“Stop a bit, Prince,” I begged, addressing the driver of the cart.
“Stop a bit--”
“_Eh bien!_ There’s time enough.”
“What are days anyway? What are weeks? Time is merely a stop-watch for
people who calculate in an office.”
And the man sitting upon the milestone was saying: Beloved swine, my
brethren--Pan Strahinja’s life has now reached its zenith, just as a
wanderer reaches the summit of the mountains, or the sun the zenith of
the heaven, and the mid-day had bleached his head. But do not think for
a moment that the fire within his falcon eyes had lessened. They were
still glowing coals, they were the gleaming heads of bunched swords, and
they sparkled like the great gem on the middle finger of his long white
hand. You remember it, my swine.
It was on a night in the sixth decade of his life. A sultry night, a
scent-heavy night of high summer. Pan Strahinja lay upon his couch, in a
tent richly hung with rugs and embroideries, whose gold-threaded walls
gleamed in the reflection of a swinging lamp of bronze. He had just put
aside his weapons, his robe of state, and slept--exhausted--after the
princely meal he had just given in honor of a Turk.
Do not believe, my dear swine, that the great Pan Strahinja had sought
out a Turk for a friend, or--No! You must understand--_eh, my
swine?_--that great people have obligations. The Turk had just been his
guest. But I suppose you do not understand that, do you? Anyway it
doesn’t make any difference.
Well, as I said before, Pan Strahinja lay upon his couch and slept. And
beside him lay a woman. She lay there naked, playing with her long,
unbound, golden hair--holding it up and looking through it at the
swinging lamp of bronze.
On a chain of pallid silver about her neck she wore a great shining gem
which was the color of the sea. The stone lay between her breasts, just
as if one had dipped up ocean water in one’s hollow hand and let it drip
down there, and as if she dare not move lest it should slip away.
Now she folded her arms under her head in order to lift herself up a
little, and she looked from time to time toward the door of the tent,
and then toward Pan Strahinja, who slept beside her. And now see what
happens, my swine! Pan Strahinja slept there, and so might he have kept
on sleeping for hours. All of a sudden a great thought slipped across
his sleeping brain, and in order properly to consider the thought, he
opened his eyes. Pan Strahinja opened his eyes, and as he slowly turned
them upon the rich walls of his tent, with a superb indifference--he
finds--What in the name of the three devils is it that he finds? He
finds the place beside him empty. Now what do you say to that, my swine?
The woman was gone. There was no use of thinking about it more; the
woman was gone.
For an instant Pan Strahinja draws his hands across his brow; for an
instant he meditates. The dinner he gave had indeed been a wild orgy.
The devil take dinners like that! Again he looks at the place beside
him; it looks just the same. The woman was gone.
And Pan Strahinja--listen, my swine--the great Pan Strahinja roared. He
roared like a bull. He roared until the swinging lamp of bronze began to
tremble. He roared until his sword shook in its scabbard; roared until
the guard awakened from their napping, and seized their spears; until
the horses in the stalls began to whinny--The woman had been stolen. A
moment of meditation.
There was no room for doubt. It was self evident. It was clear as
daylight. It was the Turk who had stolen her. He had shown her to him in
the evening just as he had shown him his horses, his weapons, and his
dogs. Of course it was the Turk! The Turk--that little crooked legged,
insignificant, dirty Turk! She was with the Turk! And Pan Strahinja--the
great Pan Strahinja began to laugh like the spirits of a thousand mad
men.
His men ran to the door of his tent.
“What is the matter, master?”
“Nothing. I was dreaming--_ha, ha, ha_--I just dreamed that you brought
me the crown of the Serbs--you dogs. Didn’t you? Well--very good. Now
go--_go_.”
Hardly are they out of sight when he whistles for his black slave. A few
moments later a stallion stands saddled in front of the tent. He puts on
his sword; it leaps from the belt toward him like a woman. And then
comes his greyhound--Karaman--and leaps toward him. He swings into his
gold-worked saddle, and away he rides, out upon the heights, in the
sweet, star-clear night.
What a picture, my swine, what a picture! And what a thought! Pan
Strahinja under the light of the moon, riding upon a stallion from whose
mouth the white foam falls and clings in flecks to breast and
shoulder--Pan Strahinja, riding away in the night after the pale, blond
slave-child.
