She looked at him steadily for a while; then she went to an old chest and took out a quaint little mirror of dark, burnished metal, and making him sit in a corner, bade him look steadily within it. As soon as he was seated, she took a piece of black cloth, like a pall, and stretched it around him, screening him from every eye. Having done this, she threw some powder on the fire, which, burning, filled the room with fragrant smoke, or rather, with white vapour, which had a heady smell of roses. After a few moments of silence, she took the guzla and played, as a kind of prelude, a pathetic, dirge-like melody; then she began to sing in a low, lamentable tone, Vuk Stefanovic Karadzic's song, entitled—
Upon a lonely mead two pine-trees grew,
And 'twixt the two a lowly willow-tree;
No pines were those upon the lonely mead,
Where nightly winds e'er whistle words of woe.
The one was Radislav—a warrior brave;
Whilst Janko was the other stately tree.
They were two brothers, fond of heart and true;
The weeping willow-tree that rose between
Had whilom been their sister Jelina.
Both brothers loved the maid so fair and good,
Fair as a snow-white lily fresh with dew,
And good, I ween, as a white turtle-dove.
Once Janko to his sister gave a gift;
It was a dagger with a blade of gold.
That day Marija, who was Janko's wife
(A wanton woman with a wicked heart),
Grew grey and green with envy and with grudge,
And to Zorizza, Radislavo's wife,
She said: "Pray tell me in what way must I
Get these two men to hate that Jelina,
Whom they love more, indeed, than you or me."
"I know not," said Zorizza, who was good—
Aye, good indeed, and sweet as home-made bread;
"And if I knew, I should pray day and night
For God to keep me from so foul a deed."
Marija wended then her way alone,
And as her head was full of fiendish thoughts,
She saw upon the mead her husband's foal,
The fleetest-footed filly of the place.
Whilst with one hand she fondled the young foal,
The other plunged a dagger in her breast;
Then, taking God as witness, swore aloud
That Jelina had done that deed of blood.
With doleful voice the brother asked the girl
What made her mar the foal he loved so well.
Upon her soul the maiden took an oath
That she nowise had done that noxious deed.
A few days later, on a dreary night,
Marija went and killed the falcon grey—
The swiftest bird, well worth its weight in gold.
Then creeping back to bed, with loud outcry
She woke the house; she said that, in a dream,
She saw her Janko's sister, as a witch,
Kill that grey falcon Janko loved so well.
Behold! at early morn the bird was dead.
"This cruel deed shall rest upon thy head,"
Said Janko to the girl, who stood amazed.
E'en after this Marija found no peace,
But hated Jelina far more than death,
So evermore she pondered how she could
Bring dire destruction down upon the maid.
One night, with stealthy steps, she went and stole
The golden-bladed knife from Jelka's room;
And with the knife she stabbed her only babe.
The foul deed done, she put the knife beneath
The pillow white whereon lay Jelka's head.
At early twilight, when the husband woke,
He found his rosy babe stabbed through the breast,
All livid pale within a pool of blood.
Marija tore her hair and scratched her cheeks
With feigned despair; she vowed to kill the witch
Who wantonly had stabbed her precious babe.
"But who has done this cruel, craven crime?
Who killed my child?" cried Janko, mad with rage.
"Go seek thy sister's knife, with golden blade;
Forsooth, 'tis stained with blood." And Janko went,
And found that Jelka still was fast asleep,
But 'neath her pillow, peeping out, he saw—
All stained with blood—the knife with golden blade.
He grasped his sleeping sister by her throat,
Accusing her of having killed his child.
And she—now startled in her morning sleep—
Midst sighs and sobs disowned the dreadful deed;
Still, when she saw the knife all stained with gore,
She grew all grey with fear and looked aghast,
And guilty-like, before that gruesome sight.
"An I have done this horrid, heinous deed,
Then I deserve to die a dreadful death.
If thou canst think that I have killed thy child,
Then take and tie me to thy horses' tails,
So that they tread me down beneath their hoofs."
The maid was led within the lonely mead,
Her limbs were bound unto the stallions' tails;
They lashed the horses, that soon reared and ran
Apart, and thus they tore her limbs in twain.
But lo! where'er her blood fell down in drops,
Sweet sage grew forth, and marjoram and thyme,
And fragrant basil, sweetest of all herbs;
But on the spot where dropped her mangled corse,
A bruised and shapeless mass of bleeding flesh,
A stately church arose from out the earth,
Of dazzling marbles gemmed with precious stones—
A wondrous chapel built by hallowed hands.
Marija, then, upon that day fell ill,
And nine long years she languished on her bed,
A death in life, still far more dead than quick;
And as she lay there 'twixt her skin and bones
The coarse and rank weeds grew, and 'midst the weeds
There nestled scorpions, snakes, and loathsome worms,
Which crept and sucked the tears from out her eyes.
In those last throes of death she wailed aloud,
And bade for mercy's sake that they might take
And lay her in that church which had sprung out
Where Jelka's body dropped a mangled corpse.
In fact, her only hope was to atone
For all those dreadful deeds which she had done.
But when they reached the threshold of the church,
A low and hollow voice came from the shrine,
And all who heard the sound were sore amazed.
