The fugitives landed a good score of miles from Stamboul, on the
northern shore of Marmora, and struck the highway which runs westward,
following the coast line to Salonika, where it divides, bending south
into Greece, and branching north through Macedonia. The fugitives
followed the latter highway. The country through which they passed was
at the time conquered by the Moslem, but was dotted over with the
settlements of the adherents to the old faith, who kept the watchfires
of hope still burning in their hearts, though they were extinguished
on the mountains. It was by this route that Constantine had gone to
Stamboul. He was therefore familiar, not only with the way, but with
the people; and easily secured from them concealment when necessary,
and help along the journey. His belt had been well filled with gold by
Castriot, so that two fleet horses and all provisions were readily
supplied.
Their journey was saddened by their solicitude for the fate of
Albania. Before Constantine had left that country, Moses Goleme,
wearied with the incessant sacrifices he was compelled to make, and
discouraged by what he deemed the impossibility of longer holding out
against the Turks, had quarreled with Castriot, and thrown off his
allegiance. He had even been induced by Mahomet's pledge of liberty to
Albania--if only Castriot were overthrown--to enter the service of the
enemy. The wily Sultan had placed him in command of an invading army,
with which, however, he had returned to his country only to meet an
overwhelming defeat at the hands of the great captain, and to flee in
disgrace to Constantinople.
This swift vengeance administered by the patriots did not entirely
crush the dissatisfaction among the people. Their fields were wasted
by the long war; for half a generation had passed since it began. Only
the personal magnetism of their chief held the factions to their
doubtful loyalty.
After several weeks' journeying, our fugitives reached the camp of
Castriot. It little resembled the gorgeous canvas cities of the Turks
they had passed. The overspreading trees were, in many instances, the
only shelter of voivodes and princely leaders, the story of whose
exploits floated as an enchantment to the lovers of the heroic in all
lands.
But the simple welcome they received from the true hearts of their
countrymen was more to Morsinia and Constantine than any stately
reception could have been. Kabilovitsch's joy was boundless. The
venerable man had greatly failed, worn by outward toil, and more by
his inward grief. Castriot had grown prematurely old. His hair was
whitened; his eyes more deeply sunken beneath the massive brows; his
shoulders a little bowed. Yet there was no sign of decrepitude in face
or limb. His aspect was sterner, and even stronger, as if knit with
the iron threads of desperation.
As Kabilovitsch, whom the wanderers had first sought upon their
arrival, led them to Castriot, the general gazed upon them silently
for a little. Years, with their strange memories, seemed to flit, one
after another, across his scarred face. Taking Morsinia's hands in
his, he stood looking down into her blue eyes, just as he had done
when years ago, he bade her farewell. Then he kissed her forehead as
he said:
"Thank heaven! there is not yet a wrinkle on that fair brow. But I
wronged you, my child, in sending you among strangers. Can you forgive
the blunder of my judgment? It was my heart that led me wrong."
"I have nothing to forgive thee," replied Morsinia. "Though I have
suffered, to gaze again into thy face, Sire, takes away even the
memory of it all. I shall be fully blessed if now I can remove some of
those care marks from thy brow."
"Your return takes away from me twice as many years as those you have
been absent, and I shall be young again now--as young almost as
Kabilovitsch," added he, with a kindly glance at the old veteran,
whose battered dignity had given place to an almost childish delight.
The scene within the tent was interrupted by a noise without. A crowd
of soldiers had gathered, and were gazing from a respectful distance
at a strange-looking man: "A man of heaviness and eaten up with
cares." He was clad in the coarsest garments; his beard untrimmed;
hatless; a rope about his neck. As Scanderbeg came out of the tent,
the man threw himself at his feet, and cried, as he bowed his head
upon the ground:
"Strike, Sire! I have sold my country. I have returned to die under
the sword of my true chief, rather than live with the blessing of his
enemies. The curse on my soul is greater than I could bear, with all
the splendid rewards of my treason. Take out the curse with my blood!
Strike, Sire! Strike!"
He was Moses Goleme. Castriot stood with folded arms and looked upon
the prostrate man. His lips trembled, and then were swollen, as was
noted of them when his soul was fired with the battle rage. Then every
muscle of his face quivered as if touched by some sharp pain. Then
came a look of sorrow and pity. His broad bosom heaved with the
deep-drawn breath as he spoke.
"Moses Goleme, rise! Your place is at no man's feet. For twenty years
you watched by Albania, while I forgot my fatherland. Your name has
been the rallying cry of the patriot; your words the wisdom of our
council; your arm my strength. Brave man! take Castriot's sword, and
wear it again until your own heart tells you that your honor has been
redeemed. Rise!"
Untying the rope from the miserable man's neck, he flung it far off,
and cried,--
"So, away with whatever disgraces the noble Goleme! My curse on him
who taunts thee for the past! Let that be as a hideous dream to be
forgotten. For well I know, brave comrade, that thy heart slept when
thou wast away. But it wakes again. Thou art thy true self once more!"
The broken-hearted man replied, scarcely raising his eyes as he spoke:
"My hands are not worthy to touch the sword of Castriot. Let me
cleanse them with patriot service. Tell me, Sire, some desperate
adventure, where, since thou wilt not slay me, I may give my wretched
life for my country."
"No, Moses, you shall keep your life for Albania. I know well the
strength of your temptation. My service is too much for any man. Were
it not that I am sustained by some strange invisible spirit, I too
would have yielded long ago. But enough! The old command awaits thee,
Moses."
The man looked upon Castriot with grateful amazement. But he could not
speak, and turned away.
At first he was received sullenly by the soldiers; but when the story
of Castriot's magnanimity was repeated, the camps rang with the cry,
"Welcome, Goleme!" That his restoration might be honored, a grand raid
through the Turkish lines was arranged for the next night. The watch
cry was, "By the beard of Moses!" and many a veteran then wielded his
sword with a courage and strength he had not felt for years. Even old
Kabilovitsch, whose failing vigor had long excused him from such
expeditions, insisted upon joining in this. Constantine then rewhetted
his steel for valiant deeds to come. And, as the day after the fight
dawned, Moses Goleme led back the band of victors, laden with spoil.
As he appeared, to make his report to the chief, his face was flushed
with the old look; and, grasping the hand of Castriot, he raised it to
his lips and simply said:
"I thank thee, Sire!" and retired.