a rich merchant of Corinth. He had often sailed as caravokeiri[2] of his
father’s vessels to Stamboul, and even to Calabria. Some years before he
had been boarded and taken by a Barbary corsair. His life since then had
been adventurous, he said; in truth, it had been a guilty one;—he had
become a renegade,—and won regard from his new allies, not by his
superior courage, for he was cowardly, but by the frauds that make men
wealthy. In the midst of this career some superstition had influenced
him, and he had returned to his ancient religion. He escaped from
Africa, wandered through Syria, crossed to Europe, found occupation in
Constantinople; and thus years passed. At last, as he was on the point
of marriage with a Fanariote beauty, he fell again into poverty, and he
returned to Corinth to see if his father’s fortunes had prospered during
his long wanderings. He found that while these had improved to a wonder,
they were lost to him for ever. His father, during his protracted
absence, acknowledged another son as his; and, dying a year before, had
left all to him. Katusthius found this unknown kinsman, with his wife
and child, in possession of his expected inheritance. Cyril divided with
him, it is true, their parent’s property, but Katusthius grasped at all,
and resolved to obtain it. He brooded over a thousand schemes of murder
and revenge; yet the blood of a brother was sacred to him, and Cyril,
beloved and respected at Corinth, could only be attacked with
considerable risk. Then his child was a fresh obstacle. As the best plan
that presented itself, he hastily embarked for Butrinto, and came to
claim the advice and assistance of the Arnaoot whose life he had saved,
whose pobratimo he was. Not thus barely did he tell his tale, but
glossed it over; so that had Dmitri needed the incitement of justice,
which was not at all a desideratum with him, he would have been
satisfied that Cyril was a base interloper, and that the whole
transaction was one of imposture and villainy.
-----
Footnote 2:
Master of a merchant ship.
All night these men discussed a variety of projects, whose aim was, that
the deceased Ziani’s wealth should pass undivided into his elder son’s
hands. At morning’s dawn Katusthius departed, and two days afterwards
Dmitri quitted his mountain-home. His first care had been to purchase a
horse, long coveted by him on account of its beauty and fleetness; he
provided cartridges and replenished his powder-horn. His accoutrements
were rich, his dress gay; his arms glittered in the sun. His long hair
fell straight from under the shawl twisted round his cap, even to his
waist; a shaggy white capote hung from his shoulder; his face wrinkled
and puckered by exposure to the seasons; his brow furrowed with care;
his mustachios long and jet-black; his scarred face; his wild, savage
eyes;—his whole appearance, not deficient in barbaric grace, but stamped
chiefly with ferocity and bandit pride, inspired, and we need not
wonder, the superstitious Greek with a belief that a supernatural spirit
of evil dwelt in his aspect, blasting and destroying. Now prepared for
his journey, he departed from Korvo, crossing the woods of Acarnania, on
his way to Morea.
* * * * *
“Wherefore does Zella tremble, and press her boy to her bosom, as if
fearful of evil?” Thus asked Cyril Ziani, returning from the city of
Corinth to his own rural abode. It was a home of beauty. The abruptly
broken hills covered with olives, or brighter plantations of
orange-trees, overlooked the blue waves of the Gulf of Egina. A myrtle
underwood spread sweet scent around, and dipped its dark shining leaves
into the sea itself. The low-roofed house was shaded by two enormous
fig-trees, while vineyards and corn-land stretched along the gentle
upland to the north. When Zella saw her husband she smiled, though her
cheek was still pale and her lips quivering. “Now you are near to guard
us,” she said, “I dismiss fear; but danger threatens our Constans, and I
shudder to remember that an Evil Eye has been upon him.”
Cyril caught up his child. “By my head!” he cried, “thou speakest of an
ill thing. The Franks call this superstition; but let us beware. His
cheek is still rosy; his tresses flowing gold. Speak, Constans; hail thy
father, my brave fellow!”
It was but a short-lived fear; no ill ensued, and they soon forgot an
incident which had causelessly made their hearts to quail. A week
afterwards Cyril returned, as he was wont, from shipping a cargo of
currants, to his retreat on the coast. It was a beautiful summer
evening: the creaking water-wheel, which produced the irrigation of the
land, chimed in with the last song of the noisy cicala; the rippling
waves spent themselves almost silently among the shingles. This was his
home; but where its lovely flower? Zella did not come forth to welcome
him. A domestic pointed to a chapel on a neighbouring acclivity, and
there he found her; his child (nearly three years of age) was in his
nurse’s arms; his wife was praying fervently, while the tears streamed
down her cheeks. Cyril demanded anxiously the meaning of this scene; but
the nurse sobbed; Zella continued to pray and weep; and the boy, from
sympathy, began to cry. This was too much for man to endure. Cyril left
the chapel; he leant against a walnut-tree. His first exclamation was a
customary Greek one, “Welcome this misfortune, so that it come single!”