"Avaunt from here! Till God forgive thy crimes,
This sacred ground is sure no place for thee."
Appalled to death, unable yet to die,
She begged them as a boon that they would tie
Her to the horses' tails, for dying thus she hoped
That God might then have mercy on her soul.
They bound her wasted limbs to stallions' tails;
Her bones were broke, her limbs were wrenched in twain,
And where the sods sucked up her blood impure,
The earth did yawn, and out of that wide gulf
Dark waters slowly rose and spread around;
Still, lifeless waters, like a lake of hell.
Within the mere the murdered foal was seen,
Just as we see a vision in a dream.
The falcon grey then flew with fluttering wing,
And panting, fell within that inky pool.
Then from the eddy rose a tiny cot.
Within that cot a rosy infant slept,
And smiled as if it saw its mother's breast.
But lo! its mother's claw-like hand arose
Out of the stagnant waters of the lake,
And plunged a dagger in the infant's breast.
The old woman, having finished her song, waited for a while till the young man looked up.
Presently, Uros, with a deep sigh, lifted his eyes towards her.
"Always the same man, with that fiendish face of his," quoth he, shaking his head.
"But tell me what you have seen now, that I might help you—if I can."
"That man, who has been haunting me all these days."
"Explain yourself better; did you only see his face, now?"
Uros first explained to the baornitza what he had witnessed in the sea the night when Milenko was arrested for murder.
"Have you often seen such things in the sea before?"
"From my earliest childhood, and almost every time I looked; very often Milenko and I saw the very same things."
"But are you sure you never saw the face before?"
"Oh! quite sure."
"Now, tell me minutely what you have seen in the glass."
"First the mirror grew hazy, just as if clouds were flitting over it; then, little by little, it got to be more transparent, and of a silvery, glassy grey. After that it grew greenish, and I could distinguish down within its depths a beautiful landscape. It was a country road seen by night; the moon was rising behind the hills at a distance, and presently the trees, the rocks, the road, were clearer. All at once two men were seen walking on the way. I could not see their faces, for I was behind them; still, I was sure who the shorter man was. They walked on and disappeared, but then I saw one of them come running back. I was not mistaken; it was the man with the single eye. His was, indeed, the face of a fiend.
"He must have been running for some time, for he was panting, nay, gasping for breath. He stopped, looked over his shoulder, then threw the knife he was holding within a bush. It was a bush with silvery leaves, and all covered with flowers. He then wiped his wet hands on the leaves of the shrub, on the scanty grass, then rubbed them with the sandy earth to remove all the traces of the blood. This done, he again took to his heels and disappeared."
"And that is all you saw?"
"No! the mirror resumed again its real, dark colour, but, as I continued looking within it, hoping to see something more, I saw it turn again milky-white; then of a strong grass green, and, in the midst of that glaring green paint, I had a glimpse of a Turkish flag; then, as the red flag vanished, I beheld two words cut out and painted in white in that garish green background. Those mysterious words remained for some time; then they vanished, and I saw nothing more."
"Those words were in Turkish characters, were they not?"
"No; some of them were like ours, but not all."
"Then they must have been either Cyrillic or Greek; but, tell me, are you quite sure you never saw those words before?"
"Oh! quite, they were so strange."
"You know, we happen sometimes to see things without noticing them, even strange things. Then these objects, of which we seem to have no knowledge, come back to us in our dreams, or when we gaze within a mirror; so it may be that you have seen that face and those words absently, with your eyes only, whilst your mind took no notice of them."
"I don't think so."
"You may think otherwise in a few days. But let's see; you know where the murder took place, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, the two men were, apparently, coming from Gravosa and going up to Ragusa. Now, the spot where the shorter one stopped must have been five, ten or fifteen minutes from the spot."
"I daresay a quarter of an hour. Sailors are not accustomed to run; besides, that man is not very young."
"How do you know he is a sailor?"
"By his dress; and a Greek sailor, besides. He wore a dark blue flannel shirt, a white belt or sash, and those rough, yellow home-spun trowsers which they alone wear."
"Then probably the two words you saw were Greek. Now, the first thing to be found is the knife; the second, and far more important fact, is the meaning of those words. Are you sure not to forget them? Can you, perhaps, write them down?"
"I'll never forget them as long as I live; they are engraven in my mind."
"Then go and look for the knife. Come back to me to-morrow; perhaps I may be of further help to you, that is, if you need more help."
Uros thanked the old woman, and then asked her where she had learnt all the wonderful things she knew.
"From my own mother. Once a trade was in one family for ages; every generation transmitted its secrets with its implements to the other. It is true, people only knew one thing; but they knew it thoroughly. Nowadays, young people are expected to have a smattering of everything; but the sum of all their knowledge often amounts to nothing."
