The lake of Skadar lay like an immense _lapis lazuli_ within its
setting of mountains, which, on the east, were golden with the rays of
the declining sun, and on the west, enameled in emerald with the dense
shadows their summits dropped upon them. The surface of the water was
unbroken, save here and there by black spots where a pair of loons
shrieked their marital unhappiness, or a flock of wild ducks floated,
like a miniature fleet, about the reed-fringed shores of some little
island. Had there been watchers on the fortress of Obod, which lay on
the cliff just above where the Tsernoyevitcha enters Skadar, they
would have espied a light shallop gliding along the eastern bank of
the lake. This contained the voivode Amesa and his attendant. Just at
night-fall they reached the cavern, whose hidden recesses begot a
hundred legends which the weird shadows of the cave clothed in forms
as fantastic as their own, and which still flit among the hamlets of
Montenegro. It was said that whoever should sleep within the cave
would rest his head on the bosoms of the nymphs:--only let him take
care that their love does not prevent his ever waking. Amesa and his
companion were courageous, but discretion led them to wind the strooka
about their heads, and seek without a couch of pine needles between
the enormous roots of the trees which had dropped them.
The dawn had just silvered the east, and the coming sun transformed
the cold blue tints of Skadar into amber, when they entered the river.
The great stream wound through the broad lowlands of Tsetinie, girdled
with rocky hills. Then it dashed in impetuous floods between more
straightened banks, or lingered, as if the river spirit would bathe
himself in the deep pools that were cooled by the springs at their
bottoms. Though familiar with the phenomenon, they loitered that they
might watch the schools of fish which were so dense in places as to
impede the stroke of the oar blade, and tint the entire stream with
their dull silvery gleam.[56] Emerging from a tortuous channel,
through which the river twisted itself like a vast shining serpent,
they came to a cluster of houses that nestled in a gorge. These houses
were made of stone, and so covered with vines as to be hardly
distinguishable from the dense shrubbery that clambered over the
rocks about them.
Amesa was warmly greeted by the stargeshina who occupied the konak, or
principal house. The older people remembered the visitor as the comely
lad who, before the return of George Castriot, was almost the only
male representative of that noble family left in the land. The voivode
was honored with every evidence that the villagers felt themselves
complimented by the visit of their guest, whatever business or caprice
might have brought him thither.
A simple repast was provided, in which the courtesy of the service on
the part of the stargeshina more than compensated any poverty in the
display of viands;--though there were set forth meats dried in strips
in the smoke of an open fire; eggs; sweet, though black bread; and
wine pressed from various mountain berries, and allowed to ferment in
skins. As they sat beside a low table at the doorway of the konak, the
stargeshina offered a formal salâm, the zdravitsa, which was half a
toast and half a prayer, and extended his hand to Amesa in the
protestation of personal friendship. At the meal the glories of
Castriot and Ivan Beg--or Ivo, as the peasants called him--were duly
recited.
"But why," said the old man, rising to his feet with the enthusiasm of
the sentiment--"Why should the country sing the praises of George
Castriot, who for thirty years was willing to be a Turk and fight for
an alien faith? Your shoulders, noble Amesa--Prince Amesa, my loyal
heart would call you--could as well have borne the burden of the
people's defence. Your arm could strike as good a blow as his for
Albania. Your blood is that of the Castriots, and untainted by Moslem
touch. Your estates, since you have become heir to the lands of De
Streeses, make you our richest and most influential voivode."
These words made the eyes of Amesa flash, not with any novel pleasure,
rather with an ambition to which he was no stranger. But the flash was
smothered at once by the half-closed eyelids, and he responded--
"I ought not to hear such words, my good friend. My Uncle George is
the hero of the hour. The people need a hero in whom they believe; and
the very mystery of his life for the thirty years among the Turks, and
the romance of his return, make him a convenient hero."
"But Sire, my noble--my Prince Amesa--do you not daily hear such words
as I speak? The thought is as common as the Pater Noster, and echoes
from Skadar to Ochrida. It was but a week since a young Albanian
passed through this border country, whispering everywhere that the
land was ready to cry Amesa's name rather than the reformed renegade,
George Castriot's; that Scanderbeg, the Lord Alexander, the strutting
title the Turks gave him, was an offence to the free hearts of the
people."
"Ah! and what sort of a man for look was this Albanian?" asked Amesa
in surprise.
"A sturdy youth of, say, twenty summers, with hair like a turban which
had been worn by a dozen slaughtered Turks, so blood red is it."