But what was the ill that had occurred? Unapparent was it yet; but the
spirit of evil is most fatal when unseen. He was happy,—a lovely wife, a
blooming child, a peaceful home, competence, and the prospect of wealth;
these blessings were his: yet how often does Fortune use such as her
decoys? He was a slave in an enslaved land, a mortal subject to the high
destinies, and ten thousand were the envenomed darts which might be
hurled at his devoted head. Now, timid and trembling, Zella came from
the chapel: her explanation did not calm his fears. Again the Evil Eye
had been on his child, and deep malignity lurked surely under this
second visitation. The same man, an Arnaoot, with glittering arms, gay
attire, mounted on a black steed, came from the neighbouring ilex grove,
and, riding furiously up to the door, suddenly checked and reined in his
horse at the very threshold. The child ran towards him: the Arnaoot bent
his sinister eyes upon him:—“Lovely art thou, bright infant,” he cried;
“thy blue eyes are beaming, thy golden tresses fair to see; but thou art
a vision fleeting as beautiful;—look at me!” The innocent looked up,
uttered a shriek, and fell gasping on the ground. The women rushed
forward to seize him; the Albanian put spurs to his horse, and,
galloping swiftly across the little plain, up the wooded hill-side, he
was soon lost to sight. Zella and the nurse bore the child to the
chapel; they sprinkled him with holy water, and, as he revived, besought
the Panagia with earnest prayers to save him from the menaced ill.
Several months elapsed; little Constans grew in intelligence and beauty;
no blight had visited the flower of love, and its parents dismissed
fear. Sometimes Cyril indulged in a joke at the expense of the Evil Eye;
but Zella thought it unlucky to laugh, and crossed herself whenever the
event was alluded to. At this time Katusthius visited their abode—“He
was on his way,” he said, “to Stamboul, and he came to know whether he
could serve his brother in any of his transactions in the capital.”
Cyril and Zella received him with cordial affection: they rejoiced to
perceive that fraternal love was beginning to warm his heart. He seemed
full of ambition and hope: the brothers discussed his prospects, the
politics of Europe, and the intrigues of the Fanar: the petty affairs of
Corinth even were made subjects of discourse; and the probability that
in a short time, young as he was, Cyril would be named Codja-Bashee of
the province. On the morrow, Katusthius prepared to depart. “One favour
does the voluntary exile ask—will my brother and sister accompany me
some hours on my way to Napoli, whence I embark?”
Zella was unwilling to quit her home, even for a short interval; but she
suffered herself to be persuaded, and they proceeded altogether for
several miles towards the capital of the Morea. At noontide they made a
repast under the shadow of a grove of oaks, and then separated.
Returning homeward, the wedded pair congratulated themselves on their
tranquil life and peaceful happiness, contrasted with the wanderer’s
lonely and homeless pleasures. These feelings increased in intensity as
they drew nearer their dwelling, and anticipated the lisped welcome of
their idolized child. From an eminence they looked upon the fertile vale
which was their home: it was situated on the southern side of the
isthmus, and looked upon the Gulf of Egina—all was verdant, tranquil,
and beautiful. They descended into the plain; there a singular
appearance attracted their attention. A plough with its yoke of oxen had
been deserted midway in the furrow; the animals had dragged it to the
side of the field, and endeavoured to repose as well as their
conjunction permitted. The sun already touched its western bourne, and
the summits of the trees were gilded by its parting beams. All was
silent; even the eternal water-wheel was still; no menials appeared at
their usual rustic labours. From the house the voice of wailing was too
plainly heard.—“My child!” Zella exclaimed. Cyril began to reassure her;
but another lament arose, and he hurried on. She dismounted, and would
have followed him, but sank on the road-side. Her husband returned.
“Courage, my beloved,” he cried; “I will not repose night nor day until
Constans is restored to us—trust to me—farewell!” With these words he
rode swiftly on. Her worst fears were thus confirmed; her maternal
heart, lately so joyous, became the abode of despair, while the nurse’s
narration of the sad occurrence tended but to add worse fear to fear.