Uros, taking leave of the wise old woman, went down the road leading from Porta Pilla to the sea. Soon he came to the spot where Milenko had been found clasping the murdered man in his arms. Then he looked at every tree, at every stone he passed on his way. After a while, he got to the corner where he had seen—in the mirror—the two men disappear. From there he crawled on, rather than walked, so that not a pebble of the road escaped his notice. After about a quarter of an hour, he came to a shrub of a dusty, greyish green—it was an Agnus castus in full bloom. He recognised it at once; it was the bush that had looked so silvery by the light of the moon within the magic mirror. His heart began to beat violently. As he looked round, he fancied he would see the murderer start from behind some tree and pounce upon him. He looked at the shrub carefully; some of its lower branches and the tops of many twigs were broken. He pushed the leaves aside, and searched within it. The knife was there. He did not see it at first; for its haft was almost the same colour as the roots of the tree, and the point of the knife was sticking in the earth. He took it up and examined it. All the part of the blade that had not been plunged in the earth was stained with blood. It was a common knife, one of those that all sailors wear in their belts. He put it in the breast pocket of his coat, and walked down with long strides. He was but a few steps from the shore.
Reason prompted him now to go to the police and give them the knife; for it might lead to the discovery of the culprit. Still, this was only a second thought—and Uros seldom yielded to practical after-thoughts; and whenever he did so, he always regretted it.
He had not a great idea of the police. They were only good to write things down on paper, making what they called protocols, which complicated everything.
No; it was far better to act for himself, and only apply for help to the police when he could have the murderer arrested.
As he got down to the shore the sun was sinking below the horizon; the silvery waters of the main were now being transmuted into vaporous gold. As he was looking at the sea and sky, from a meteorological, sailor-like point of view, and wondering whereabouts the Spera in Dio was just then, his eyes fell upon a little skiff, which had arrived a few days after they had. It was a Turkish caique, painted in bright prasine green. He had seen it for days when his own ship was loading and unloading, but then it had had nothing particular to attract his attention; he had seen hundreds of these barques in the East. Now, however, he could not help being struck by its vivid green colour. He looked up; the red flag with the half-moon met his eyes. He had but time to see it, when it disappeared, for the sun had set.
How his heart began to beat! Surely the murderer was on board. He strained his eyes to see the name of the ship, painted on either side, but he could not distinguish it so far. Not a man was seen on deck; the skiff seemed deserted.
A boy was fishing in a boat near there; he called him and asked him to lend him the boat for an instant.
"What! do you want to fish, too?" asked the boy, pulling up.
"No; I'd like to see the name of that caique."
After two or three good strokes with the oars, Uros could see the name plainly; it was Panagia, exactly the name he had read in the mirror.
"Is that the ship you are looking for?"
"The very same one."
"Do you want to go on board?"
"Yes; I'd like to see the captain."
As soon as he was by the side of the caique he called out "Patria!" for this is the name by which Greek sailors are usually addressed.
Some one got up at the summons. It was not the single-eyed man that Uros was expecting to see, but a handsome, dark-eyed, shock-headed young fellow.
"Is the captain on board?"
The youth tossed up his head negatively and said some words, but the only one that Uros understood was Caffene.
As soon as Uros jumped on shore he went off to the coffee-house by the pier, the only one at Gravosa. There were only a few seamen smoking and sipping black coffee, but the person he wanted was not amongst them.
"Do you wish to be taken on board his craft?" asked a kind of ship-broker, hearing that Uros was asking about the Greek captain.
A few hours before he would simply have answered negatively. Now, as he wanted to hear more of the ship and its crew, he asked:
"Is it the Greek captain whose caique is lying just outside?"
"Yes; the one painted in green."
"Where is he?"
"Just gone up to town. Are you going to Ragusa?"
"Yes."
"Well, as I'm going up too, I'll come with you."
An hour afterwards Uros was duly introduced to the man he had been looking for.
The captain's first question was why Uros had remained behind, and as the young man was anxious to lead the conversation about the murder, he gave all the details about Milenko's arrest, and the reason why he himself had not started with his ship.
"What!" asked Uros, "you haven't heard of the murder?"
"No," replied Captain Panajotti; "you see, I only speak Greek and a little of the lingua Franca, so it is difficult to understand the people here."
"But how is it you happen to be wanting hands? You Greeks only have sailors of your own country."
"I've been very unfortunate this trip. One of my men has a whitlow in the palm of his hand; another, a Slav, came with me this trip, but only on condition of being allowed to go to his country while the ship was loading and unloading——"
"Well?" asked Uros, eagerly.
"He went off and never came back."
"Are you sure he was a Slav, and not a Turk?"
"We, on board, spoke to him in Turkish, because he knew the language like a Turk, but he was a Christian for all that; his country is somewhere in the interior, not far from here. Now another of my men has fallen ill——"
"The man with the one eye?"
"What! you know Vassili?" asked the captain, with a smile. "Yes, he's ill."
"What's the matter with him?"
"I really don't know; he's lying down, skulking in a hole; the devil take him."
"Since when?"
"Ten days, I think."
"But is he really ill?"
"He says he is; but why do you ask—do you know him?"
"I'll be straightforward with you," said Uros, looking the captain full in the eyes. "I think the murdered man is the Slav who left your ship ten days ago."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed the captain, astonished and grieved.
"I believe so."
"The one for whose murder your friend was arrested?"
"Exactly."
"Strange—very strange," said the captain, who had taken off his shoe and was rubbing his stockinged foot, "and the murderer?"