Amesa gave a puzzled look toward Drakul, who was eating his meal at a
little distance, but whose ears seemed to prick up like those of a
horse at this description.
"It is likely that he may be again in the village this very night. Our
neighbor next lodged him. I will ask him if he will return," said the
stargeshina, leaving the konak for a little.
"It is he; it's that Constantine," said Drakul, coming nearer to
Amesa. "The wily young devil is ready to betray your Uncle George.
That will make the matter easier."
"The way is clear, then," replied Amesa. "I am glad that the raid was
not successful. It might have led to further blood. With this fellow
in league with us, it is straight work and honorable."
The stargeshina reported the man would probably be in again that very
night, and added:
"I would you could see him; for though he is fair spoken, there is
some mystery in his going day after day among these mountains, like a
hound who is looking for a lost scent."
"Perhaps he is attracted here by some of the fair maidens of the
hamlets," suggested Amesa, looking at Drakul, who was tearing a bit of
jerked meat in his teeth, apparently intent only upon that selfish
occupation.
"It may well be, for our neighbor here has harbored a bit of stray
womanhood which might tempt a monk to lodge there rather than in his
cell," said the old man.
A shout from above them attracted their attention to a merry company
which was coming down the mountain. It was the procession of the
Dodola. Drought threatened to destroy the scanty grain growing in the
narrow valleys, and the vines on the terraces cut out of the steep
hills. According to an ancient custom, a young maiden had been taken
by her companions into the woods, stripped of her usual garments, and
reclothed in the leaves and flowers of the endangered vegetation. Long
grasses and stalks of grain were matted in many folds about her
person, and served as a base for artistic decoration with every
variety of floral beauty. Her feet were buskined in clover blossoms. A
kilt of broad-leaved ferns hung from her waist, which was belted with
a broad zone of wild roses. White and pink laurel blossoms made her
bodice. An ivy wreath upon her brows was starred with white daisies,
and plumed with the stems and hanging bells of the columbine.
The Dodola thus appeared as the impersonation of floral nature athirst
for the vivifying rains. Her attendants, who led her in a leash of
roses, chanted a hymn, the refrain of which was a prayer to Elijah,
who, since he brought the rain at Carmel, is supposed by the peasants
of Albania to be that saint to whom Providence has committed the
shepherding of the clouds. As the procession wound down the terraced
paths between the houses, the Dodola was welcomed by the matrons of
the hamlet, who stood each in her own doorway, with hair gathered
beneath a cap of coins, teeth enameled in black, fingers tipped
brownish-red with henna. The maidens sung a verse of their hymn at
each cottage; and, at the refrain, the housewife poured upon the head
of the leaf-clad Dodola a cup of water; repeating the last line of
the chorus, "Good Saint Elias, so send the rain!"
As the Dodola paused before the konak, Amesa said, quite
enthusiastically, and designing to be overheard by the fair girl who
took the part of thirsting nature, "If Elias can refuse the prayer of
so much womanly beauty, I swear, by Jezebel, that I shall hereafter
believe, with the Turks, that the austere old prophet has become
bewitched with the houris in paradise, and so does not care to look
into the faces of earthly damsels."
"You may still keep your Christian faith, for the Dodola has won the
favor of the Thunderer,"[57] replied the stargeshina. "Listen to his
love-making in response to the witchery of that wild dove! Do you hear
it?"
The distant murmur of a coming shower confirmed the credulity of the
peasants.
"Yes, soon the Holy Virgin will turn her bright glances upon us,"[58]
said he looking at the sky.
"Who is that wild dove who acts the Dodola?" inquired Amesa.
"The one I told you of, who has come into our neighbor's cot," replied
the old man. "But only the sharp eyes of the crows saw where she came
from. Did she not speak our tongue and know our ways as well as any of
us, I should say she was one of the Tsigani who were driven out of the
morning land by Timour.[59] Yet it may be that her own story is true.
She says she had two lovers in her village; and these two were
brothers in God, who had taken the vow before heaven and St. John to
help and never to hinder each other in whatever adventure of love or
brigandage, at cost of limb or life. But as the hot blood of neither
of these lovers could endure to see this nymph in the arms of the
other, it was determined that she should be slain by the hand of both,
rather than that the sacred brotherhood should be broken. By her own
father's hearth the two daggers were struck together at her heart. But
the strong arms of the slayers collided, and both blows glanced. She
escaped and fled, and came hither."
"And you believe this story?" asked Amesa, with a look of incredulity
mingled with triumph, as of one who knew more than the narrator.
