personage; "but if strangers will murder each other, why do they not stay at home and slaughter themselves?"
Such were the snatches of conversation Uros and the captain heard on alighting at Porta Pilla; and as they asked their way to the police station, everybody stared at them, and felt sure that in some way or other they were connected with the murder.
At the police station, the captain stated how his mate had disappeared from on board, and asked permission to see the murdered man. They were forthwith led to the mortuary-chapel, and they were glad to see that the corpse was a perfect stranger.
"What kind of a person is the young man you are looking for?" asked the guard who had accompanied them.
"Rather above the middle height, slim but muscular, with greyish-blue eyes, a straight nose, a square chin, curly hair, and a small dark moustache."
"And dressed like a sailor?"
"Yes."
"Exactly as you are?" said he to Uros.
"Yes; have you seen him?"
"Why, yes; he is the murderer."
Uros shuddered; the captain laughed.
"There must be some mistake," said the latter. "You have arrested the wrong person; such things do happen occasionally."
"He was arrested while struggling with the man he killed. He was not only all dripping with blood, but he still held his dagger in his hand."
"With all that, it's some mistake; for he didn't know this man," said the captain, pointing to the corpse stretched out before them. "If he did kill him, then it was done in self-defence."
"But where is he now?" asked Uros.
"Why, in prison, of course."
Uros shuddered again.
"We can see him, can't we?" said the captain.
"You must apply to the authorities."
The departure of the Spera in Dio had to be put off for some days. Uros went on board the ship, whilst the captain remained at Ragusa to look after his lost mate. There he soon found out that, in fact, it was Milenko who had been arrested; and after a good deal of trouble he succeeded in seeing him.
Although he did his best to comfort him and assure him that in a few days the real murderer would be found, he could not help thinking that the evidence was dead against him. Anyhow, he had him transferred to a better cell, and, by dint of backseesh, saw that his bodily comforts were duly attended to.
On the following day, the captain, Uros and the crew were examined; and all were of opinion that Milenko could not possibly ever have been acquainted with the unknown man, and, therefore, had no possible reason for taking away his life. The great difficulty, meanwhile, was to find out who the murdered man really was, from where he had come, whither he was going in the middle of the night.
After that, the captain went to a lawyer's; and having put the whole affair in his hands, found out that he could do nothing more for Milenko than he had already done; so he went and lit a candle for his sake, recommended him to the mercy of the Virgin and good St. Nicholas, and decided to start on the following morning, without any further and unprofitable delay. Had the young man been his own son, he would not have acted otherwise. Uros, however, decided to remain behind, and join the ship at Trieste after a few days.
On the morrow Uros, after having seen the Spera in Dio disappear, went to spend a few hours with his friend. A week passed in this way; then, not knowing in what way to help Milenko, he bethought himself to seek the aid of some old woman versed in occult lore, in whose wisdom he had much more faith than in the wordy learning of gossiping lawyers.
Having succeeded in hearing of such a one from the inn-keeper's wife, he went to her at once and explained what he wanted of her.