"The man who has been ill ever since."
"Vassili?"
"You've said it."
"But have you any proofs?"
"I have."
"Then why did you not get him arrested?"
"I'll do so to-morrow."
"And if you can prove your friend's innocence——"
"We'll sail with you to Zara, my friend and I, if you'll have us, and find you two other able-bodied seamen to take our place."
"But, remember, I'll not help you in any way to have a man on board my ship arrested."
"No, I don't ask you to do so."
"I believe he's a fiend; still, he's a fellow-countryman of mine."
The two men thereupon shook hands and separated.
Uros went to the police, and, after a great ado, he managed to find one of the directors.
"What do you want?" said the officer, cross at being disturbed out of office hours.
"I've found the murderer at last," replied Uros.
"And what murderer, pray? Do you think there's only one murderer in the world?"
Uros explained himself.
"And who is he?"
"A certain Vassili, a Greek, on board a caique now lying at Gravosa."
"And how have you found out that he is the murderer, when we know nothing about it?"
"By intuition."
"Well, but you don't expect us to go about arresting people on intuition, do you?" asked the officer, huffishly.
Uros proceeded to relate all he knew; then he produced the knife which he had found.
"Well, there is some ground to your intuition; and if the murdered man happens to be the Slav sailor who disappeared from on board the ship you speak of, well, then, there is some probability that this one-eyed man is the murderer."
"Anyhow, could you give orders for the ship to be watched to-night?"
"Yes, I can do that."
"At once?"
"You are rather exacting, young man."
"Think of my friend, who has been in prison ten days——"
"I'll give orders at once. There, are you satisfied now?"
"Thank you."
Uros, frightened lest the murderer might escape, hastened down to Gravosa to keep watch on the caique. On his way thither he stopped at a baker's shop and bought some bread, as he had been fasting for many hours. Having got down to the shore, he eat his bread, had a glass of water and a cup of black coffee at the coffee-house, lit a cigarette, and then went to stretch himself down on a boat drawn up on the sand, from where he could see anyone who came out of the Greek ship.
Although there was no moon, still the air was so clear, and the stars shone so brightly, that the sky was of a deep transparent blue, and the night was anything but black. A number of little noises were heard, especially the many insects that awake and begin to chirp when all the birds are hushed. One of them near him was breathing in a see-saw, drilling tone, whilst another kept syncopating this song with a sharp and shrill tsit, tsit. In some farmyard, far off, the growl of an old dog was occasionally heard in the distance, like a bass-viol; but the pleasantest of all these noises was the plap-plap of the wavelets lapping the soft sand.
Presently, a custom-house guard came and sat down near Uros, and they began talking together; and then time passed a little quicker.
It must have been about half-past one when Uros saw a man quietly lower himself down from the caique into the sea, and make for the shore. He must have swum with one hand, for his other was holding a bundle of clothes on his head. Uros pointed out the swimming figure to the guard, who at once sprang up and ran to the edge of the shore. The man, startled, veered and swam farther off. The watchman whistled, and another guard appeared at fifty paces from there. The man jerked himself round, evidently intending to go back to his ship; but Uros, who was on the alert, had already pushed into the sea the boat on which he had been stretched, and began paddling with a board which was lying within it.
The man, evidently thinking that Uros was a custom-house officer, seeing now that he could not get back on board, put on a bold face and swam once more towards the shore, whither Uros followed him. Three custom-house guards had come up together, and were waiting for him to step out of the water. Uros landed almost at once, and pushing the boat on the sand, turned round and found himself face to face with the dripping, naked figure. It was the fiendish, pitted, single-eyed man he had seen in his visions. He was by no means startled at seeing him; for he would have been astonished, indeed, if it had been someone else.
Uros, grasping him by one of his arms and holding him fast for fear he might escape, exclaimed: "That's the man!—that's the murderer!"
"Leave him," said the watchman; "if he tries to escape he's dead."
"Oh! but I don't want him dead; do what you like with him, but don't kill him; tie him up, cut off his legs and his arms, but spare his life until he has confessed."
The guards gave another shrill whistle, and presently the policemen came running up.
The naked man, who did not know a word of Slav, and only very little Italian, was taking his oath in Greek that he was no smuggler. He at once opened his bundle, wrapped up in an oil-cloth jacket, and showed the guards that there was nothing in it but a few clothes. The Greek sailor was ordered to dress himself; then the policemen handcuffed him and led him off to the station, where Uros followed him.
On the morrow the Greek captain was sent for, and he stated that, having accused Vassili—who, for ten days, had been shamming illness—of having murdered the Slav, this sailor had threatened him to go to the Greek consulate on the morrow. The guilty man, however, had, on second thoughts, deemed it more advisable to seek his safety in flight, little thinking to what danger he was exposing himself. The knife was produced and identified as having belonged to the prisoner; then, being confronted with Milenko, who at once recognised him as the murderer, he—overwhelmed by so many damning proofs —confessed his guilt and pleaded for mercy, saying that he had only killed his antagonist in self-defence.