"I believe her story, noble Amesa, because--because no one has told me
any other. But--" He shook his head.
"Does not the young stranger you spoke of know something of her, that
he prowls about this neighborhood?" asked the guest.
"It may be. I had not thought it, but it may well be! Hist--!"
The Dodola passed by, returning to her own cottage. As she did so her
bright black eyes glanced coquettishly at the stranger from beneath
her disarranged chaplet of flowers and dishevelled hair. She soon
returned, having assumed her garments as a peasant maid, but with
evident effort to make this simple attire set off the great natural
beauty of face and form, of which she was fully conscious. Her
forehead was too low; but Pygmalion could not have chiselled a brow
and temples upon which glossy black ringlets clustered more
bewitchingly. Her eyes flashed too cold a fire light to give one the
impression of great amiability in their possessor; but the long lashes
which drooped before them, partially veiled their stare so as to give
the illusion of coyness, if not of maidenly modesty. Her mouth was
perhaps sensuously curved; but was one of those marvellously plastic
ones which can tell by the slightest arching or compressing of the
lips as much of purpose or feeling as most people can tell in
words:--dangerous lips to the possessor, if she be guileless and
unsuspicious, for they reveal too much of her soul to others who have
no right to know its secrets; dangerous lips to others if she would
deceive, for they can lie, consummately, wickedly, without uttering a
word. Her complexion was scarcely brunette; rather that indescribable
fairness in which the whiteness of alabaster is tinged with the blood
of perfect health, slightly bronzed by constant exposure to the
sunshine and air--a complexion seldom seen except in Syria, the Greek
Islands, or Wales. Her form was faultless,--just at that stage of
development when the grace and litheness of childhood are beginning to
be lost in the statelier mysteries of womanly beauty; that transition
state between two ideals of loveliness, which, from the days of
Phidias, has lured, but always eluded, the artist's skill to
reproduce.
The girl's face flushed with the consciousness of being gazed at
approvingly by the courtly stranger. But the pretty toss of her head
showed that the blush was due as much to the conceit of her beauty as
to bashfulness. As she talked with the other maidens, she glanced
furtively toward the door of the konak, where Amesa sat. The young
voivode foresaw that it would not be difficult to entice the girl
herself to be the chief agent in any plan he might have for her
abduction.
He needed, however, to make more certain of her identity with the
object of his search. He could discern no trace of Mara De Streeses in
her face; much less in her manner. Since Drakul had suggested it, he
imagined a resemblance to De Streeses himself, whose bearing was
haughty and his temperament fiery.
The evening brought the young man of whom the stargeshina had spoken.
His resemblance to the description given him of Constantine left no
doubt in Amesa's mind of his being the mysterious custodian of the
heiress to his estates. The young Servian he supposed would at once
recognize him as Amesa; for, as a prominent officer in the army, his
face would be well known to all who had been in Castriot's camps, even
if the gossip of the villagers did not at once inform him of his
presence. It were best then, thought Amesa, to boldly confront him;
win him, if possible, to his service; if not, destroy him.
The young stranger was at once on frolicksome terms with the village
girls and lads; and Amesa thought he observed that through it all the
fellow kept a sharp, if not a suspicious, eye upon him. Lest he should
escape, the voivode invited him to walk beyond the houses of the
village. When out of sight and hearing he suddenly turned upon the
young man, and, laying a hand upon his shoulder, exclaimed,
"You are known, man!"
Upon the instant the stranger was transformed from the sauntering
peasant into a gladiator, with feet firmly planted, the left hand
raised as a shield, and the right grasping a yataghan which had been
concealed upon his person. Amesa, though the aggressor, was thrown
upon the defensive, and was compelled to retreat in order to gain time
for the grip of his weapon.
The two men stood glaring into each other's eyes as there each to read
his antagonist's movement before his hand began to execute it.
"I did not know that a Servian peasant was so trained," said Amesa,
still retreating before the advance of his opponent, who gave him no
opportunity to assume the offensive.
"For whom do you take me that you dare to lay a rough hand on me?"
said the man, half in menace, and yet apparently willing to discover
if his assailant were right in his surmise.
"Arnaud's man and I need not be enemies," said Amesa, seeing no chance
of relieving himself from the advantage the other had gained in the
sword play. "I can reward you better than he or Castriot."
A smile passed over the man's face, which Amesa might have detected
the meaning of had his mind been less occupied with thoughts about his
personal safety from the yataghan, whose point was seeking his throat
according to the most approved rules of single combat.