Thus it was: the same stranger of the Evil Eye had appeared, not as
before, bearing down on them with eagle speed, but as if from a long
journey; his horse lame and with drooping head; the Arnaoot himself
covered with dust, apparently scarcely able to keep his seat. “By the
life of your child,” he said, “give a cup of water to one who faints
with thirst.” The nurse, with Constans in her arms, got a bowl of the
desired liquid, and presented it. Ere the parched lips of the stranger
touched the wave, the vessel fell from his hands. The woman started
back, while he, at the same moment darting forward, tore with strong arm
the child from her embrace. Already both were gone—with arrowy speed
they traversed the plain, while her shrieks, and cries for assistance,
called together all the domestics. They followed on the track of the
ravisher, and none had yet returned. Now as night closed in, one by one
they came back: they had nothing to relate; they had scoured the woods,
crossed the hills—they could not even discover the route which the
Albanian had taken.
On the following day Cyril returned, jaded, haggard, miserable; he had
obtained no tidings of his son. On the morrow he again departed on his
quest, nor came back for several days. Zella passed her time wearily—now
sitting in hopeless despondency, now climbing the near hill to see
whether she could perceive the approach of her husband. She was not
allowed to remain long thus tranquil; the trembling domestics, left in
guard, warned her that the savage forms of several Arnaoots had been
seen prowling about: she herself saw a tall figure, clad in a shaggy
white capote, steal round the promontory, and, on seeing her, shrink
back: once at night the snorting and trampling of a horse roused her,
not from slumber, but from her sense of security. Wretched as the bereft
mother was, she felt personally almost reckless of danger; but she was
not her own, she belonged to one beyond expression dear; and duty, as
well as affection for him, enjoined self-preservation. Cyril, again
returned: he was gloomier, sadder than before; but there was more
resolution on his brow, more energy in his motions; he had obtained a
clue, yet it might only lead him to the depths of despair.
He discovered that Katusthius had not embarked at Napoli. He had joined
a band of Arnaoots lurking about Vasilico, and had proceeded to Patras
with the Protoklepht; thence they put off together in a monoxylon for
the northern shores of the Gulf of Lepanto: nor were they alone; they
bore a child with them wrapt in a heavy torpid sleep. Poor Cyril’s blood
ran cold when he thought of the spells and witchcraft which had probably
been put in practice on his boy. He would have followed close upon the
robbers, but for the report that reached him that the remainder of the
Albanians had proceeded southward towards Corinth. He could not enter
upon a long wandering search among the pathless wilds of Epirus, leaving
Zella exposed to the attacks of these bandits. He returned to consult
with her, to devise some plan of action which would at once ensure her
safety and promise success to his endeavours.
After some hesitation and discussion, it was decided that he should
first conduct her to her native home, consult with her father as to his
present enterprise, and be guided by his warlike experience before he
rushed into the very focus of danger. The seizure of his child might
only be a lure, and it were not well for him, sole protector of that
child and its mother, to rush unadvisedly into the toils.
Zella, strange to say, for her blue eyes and brilliant complexion belied
her birth, was the daughter of a Mainote: yet dreaded and abhorred by
the rest of the world as are the inhabitants of Cape Tænarus, they are
celebrated for their domestic virtues and the strength of their private
attachments. Zella loved her father, and the memory of her rugged rocky
home, from which she had been torn in an adverse hour. Near neighbours
of the Mainotes, dwelling in the ruder and wildest portion of Maina, are
the Kakovougnis, a dark suspicious race, of squat and stunted form,
strongly contrasted with the tranquil cast of countenance characteristic
of the Mainote. The two tribes are embroiled in perpetual quarrels; the
narrow sea-girt abode which they share affords at once a secure place of
refuge from the foreign enemy and all the facilities of internal
mountain warfare. Cyril had once, during a coasting voyage, been driven
by stress of weather into the little bay on whose shores is placed the
small town of Kardamyla. The crew at first dreaded to be captured by the
pirates; but they were reassured on finding them fully occupied by their
domestic dissensions. A band of Kakovougnis were besieging the
castellated rock overlooking Kardamyla, blockading the fortress in which
the Mainote Capitano and his family had taken refuge. Two days passed
thus, while furious contrary winds detained Cyril in the bay. On the
third evening the western gale subsided, and a land-breeze promised to
emancipate them from their perilous condition; when in the night, as
they were about to put off in a boat from shore, they were hailed by a
party of Mainotes, and one, an old man of commanding figure, demanded a
parley. He was the Capitano of Kardamyla, the chief of the fortress, now
attacked by his implacable enemies: he saw no escape—he must fall—and
his chief desire was to save his treasure and his family from the hands
of his enemies. Cyril consented to receive them on board: the latter
consisted of an old mother, a paramana, and a young and beautiful girl,
his daughter. Cyril conducted them in safety to Napoli. Soon after the
Capitano’s mother and paramana returned to their native town, while,
with her father’s consent, fair Zella became the wife of her preserver.