Milenko's innocence being thus proclaimed, he was at once set free, whilst Uros was heartily congratulated on his intuition, and the officer who had snubbed him the evening before, strongly advised him to leave the sea and become a detective, for if he had the same skill in finding the traces of criminals as he had displayed in this case, he would soon became a most valuable officer, whilst Milenko was told that he ought to think himself fortunate in having such a friend.
Though the pobratim would have sailed with any ship rather than with the ill-fated green caique, still Uros had pledged his word to the Greek captain to go with him as far as Zara or Trieste, and, moreover, there was no other vessel sailing just then for either of these ports, and they were both anxious to catch up with the Spera in Dio without further delay. The Greek captain, likewise—out of a kind of superstitious dread—would have preferred any other sailors to these two young men; still, as Dalmatians only sail with their own fellow-countrymen and never on Greek crafts, it was no easy matter to find two able-bodied men to go only for a short trip, for those were times when sailors were not as plentiful, nor ships so scarce, as they are now.
On the day after the one on which Milenko was set free, the pobratim set sail with the little caique, and they, as well as the captain, were thoroughly glad to shake the dust off their shoes on leaving Gravosa; Milenko especially hoped never to set his foot in Ragusa again.
The fresh breeze swelled out the broad white sails of the graceful little ship, which flew as fleetly as a halcyon, steered, as it was, with utmost care, in and out the narrow channels and through that archipelago of volcanic rocks which surround the Elaphite Islands, so dangerous to seamen. It soon left far behind the graceful mimosas, the dark cypress-trees and the feathery palms of the Ragusean coast.
After all the anxiety of the last days it was pleasant to be again on those blue waters, so limpid that the red fretted weeds could be seen growing on the grey rocks several fathoms below. It was a delight to breathe the balmy air, wafted across that little scented garden of La Croma. The world looked once more so beautiful, and life was again a pleasure. The sufferings the pobratim had undergone only served to render them fonder of each other, so that if they had been twins—not only brothers—they could not have loved each other more than they did.
The sun went down, and soon afterwards the golden bow of the new moon was seen floating in the hyacinthine sky. At the sight of that slender aureate crescent—which always awakens in the mind of man a vision of a chaste and graceful maiden—all the crew crossed themselves and were happy to think that the past was dead and gone, for the new moon brings new fortune to mortals.
A frugal supper of salted cheese, fruit and olives gathered all the men together, and then those who were not keeping watch were about to retire, when a small fishing-boat with a lighted torch at its prow was seen not very far off. As it came nearer to them the light went out, and the dark boat, with two gaunt figures at the oars, was seen for an instant wrapped in a funereal darkness, and then all vanished. The pobratim crossed themselves, shuddering, and Milenko whispered something to Uros in Slav, who nodded without speaking.
"What is it?" asked the captain, astonished.
"It is the phantom fishing-boat," replied Uros, almost below his breath, apparently unwilling to utter these words, and Milenko added:
"It is seen on the first days of the new moon, as soon as darkness comes over the waters."
For a few moments everybody was silent. All looked towards the spot where the boat had disappeared, and then the captain asked Milenko who those two men were, and why they were condemned to ply their oars, and thereupon Milenko began to relate the story of
Some centuries ago, during the great days of the Republic, there lived a young patrician whose name was Theodor. He belonged to one of the wealthiest and oldest families of Ragusa, his father having been rector of the Commonwealth. Theodor was of a most serious disposition, possessing uncommon talents, and, therefore, taking no delight in the frivolities of his age. His learning was such that he was expected to become one of the glories of his native town.
Theodor, to flee from the bustle and mirth of the capital and to give himself entirely up to his studies, had taken up his abode in the Benedictine convent on the little island of St. Andrea.
Once he went to visit the island of Lopud—the middle one of the Elaphite group—and there passed the day; but in the evening, wishing to return to the brotherhood, he could not find his boat on the shore. Wandering on the beach, he happened to meet a young girl carrying home some baskets of fish. Theodor, stopping her, asked her, shyly, if she knew of anyone who would take him in his boat across to the island of St. Andrea. No, the young girl knew nobody, for the fishermen who had come back home were all very tired with their hard day's work; they were now smoking their pipes. Seeing Theodor's disappointed look, the young girl proffered her services, which the bashful patrician reluctantly accepted.
The sail was unfurled and managed with a strong and skilful hand; the boat went scudding over the waves like an albatross; the breeze was steady, and the sea quiet. The girl steered through the reefs like a pilot.
Those two human beings in the fishing-smack formed a strong contrast to one another. He, the aristocratic scion of a highly cultured race, pale with long study and nightly vigils, looked like a tenderly reared hot-house plant. She, belonging to a sturdy race of fishermen, tanned by the rays of the scorching sun and the exhilarating surf, was the very picture of a wild flower in full bloom.
Theodor, having got over the diffidence with which women usually inspired him, began to talk to the young girl; he questioned her about her house, her family, her way of living. She told him simply, artlessly, that she was an orphan; the hungry waves—that yearly devour so many fishermen's lives—had swallowed up her father; not long after this misfortune her mother died. Since that time she had lived with her three brothers, who, she said, took great care of her. She kept house for them, she cooked, she baked bread, she also helped them to repair their nets, which were always tearing. Sometimes she cleaned the boat, and she always carried the fish to market. Besides, she tilled the little field, and in the evening she spun the thread to make her brothers' shirts. But they were very kind to her, no brothers could be more so.