She had soft, strange movements she had learned from the animals of the
wild. She had slender, graceful limbs and cool, sweet skin; skin cold to
the touch like the skin of an Indian serpent--like the chill of the
interior of sunless temples.
Ahead already stands the tent of the Turk. In a moment he has crossed
the enclosure and his stallion waits by the door. Slowly he has slipped
from the saddle.
He pushes the curtain back, and not like a stranger--calmly--as if he
himself were master there. And then he looks upon the Turk--and the
woman. All he can see of her is her long gold hair, falling from a divan
to the floor. The rugs upon the floor of the tent are thick and soft.
They do not hear him. Is it laughter that is shining in his eyes? Is it
anger? No. It is merely the cool observation of the judge who weighs the
battle.
“There is something beautiful--noble--about love,” Pan Strahinja was
thinking. “I will have a picture of this scene made for myself
sometime--_in gold_.”
Then Pan Strahinja lifted up his voice. He spoke just as if he were
talking about the weather.
“Listen, my friend.”
“The devil!” shrieks the Turk.
“Listen, my friend. I might have killed you just now. But if I had your
blood would have flowed down over this little serpent. The thought of
that displeases me.”
That was well said, my swine. Don’t you think so? That’s the way
distinguished people talk. What could the Turk say to that? Not a thing!
So they were the only words spoken.
Now it was plain that the Turk must gird on his sword, then Pan
Strahinja and the Turk walked out of the tent, out upon the hills, under
the star-clear sky.
It was a procession worthy to look upon. Ahead walked Pan Strahinja and
the Turk, side by side, just like friends. Next, with long, swinging
strides came the stallion; behind the stallion the blond woman, hastily
wrapped in a mantle of purple silk, and around them played the white
greyhound with its giant leaps.
Do you suppose--you swine--that they went at each other like
peasants? Is that what you think? Listen! They spoke as if races
listened--nations--as if great armies stood behind them.
Thus spake Pan Strahinja, the naked sword in his left hand, while with
his right hand he accompanied his princely words which were something
like this:
“I am Pan Strahinja, the son of the great Pan Soundso, and the grandson
of the exalted Pan Soundso, who lost his life in the glorious battle by
the White Water. You know about that--And I took to me a woman for the
pleasure of my nights. There she stands--a woman with the graceful body
of the roebuck--and the nature of a serpent. What difference does it
make? The Patriarch of Stamboul himself gave her to me--his friend--to
me, the great Pan Strahinja. And one night a Turk came, and--”
This was the way he spoke.
Then the Turk began: And--that, we will leave to him--he spoke after the
manner of heroes. You should have heard it, my swine, for I assure you
it was not bad.
And now the fight began.
What a picture! Strength against cunning; the splendor of the lion
against the cunning of the serpent. What a fight! The air trembled when
the great swords swept through it. But neither hesitated. The fight
became crueler and wilder. The Turk disables Pan Strahinja’s leg. Then
the greyhound leaped to his throat. Pan Strahinja whistled him aside.
The woman seized the mantle of Pan Strahinja, but the stallion struck at
her with his hoofs. Ravens circled over their heads like black ships of
a giant fleet. At length they roll down the hill together. There they
lie. The eyes of the woman who stands gazing down upon them--the
indifferent eyes--grow larger, grow rounder, with horror. The greyhound
stands beside her ready for the plunge, like a trained leopard of the
chase, and the stallion has the fire of battle in its blood.
The light of coming day can not penetrate the rocky cavern where they
have rolled together, and where the great Pan Strahinja, with a hand of
steel, is slowly choking the Turk to death. Ha!--my swine! He killed him
with his own hand.
Then he freed himself, drew his golden dagger, and cut off the head and
walked quickly, carrying it, to the high land.
He fastens the head to the saddle, lifts the woman up, swings himself to
place and rides calmly away toward his tent.
A few months later the Patriarch of Stamboul visited the great Pan
Strahinja, when he was setting out on his journey to Rome.
He saw hanging in the corner of his tent a skull.
“Whose is that?”
“A Turk.”
“How does he earn such honor?”
“Do you remember the woman whom you gave me for the pleasure of my
nights? He wanted her.”
“And you--did you kill her?”
“Friend,” replied Pan Strahinja, “suppose someone stole your great ruby,
and you found both the thief and the ruby, what would you do with the
thief?”
“I would kill him.”
“And then would you throw the ruby away?”
“I’d be damned if I would!”
“--therefore--I--”