The fortunes of the Mainote had prospered since then, and he stood first
in rank, the chief of a large tribe, the Capitano of Kardamyla.
Thither then the hapless parents repaired; they embarked on board a
small sacovela, which dropt down the Gulf of Egina, weathered the
islands of Skyllo and Cerigo, and the extreme point of Tænarus: favoured
by prosperous gales, they made the desired port, and arrived at the
hospitable mansion of old Camaraz. He heard their tale with indignation;
swore by his beard to dip his poniard in the best blood of Katusthius,
and insisted upon accompanying his son-in-law on his expedition to
Albania. No time was lost—the grey-headed mariner, still full of energy,
hastened every preparation. Cyril and Zella parted; a thousand fears, a
thousand hours of misery rose between the pair, late sharers in perfect
happiness. The boisterous sea and distant lands were the smallest of the
obstacles that divided them; they would not fear the worst; yet hope, a
sickly plant, faded in their hearts as they tore themselves asunder
after a last embrace.
Zella returned from the fertile district of Corinth to her barren native
rocks. She felt all joy expire as she viewed from the rugged shore the
lessening sails of the sacovela. Days and weeks passed, and still she
remained in solitary and sad expectation: she never joined in the dance,
nor made one in the assemblies of her countrywomen, who met together at
evening-tide to sing, tell stories, and wile away the time in dance and
gaiety. She secluded herself in the most lonely part of her father’s
house, and gazed unceasingly from the lattice upon the sea beneath, or
wandered on the rocky beach; and when tempest darkened the sky, and each
precipitous promontory grew purple under the shadows of the wide-winged
clouds, when the roar of the surges was on the shore, and the white
crests of the waves, seen afar upon the ocean-plain, showed like flocks
of new-shorn sheep scattered along wide-extended downs, she felt neither
gale nor inclement cold, nor returned home till recalled by her
attendants. In obedience to them she sought the shelter of her abode,
not to remain long; for the wild winds spoke to her, and the stormy
ocean reproached her tranquillity. Unable to control the impulse, she
would rush from her habitation on the cliff, nor remember, till she
reached the shore, that her papooshes were left midway on the
mountain-path, and that her forgotten veil and disordered dress were
unmeet for such a scene. Often the unnumbered hours sped on, while this
orphaned child of happiness leant on a cold dark rock; the low-browed
crags beetled over her, the surges broke at her feet, her fair limbs
were stained by spray, her tresses dishevelled by the gale. Hopelessly
she wept until a sail appeared on the horizon; and then she dried her
fast-flowing tears, fixing her large eyes upon the nearing hull or
fading topsail. Meanwhile the storm tossed the clouds into a thousand
gigantic shapes, and the tumultuous sea grew blacker and more wild; her
natural gloom was heightened by superstitious horror; the Morai, the old
Fates of her native Grecian soil, howled in the breezes; apparitions,
which told of her child pining under the influence of the Evil Eye, and
of her husband, the prey of some Thracian witchcraft, such as still is
practised in the dread neighbourhood of Larissa, haunted her broken
slumbers, and stalked like dire shadows across her waking thoughts. Her
bloom was gone, her eyes lost their lustre, her limbs their round full
beauty; her strength failed her, as she tottered to the accustomed spot
to watch—vainly, yet for ever to watch.
What is there so fearful as the expectation of evil tidings delayed?
Sometimes in the midst of tears, or worse, amidst the convulsive
gaspings of despair, we reproach ourselves for influencing the eternal
fates by our gloomy anticipations: then, if a smile wreathe the
mourner’s quivering lip, it is arrested by a throb of agony. Alas! are
not the dark tresses of the young painted grey, the full cheek of beauty
delved with sad lines by the spirits of such hours? Misery is a more
welcome visitant when she comes in her darkest guise and wraps us in
perpetual black, for then the heart no longer sickens with disappointed
hope.