He could not help comparing this poor girl—the drudge of the family—with the grand ladies of his own caste, whose task in life was to dress up, to be rapidly witty in a saloon, to slander all their acquaintances, simply to kill the time, for whom life had no other aim than pleasure, and against whose love for sumptuary display the Republic had to devise laws and enforce old edicts.
For the young philosopher this unsophisticated girl soon became an object, first, of speculative, then of tender interest; whilst Margaret—this was the fishermaiden's name—felt for Theodor, so delicate and lovable, that motherly sympathy which a real womanly nature feels for every human being sickly and suffering.
They met again—haunted as he was by the flashing eyes of the young girl, it was impossible for him not to try and see her a second time, and from her own fair lips he heard that the passion which had been kindled in his heart had also roused her love. Then, instead of endeavouring to suppress their feelings, they yielded to the charms of this saintly affection, to the rapture of loving and being loved. In a few days his feelings had made so much progress that he promised to marry her, forgetting, however, that the strict laws of the aristocratic Republic forbade all marriages between patricians and plebeians. His noble character and his bold spirit prompted him to brave that proud society in which he lived, for those refined ladies and gentlemen, who would have shrugged their shoulders had he seduced the young girl and made her his mistress, would have been terribly scandalised had he taken her for his lawful wife.
His studies went on in a desultory way, his books were almost forsaken; love engrossed all his mind.
In the midst of his thoughtless happiness, the young lover was suddenly summoned back home, for whilst Theodor was supposed to be poring over his old volumes, the father, without consulting him, not anticipating any opposition, promised his son in marriage to the daughter of one of his friends, a young lady of great wealth and beauty. This union had, it is true, been concerted when the children were mere babes, and it had from that time been a bond between the two families. The whole town, nay, the Commonwealth itself, rejoiced at this auspicious event. The young lady, being now of a marriageable age, and having duly concentrated all her affections upon the man she had always been taught to regard as her future husband, looked forward with joy to the day that would remove her from the thraldom in which young girls were kept. Henceforth she would take her due share in all festivities, and not only be cooped up in a balcony or a gallery to witness those enjoyments of which she could not take part.
Theodor was, therefore, summoned back home to assist at a great festivity given in honour of his betrothal. This order came upon him as a thunderbolt; still, as soon as he recovered from the shock, he hastened back to break off the engagement contracted for him. He tried to remonstrate, first with his father, and then with his mother; but his eloquence was put to scorn. He pleaded in vain that he had no inclination for matrimony, that, moreover, he only felt for this young lady a mere brotherly affection, that could never ripen into love; still, both his parents were deaf to all his arguments. Now that the wedding day was settled, that the father had pledged his word to his friend, it was too late to retreat. A refusal would be insulting; it would provoke a rupture between the two families—a feud in the town. No option was left but to obey.
Theodor thereupon retired to his own room, where he remained in strict confinement, refusing to see anyone. The evening of that eventful day the guests were assembled, the bride and her family had arrived; the bridegroom, nevertheless, was missing. This was, indeed, a strange breach of good manners, and numerous comments were whispered from ear to ear. The father sent, at last, a peremptory order to his undutiful son to come down at once.
The young man at last made his appearance dressed in a suit of deep mourning, whilst his hair—which a little while before had fallen in long ringlets over his shoulders—was clipped short. In this strange dress he came to inform his father—before the whole assembly—that he had decided to forego the pleasures, the pomp and vanity of this world, and to take up his abode in a convent, where he intended to pass his days in study and meditation.
The scene of confusion which followed this unexpected declaration can easily be imagined. The guests thought it advisable to retire; still, the first person to leave the house was Theodor himself, bearing with him his father's curse. The discarded bride was borne away by her parents, and her delicate health never recovered from that unexpected disappointment.
That very night the young man went back to the Benedictine convent, and, although the prior received him kindly, he still advised him to yield to his father's wishes; but Theodor was firm in his resolution of passing his life in holy seclusion.
After a few days, the fire which love had kindled within his veins was so strong that he could not resist the temptation of going to see Margaret to inform her of all that had happened. Driven as he was from house and home, unable to go against the unjust laws of his country, he had made up his mind to spend his life in holy celibacy, in the convent where he had taken shelter. The sight of the young girl, however, made him forget all his wise resolutions; he only swore to her that he would brave the laws of his country, the wrath of his parents, and that he would marry her in spite of his family and of the whole world.
He thus continued to see the young girl, stealthily at first, then oftener and without so many precautions, till at last Margaret's brothers were informed of his visits. They—jealous of the honour of their family, as all Slavs are—threatened their sister to kill her lover if ever they found him with her. Then—almost at the same time—the prior of the Benedictines, happening to hear of Theodor's love for the fair fisher-girl of Lopud, expressed his intention of expelling him, should he not discontinue his visits to the neighbouring island.
Every new difficulty only seemed to give greater courage to the lovers. They would have fled from their native country had it not been for the fear of being soon overtaken, brought back and punished; they, therefore, decided to wait for some time, until the wrath of their persecutors had abated, and the storm that always threatened them had blown over.