"And what if I am Arnaud's man?"
As he said this the yataghan made a thorough reconnoissance of all the
vulnerable parts of Amesa's body from the fifth rib upwards, followed
by Amesa's dagger in ward.
"You do not deny it?" said the Albanian between breaths.
"I deny nothing. Nor need I confess anything, since you say I am
known."
"Shall we be friends?" asked Amesa, cautiously lowering his arm.
"You made war, and can withdraw its declaration, or take the
consequences," was the reply.
The two men put up their weapons.
"So good a soldier as you are should not be here guarding a girl,"
said Amesa.
"Guarding a girl?" said the man in amazement, but, recollecting
himself, added, "And why not guard a girl?"
"Come," replied Amesa, "you and I can serve each other. You can do
that for me which no other man can; and I can give to you more gold
than any other Albanian can."
"And when you are king of Albania, Prince Amesa, you can reward me
with high appointment," said the stranger with a slight sneer, which,
however, Amesa did not notice, at the moment thinking of what the
stargeshina had said of the man's interest in the movement against his
uncle's leadership.
"You have but to ask your reward when that event comes," he replied.
"I will swear to serve Amesa against Scanderbeg to the death," said
the man offering his hand.
"You know the girl's true story?" asked Amesa.
"Of course," was the cautious reply. "But of that I may not speak a
word. I can leave his service whose man you say I am, but I cannot
betray anything he may have told me. As you know the girl's story it
is needless to tempt me to divulge it," added he, with shrewd
non-committal of himself to any information that the other might
recognize as erroneous.
"You speak nobly for a Servian," said the voivode.
"How do you know I am a Servian?" asked the stranger.
"Partly from your accent. You have not got our pure Albanian tongue,
though it is now six years you have been talking it. And then
Arnaud--Colonel Kabilovitsch--came back as a Servian. Is it not so?"
asked Amesa, noticing the surprised look which the mention of
Kabilovitsch's name brought to the man's face.
For a while the stranger was lost in thought; but with an effort
throwing off a sort of reverie, he said:
"Pardon my silence. I have been thinking of your proposal. May I
follow you to the village after a little? I would think over how best
I can meet your proposition, my Prince Amesa."
"I will await you at the konak. But first let us swear friendship!"
said the voivode.
"Heartily!" was the response. "With Amesa as against Scanderbeg."
"You will induce the girl to go with me to my castle. She will fare
better there than here, playing Dodola to these ignorant peasants."
"It is agreed."
As Amesa disappeared, the man sat down upon a huge root of a tree,
which for lack of earth had twined itself over the rock. He buried
his face in his hands--
"Strange! strange! is all this. Kabilovitsch? the girl? Not my little
playmate on the Balkans--sweet faced Morsinia. The Dodola here is not
she. If Uncle Kabilovitsch is Colonel Kabilovitsch, or this Arnaud he
speaks of, then this treacherous Amesa is on the wrong track. Can it
be that Constantine--dear little Constantine--is in Albania, and that
I am mistaken for him? No, this is impossible. But still I must be
wary, and not do that which would harm a golden hair of Morsinia's
head, if she be living, or Constantine's, or Uncle Kabilovitsch's.
There's some mystery here. Only one thing is certain--Amesa mistakes
this pretty impudent Dodola girl for somebody else. To get her off
with him may serve that somebody else: for the voivode is a villain:
that much is sure. The cursed Giaour serpent! I will help him to get
this saucy belle of the hamlet, and so save somebody else, whoever she
may be who is the game for which he lays his snares."
An hour later the Dodola, whose name was Elissa, passed Amesa and
blushed deeply.
The family at whose house the girl was living made no objection to
Amesa's request that she should be transferred to the protection of
the voivode. The elders of the village acquiesced; for, said one,
"We do not know who she is, and may get into difficulty through
harboring her."
Another averred his belief that she was possessed of the evil eye; for
he had observed her staring at the olive tree the day before it was
struck by lightning; and he declared that half the young men of the
hamlet were bewitched with her.
A sharp-tongued dame remarked that some of the older men would rather
listen to the merry tattle of the sprite than to the most serious and
wholesome counsel of their own wives.
FOOTNOTES:
[56] Still noted by travellers on this river.
[57] An Albanian title of Elijah.
[58] The Albanians regard Mary as the sender of lightning.
[59] Tsigani; a word by which Slavic people designate the gypsies, who
are supposed by them to have come from India in the time of Tamerlane.