Cyril and old Camaraz had found great difficulty in doubling the many
capes of the Morea as they made a coasting expedition from Kardamyla to
the Gulf of Arta, north of Cefalonia and St. Mauro. During their voyage
they had time to arrange their plans. As a number of Moreots travelling
together might attract too much attention, they resolved to land their
comrades at different points, and travel separately into the interior of
Albania: Yannina was their first place of rendezvous. Cyril and his
father-in-law disembarked in one of the most secluded of the many creeks
which diversify the winding and precipitous shores of the gulf. Six
others, chosen from the crew, would, by other routes, join them at the
capital. They did not fear for themselves; alone, but well armed, and
secure in the courage of despair, they penetrated the fastnesses of
Epirus. No success cheered them: they arrived at Yannina without having
made the slightest discovery. They were joined by their comrades, whom
they directed to remain three days in the town, and then separately to
proceed to Terpellenè, whither they immediately directed their steps. At
the first village on their way thither, at “monastic Zitza,” they
obtained some information, not to direct, but to encourage their
endeavours. They sought refreshment and hospitality in the monastery,
which is situated on a green eminence, crowned by a grove of oak trees,
immediately behind the village. Perhaps there is not in the world a more
beautiful or more romantic spot, sheltered itself by clustering trees,
looking out on one widespread landscape of hill and dale, enriched by
vineyards, dotted with frequent flocks; while the Calamas in the depth
of the vale gives life to the scene, and the far blue mountains of
Zoumerkas, Sagori, Sulli, and Acroceraunia, to the east, west, north,
and south, close in the various prospects. Cyril half envied the
Caloyers their inert tranquillity. They received the travellers gladly,
and were cordial though simple in their manners. When questioned
concerning the object of their journey, they warmly sympathized with the
father’s anxiety, and eagerly told all they knew. Two weeks before, an
Arnaoot, well known to them as Dmitri of the Evil Eye, a famous klepht
of Korvo, and a Moreot, arrived, bringing with them a child,—a bold,
spirited, beautiful boy, who, with firmness beyond his years, claimed
the protection of the Caloyers, and accused his companions of having
carried him off by force from his parents.
“By my head!” cried the Albanian, “a brave Palikar: he keeps his word,
brother; he swore by the Panagia, in spite of our threats of throwing
him down a precipice, food for the vulture, to accuse us to the first
good men he saw: he neither pines under the Evil Eye, nor quails beneath
our menaces.”
Katusthius frowned at these praises, and it became evident during their
stay at the monastery that the Albanian and the Moreot quarrelled as to
the disposal of the child. The rugged mountaineer threw off all his
sternness as he gazed upon the boy. When little Constans slept, he hung
over him, fanning away with woman’s care the flies and gnats. When he
spoke, he answered with expressions of fondness, winning him with gifts,
teaching him, all child as he was, a mimicry of warlike exercises. When
the boy knelt and besought the Panagia to restore him to his parents,
his voice quivering, and tears running down his cheeks, the eyes of
Dmitri overflowed; he cast his cloak over his face; his heart whispered
to him: “Thus, perhaps, my child prayed. Heaven was deaf. Alas! where is
she now?”
Encouraged by such signs of compassion, which children are quick to
perceive, Constans twined his arms round his neck, telling him that he
loved him, and that he would fight for him when a man, if he would take
him back to Corinth. At such words Dmitri would rush forth, seek
Katusthius, remonstrate with him, till the unrelenting man checked him
by reminding him of his vow. Still he swore that no hair of the child’s
head should be injured; while the uncle, unvisited by compunction,
meditated his destruction. The quarrels which thence arose were
frequent, and violent, till Katusthius, weary of opposition, had
recourse to craft to obtain his purpose. One night he secretly left the
monastery, bearing the child with him. When Dmitri heard of his evasion,
it was a fearful thing to the good Caloyers only to look upon him; they
instinctively clutched hold of every bit of iron on which they could lay
their hands, so to avert the Evil Eye which glared with native and
untamed fierceness. In their panic a whole score of them had rushed to
the iron-plated door which led out of their abode: with the strength of
a lion, Dmitri tore them away, threw back the portal, and, with the
swiftness of a torrent fed by the thawing of the snows in spring, he
dashed down the steep hill—the flight of an eagle not more rapid; the
course of a wild beast not more resolved.