As Theodor could not go to see the young girl, Margaret now came to visit her lover. Not to excite any suspicion, they only met in the middle of the night; and, as they always changed their trysting-place, a lighted torch was the signal where the young girl was to steer her boat. Sometimes—as not a skiff was to be got—the young girl swam across the channel, for nothing could daunt her heroic heart.
These ill-fated lovers were happy in spite of their adverse fortune; the love they bore one another made amends for all their woes. They only lived in expectation of that hour they were to pass together every night. Then, clasped in each other's arms, the world and its inhabitants did not exist for them. Those were moments of such ineffable rapture, that it seemed impossible for them ever to drain the whole chalice of happiness. In those moments Time and Eternity were confounded, and nothing was worth living for except the bliss of loving and being loved. The dangers which surrounded them, their loneliness upon those rocky shores, the stillness of the night, and the swiftness of time, only rendered the pleasure they felt more intense, for joy dearly bought is always more deeply felt.
Their happiness, however, was not to last long. Margaret's brothers, having watched her, soon found out that when the young nobleman had ceased coming to Lopud, it was she who visited her lover by night, and, like honourable men, they resolved to be avenged upon her. They bided their time, and upon a dark and stormy night the fishermen, knowing that their sister would not be intimidated by the heavy sea, went off with the boat and left her to the mercy of the waves. Theodor, not to entice her to expose herself rashly to the fury of the sea, had not lighted his torch; still, unable to remain shut up within his cell, he roamed about the desolate shore, listening to the roaring billows. All at once he saw a light—not far from the rocks. No fisherman could be out in the storm at that hour. His heart sank within him for fear Margaret should see the light and take it for his signal. In a fever of anxiety he walked about the shore and watched the fluttering light—now almost extinguished, and then burning brightly.
The young girl seeing the light, and unable to resist the promptings of her heart, made the sign of the Cross, recommended herself to the mercy of the Almighty, and bravely plunged into the waters. She struggled against the fury of the wind, and buffeted against the waves, swimming towards that beacon-light of love. That night, however, all her efforts seemed useless; she never could reach the shore; that ignis-fatuus light always receded from her. Still, she took courage, hoping soon to reach that blessed goal; in fact, she was now getting quite near it.
A flash of lightning, which illumined the dark expanse of the waters, showed her that the torch, towards which she had been swimming, was tied to the prow of her brothers' boat. She also perceived that the Island of St. Andrea, towards which she thought she had been swimming, was far behind her. A moment afterwards the torch was thrown into the sea, and the boat rowed off. She at once turned towards the island, and there, in the midst of the darkness, she struggled with the huge breakers that dashed themselves in foam against the reefs; but soon, overpowered with weariness, she gave up every hope of rejoining her lover, and sank down in the briny deep.
The sea that separated the lovers was, however, less cruel than man, for upon the morrow the waves themselves laid the lifeless body of the young girl upon the soft sand of the beach.
The young patrician, who had passed a night of most terrible anxiety, wandering on the strand, found the corpse of the girl he so dearly loved. He caused it to be committed to the earth, after which he re-entered the walls of the convent, took the Benedictine dress, and spent the rest of his life praying for her soul and pining in grief.
Milenko did not exactly relate this story in these words, for to be intelligible he had to make use of a mixture of Italian, Slav and even Greek, and even then Captain Panajotti was often puzzled to understand what he meant; therefore, he had to express himself in a kind of dumb show, or in those onomatopoetic sounds rather difficult to be transcribed.
As soon as he had finished, the captain said:
"We, too, have a story like that, and, on the whole, ours is a much prettier one; for it was the man who swam across the Straits of the Dardanelles to meet the girl he loved, and, on a stormy night, he was drowned."
"Only ours is a true story; you yourself have seen, just now, the hard-hearted brothers rowing in the dark."
"Ours is also true."
"And when did it happen?"
"More than a thousand years ago, when we Greeks were the masters of all the world."
The Spera in Dio, having met with contrary winds and a storm in the rough sea of the Quarnero, had been obliged to cruise about and shift her sails every now and then, thus losing a great deal of time, and she only reached Trieste after a week's delay. The caique instead had a steady, strong wind, and less than twenty-four hours after they left Ragusa they cast their anchor in front of the white walls of Zara.
To the pobratim's regret the boat was only to remain there two or three days at most, just time enough to take some bales of hides, and then set sail for Trieste; so, although they were so near Nona, it was impossible for them to go and pay a visit to Ivanka. The two young sailors had, however, no need of going to Nona to see their friends, for no sooner had the ship dropped her anchor than Giulianic himself came on board, for he was the Sciot merchant about whom Captain Panajotti had often spoken to them, and who was to give them the extra cargo.
"What! you here?" said Giulianic, opening his eyes with astonishment. "Well, this is an unexpected pleasure; but I thought you were in Trieste." Then, turning to Milenko, he added: "I had a letter from your father only a few days ago informing me that your ship would be there now. You have not been shipwrecked, I hope?"
