The fall of Sfetigrade, while a material loss to the Albanian cause,
served rather to exalt than to diminish the prestige of their great
general. The fame of Scanderbeg brightened as the gloomy tidings of
the fate of the stronghold spread; for that event, due to a
circumstance which no human being could control, gave his enemies
their first success, after nearly seven years of incessant effort,
with measureless armaments, innumerable soldiery and exhaustless
treasure.
The adversity also developed in Scanderbeg new qualities of greatness,
both military and moral. As the effort to drain a natural spring only
evokes its fuller and freer flow, so disappointment augmented his
courage, impoverishment in resources enlarged the scheme of his
projects, and the defeat of one plan by circumstances suggested other
plans more novel and shrewd. The sight of the Turkish ensign floating
from the citadel of Sfetigrade disheartened the patriots. The tramp of
fresh legions from almost all parts of the Moslem world was not so
ominous of further disaster as were the whispers of discontent from
more than one who, like Amesa, had ambitions of their own, or, like
brave Moses Goleme, were discouraged regarding ultimate success. But
the great heart of Castriot sustained the courage of his people, and
his genius devised plans for the defence of his land which, for
sixteen years yet, were to baffle the skill and weary the energies of
the foe.
The chief gave orders that Morsinia, having eluded capture, should
occupy for the day his own tent; for the Albanian soldiers, as a rule,
were destitute of the luxury of a canvas covering. Returning toward
the middle of the morning, and having need to enter, he bade
Constantine call her. No response being given, Castriot raised the
curtain of the tent. Upon a rude matting, which was raised by rough
boards a few inches from the earth, her limbs covered with an
exquisitely embroidered Turkish saddle cloth, Morsinia lay asleep. Her
neck and shoulders were veiled with her hair, which, rich and
abundant, fell in cascades of golden beauty upon the ground.
The great man stood for a moment gazing upon the sleeping girl. His
ordinarily immobile features relaxed. His face, generally
passionless, unreadable as that of the sphinx, and impressive only for
the mystery of the thoughts it concealed, now became suffused with
kindly interest. His smile, as if he had been surprised by the
fairness of the vision, was followed by a look of fatherly tenderness.
The tears shot into his eyes; but with a deep breath he dropped the
curtain, and turned away. Of what was he thinking? Of little Mara
Cernoviche, his playmate far back in the years? or of himself during
those years? Strange that career among the Turks! and equally strange
all the years since he had looked upon the little child asleep by the
camp fire at the foot of the Balkans! One who gazed into his face at
that moment would have discovered that the rough warrior spirit was an
outer environment about a gentle and loving nature.
He was interrupted by officers crowding about him, bringing
intelligence of the enemy, or asking questions relative to the
immediate movements of their own commands. These were answered in
laconic sentences, each one a flash of strategic wisdom.
In the first leisure he put his hand fondly upon Constantine's head,
and said quietly as he seated himself upon a rock near the tent door--
"Tell me of last night."
As Constantine narrated what the reader is already familiar with,
dwelling especially upon Morsinia's part in the scene at the well, and
her courage in the descent from the wall, Scanderbeg exclaimed
eagerly--
"A true daughter of Musache De Streeses and Mara Cernoviche! The very
impersonation of our Albania! Her spirit is that of our heroic people,
fair as our lakes and as noble as our mountains! But these scenes are
too rough for her. Her soul is strong enough to endure; but so is the
diamond strong enough to keep its shape and lustre amid the stones
which the freshet washes together. But it is not well that it should
be left to do so. Besides, the diamond's strength and inviolable
purity will not prevent a robber from stealing it. There are envious
eyes upon our treasure. We had better have our diamond cut and set and
put away in a casket for a while. We will send her to Constantinople.
There she will have opportunity to gain in knowledge of the world, and
in the courtly graces which fit her princely nature."
"Would not Italy be better?" suggested Constantine.
"No," said Scanderbeg. "The Italians are uncertain allies. I know not
whom to trust across the Adriatic. But Phranza, the chamberlain at
Constantinople, is a noble man. I knew him years ago when I was
stationed across the Bosphorus, and had committed to me nearly all the
Ottoman affairs, so far as they affected the Greek capital. He is one
of the few Greeks we may implicitly trust. And, moreover, he agrees
with me in seeking a closer alliance between our two peoples. If the
Christian power at Constantinople could be roused against the Turk on
the east, while we are striking him on the west, we could make the
Moslem wish he were well out of Europe. But Italy will do nothing."
"The Holy Father can help, can he not?" asked Constantine.
"The Holy Father does not to-day own himself. He is the mere
foot-ball of the secular powers, who kick him against one another in
their strife. No, our hope is in putting some life into the old Greek
empire at Constantinople. The dolt of an emperor, John, is dead,
thanks to Azrael[61]! In Constantine, who has come to the throne,
Christendom has hope of something better than to see the heir of the
empire of the Cæsars dancing attendance upon Italian dukes; seeking
agreement with the Pope upon words of a creed which no one can
understand; and demoralizing, with his uncurtained harem, the very
Turk. If the new emperor has the sense of a flea he will see that the
Moslem power will have Constantinople within a decade, unless the
nations can be united in its defence. I would send letters to Phranza,
and you must be my envoy. With Morsinia there, we shall be free from
anxiety regarding her; for no danger threatens her except here in her
own land--to our shame I say it. A Venetian galley touches weekly at
Durazzo, and sails through the Corinthian gulf. You will embark upon
that to-morrow night."
"But Colonel Kabilovitsch?" inquired Constantine.
"He has already started for Durazzo, and will make all arrangements.
Nothing is needed here but a comely garment for Morsinia, who left
Sfetigrade with a briefer toilet than most handsome women are willing
to make. Colonel Kabilovitsch will see that you are provided with
money and detailed instructions for the journey."
A soldier appeared with a bundle. "A rough lady's maid!" said the
general, "but a useful one I will warrant."
Unrolling the bundle, it proved to be a rich, but plain, dress,
donated from a neighboring castle.
An hour later Scanderbeg held Morsinia by both hands, looking down
into her eyes. It was a picture which should have become historic. The
giant form of the grim old warrior contrasted fully with that of the
maiden, as some gnarled oak with the flower that grows at its base.
"Keep good heart, my daughter," said the general, imprinting a kiss
upon her fair brow.
She replied with loving reverence in her tone and look, "I thank you,
Sire, for that title; for the father of his country has the keeping of
the hearts of all the daughters of Albania."
It were difficult to say whether the sweet loveliness in the lines of
her face, or the majesty of character and superb heroism that shone
through them, gave her the greater fascination as she added,
"If Jesu wills that among strangers I can best serve my country, there
shall be my home."
"But you will not long be among strangers. Your goodness will make
them all friends. Beside, God will keep such as you, for he loves the
pure and beautiful."
Morsinia blushed as she answered,
"And does God not love the true and the noble? So he will keep thee
and Albania. Does not the sun send down her[62] beams as straight over
Constantinople as over Croia? and does she not draw the mists by as
short a cord of her twisted rays from the Marmora as from the
Adriatic? Then God can be as near us there as here; and our prayers
for thee and our land will go as speedily to the Great Heart over all.
The Blessed Mary keep you, Sire!"
"Ay, the Blessed Mary spake the blessing through your lips, my child,"
responded Scanderbeg as he lifted her to her horse.
Constantine released himself from the general's hearty embrace, and
sprang into the saddle at her side. Preceded and followed by a score
of troopers they disappeared in the deep shadows of a mountain path.
FOOTNOTES:
[61] The death angel.
[62] In Albanian speech the sun is feminine.