"No, no," replied Uros, at once; "we were detained at Ragusa; but we are on our way to Trieste, aren't we, captain?"
"If God grants us a fair wind, we are."
Milenko thereupon opened his mouth to speak, but his friend forestalled him.
"So you had a letter from his father? Well, what news from home? Are they all in good health? And how are the crops getting on?" Thereupon he stepped on his friend's foot to make him keep quiet.
"Yes, all are well. Amongst other things, he says that your father has gone to Montenegro."
"My father?" asked Uros, with a sly wink at Milenko.
"Yes; on account of a murder that had been committed at Budua." Then, turning to the captain: "By-the-bye, you knew Radonic, didn't you?"
"Yes, I did."
"Well, it appears he's gone and murdered the only friend he had."
"That's not astonishing. The only thing that surprises me is that he ever had a friend to murder. He was one of the most unsociable men I ever met."
Afterwards they spoke of the accident that had kept the two young men at Ragusa, at which Giulianic seemed greatly concerned.
"Anyhow," said he, "it's lucky that my wife and Ivanka have come with me from Nona. They'll be so glad to see you again; for you must know, Captain Panajotti, that my bones, and those of my wife and daughter, would now be lying at the bottom of the sea, had it not been for the courage of these two young men."
"Oh! you must thank him," said Uros, pointing to Milenko. "I only helped so as not to leave him to risk his life alone."
"They never told me anything about it; but, of course, they did not know that I was acquainted with you." Then, laughing, the captain added: "Fancy, I have been warning them not to lose their hearts on seeing your beautiful daughter."
"And didn't I tell you that my friend had already left his heart at
Nona?"
Saying this, Uros pinched his friend's arm. Milenko blushed, and was about to say something, but Giulianic began to speak about business; then added:
"And now I must leave you; but suppose you all three come and meet us at the Cappello in about an hour's time, and have some dinner with us? I'll not say a word either to my wife or Ivanka, and you may fancy how surprised they'll be to see you."
Captain Panajotti seemed undecided.
"No, I'll not have any excuse; you captains are little tyrants the moment the anchor is weighed, but the moment it's dropped you are all smiles and affability. Come, I'll have a dish of scordalia to whet your appetite; now, you can't resist that; so ta-ta for the present."
The moment Giulianic disappeared Milenko looked at his friend, whose eyes were twinkling with merriment.
"It's done," said Uros, smiling.
"But what made you take the poor fellow in as you did?"
"I take him in? Well, I like that."
"Well, but——"
"If he deceived himself, am I to be held responsible for his mistakes?"
"Still——"
"Besides, if there was any deception, I must say you did your best to let it go on."
"Of course, I did; but who made me do it?"
"I did."
"And now is it to continue?"
"Of course."
"But why?"
"Milenko, you're a good fellow, but in some things you are a great ninny. You ask me why? Well, because, for two days, you can make love to the daughter under the father's very nose; in the meantime I'll devote myself to the father and mother, and make myself pleasant to them."
"Yes, but what'll be the upshot of all this?"
"'Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof,' the proverb says; why will you make yourself wretched, thinking of the future, when you can be so happy? If I only had the opportunity of spending two long days with——"
Uros did not finish his phrase; his merry face grew dark, and he sighed deeply; then he added: "There is usually some way out of all difficulties; see how you got out of prison."
"Still, look in what a predicament you've placed me."
"Well, if you feel qualmish, we can tell the old man that he's a goose, for he really doesn't know who his son-in-law is; then I'll make love to fair Ivanka, and you'll look on. Now are you satisfied?"
"What are you wrangling about?" said Captain Panajotti, appearing out of the hatchway in his best clothes, his baggy trowsers more voluminous than those that Mrs. Bloomer tried to set in fashion a few years afterwards.
"Oh! nothing," said Uros, laughing; "only you must know that every first quarter of the moon I suffer from lunacy. I'm not at all dangerous, quite the contrary; especially if I'm not contradicted. So you might try and bear with me for a day or two; by the time we sail again I'll be all right; it's only a flow of exuberant animal spirits, that must vent themselves. But, how fine you are, captain; I'm afraid you are trying to out-do my friend, and if it wasn't that you are married, I'd have thought that all your warnings for us not to fall in love with the Sciot's daughter——"
"I see that the lunacy is beginning, so I'll not contradict; but hadn't you better go and dress?"
"All right," quoth Uros, and in a twinkling the two young men disappeared down the hatchway.
Half-an-hour afterwards they were at the Albergo Cappello, the only inn of the town, where they found Giulianic awaiting them. The two women were very much astonished to see them. Ivanitza's eyes flashed with unrestrained delight on perceiving her lover, but then she looked down demurely—as every well-bred damsel should—and blushed like a pomegranate flower. Only, when she heard her father address him by his friend's name, she looked up astonished; but seeing Uros slily wink at her, she again cast down her eyes, wondering what it all meant.
After a while the mother whispered to her husband that she had always mistaken one of the young men for the other.
"Did you?" said he, laughing. "Well, I am astonished, for you women are so much keener in knowing people than we men are; for, to tell you the truth, I've often been puzzled myself; they are both the same age, they are like brothers, they are dressed alike, so it's easy to mistake them."