MANSLAUGHTER
The _Spera in Dio_ having reached Gravosa, it discharged the timber
it had taken for Ragusa, and loaded a valuable cargo of tobacco from
Trebigne in its stead. The ship was now lying at anchor, ready to set
sail with the fresh morning breeze.
It was in the evening. The captain was in hopes to start on the
morrow; for at night it is a difficult task to steer a ship through
that maze of sunken rocks and jagged reefs met with all along the
entrance of the Val d'Ombla.
The _pobratim_ had been talking together for some time. Uros had
tried to persuade his friend to go and marry Ivanka before the
mistake under which her father was labouring had been cleared up; but
the more the plan was discussed, the less was Milenko convinced
of its feasibility.
Uros at last, feeling rather sleepy, threw himself into his hammock,
and soon afterwards closed his eyes. Milenko, instead, stood for some
time with his arms resting on the main-yard, smoking and thinking,
his eyes fixed on the moon, in its wane, now rising beyond the rocky
coast, from which the cypresses uplifted their dark spires, and the
flowering aloes reared their huge stalks.
The warm breeze blew towards him a smell of orange blossoms from the
delightful Val d'Ombla, and the fragrancy of the Agnus castus, the
Cretan sage, and other balmy herbs and shrubs from that little Garden
of Eden--the Island of La Croma. Feeling that he could not go to
sleep, even if he tried, and finding the earth so fair, bathed as it
was now by the silvery light of the moon, he made up his mind to go
on shore and have a stroll along the strand.
What made him leave the ship at that late hour, and go to roam on the
deserted shore? Surely one of those secret impulses of fate, of which
we are not masters.
He had walked listlessly for some time on the road leading to Ragusa,
when he heard the loud, discordant sounds of two men, apparently
drunk, wrangling with each other. The men went on, then stopped
again, then once more resumed their walk; but, at every step they
made, their voices grew louder, their tones angrier. Both spoke Slav;
but, evidently, one of the two must have been a foreigner. Milenko
followed them, simply for the sake of doing something. When he got
nearer, he understood that the cause of the quarrel was not a woman,
as he had believed at first, but a sum of money which the Slav had
lent to the foreigner.
As they kept repeating the selfsame things over and over, Milenko got
tired of their discussion and was about to turn back. Just then,
however, the two men stopped again. The Slav called the stranger a
thief, who in return apostrophised him as a dog of a Turk. From words
they now proceeded to blows; but, drunk as they apparently were, they
did not seem to hurt each other very much. Milenko hastened on to see
the struggle, for there is a latent instinct, even in the most
peaceable man's nature, that makes him enjoy seeing a fight.
By the time Milenko came in sight of the two men, they had begun to
fight in real earnest; blows followed blows, kicks kicks; the Slav
--or rather, Turk--roused by the stranger's taunts, seemed to be
getting over his drunkenness. He was a tall, powerful man, and
Milenko saw him grip his adversary by his neck. Then the two men
grappled with each other, reeled in their struggle, then rolled down
on the ground. He heard the thud of their fall. Milenko hastened to
try and separate them. As he got nearer he could see them clearly,
for the light of the moon fell upon them. The stronger man was
holding his adversary pinned down, and was muttering the same curses
over and over again; but he did not seem to be ill-using him very
much.
"Leave me alone," muttered the other, "or, by my faith, it'll be so
much the worse for you!"
"Your faith! you have no faith, you dog of a giaour!" growled the
other.
"I have no faith, have I? Well, then, here, if I have no faith!"
Milenko, for a moment, saw a knife glitter in the moonlight, then it
disappeared. He heard at the same time a loud groan. He ran up to
help the man from being murdered, regardless of his own safety.
The powerful man was trying to snatch the knife from his adversary's
hand, but, as he was unable to do so, he rose, holding his side, from
which the blood was rushing.
"Now you'll have your money!" said the little man, with a hideous
laugh, and he lifted up his hand and stabbed his adversary
repeatedly.
Milenko pulled out his own knife as he reached the spot, but he only
got in time to catch the dying man in his arms and to be covered with
his blood.
The murderer simply looked at his adversary, and hearing him breathe
his last, "He's done for," he added; then he turned on his heels and
disappeared.
Poor Milenko was stunned for a moment, as he heard the expiring man's
death-rattle.
What could he do to help him? Was life ebbing? had it ebbed all away?
he asked himself. Was he dead, or only fainting? could he do nothing
to recall him to life?
As he was lost in these thoughts he heard the heavy tramp of
approaching feet, and before he could realise the predicament in
which he had placed himself, the night-watch had come up to the spot
and had arrested him as the murderer.
"Why do you arrest me?" said he. "I have only come here by chance to
help this poor man."
"I daresay you have," said the sergeant, taking the blood-stained
dagger from his hand.
"But I tell you I do not even know this poor man."
"Come, it's useless arguing with us; you'll have to do that with your
judges. March on."
"But when I tell you that I only heard a scuffle and ran up----"
"Then where's the murderer?" asked one of the guards.
"He's just run off."
"What kind of a man was he?"
"I hardly saw him."
"And where do you come from?" asked the sergeant.
"From on board my boat, the _Spera in Dio_, now lying at Gravosa."
"And where were you going to?"
"Nowhere."
"Oh! you were taking a little stroll at this time of the night?"
The men laughed.
"Come, we're only wasting time----"
"But----"
"Stop talking; you'll have enough of that at Ragusa."
"But I tell you I'm innocent of that man's death."
"You are always innocent till you are about to be hanged, and even
then sometimes."
Milenko shuddered.
Thereupon the guards, taking out a piece of rope, began tying the
young man's hands behind his back.
"Leave me free; I'll follow you. I've nothing on my conscience to
frighten me."
Still, they would not listen to him, but led him away like a
murderer. They walked on for a little more than half-an-hour on the
dark road, and at last they arrived at Porta Pilla, one of the gates
of Ragusa. They crossed the principal street, called the Stradone,
and soon reached the Piazza dei Signori. The quiet town was quieter
than ever at these early dawning hours. The heavy steps of the guards
resounded on the large stone flags with which the town is paved, and
re-echoed from the granite walls of the churches and palaces.
Poor Milenko was conducted to the guard-house, and when the sergeant
stated how he had been found clasping the dead man, holding,
moreover, the blood-stained dagger in his hand, he, without more ado,
was thrust into the narrow cell of the prison.
Alone, in utter darkness, a terrible fear came over him. How could he
ever prove that he had not murdered the unknown man with whose blood
his clothes were soaked?
The assassin was surely far away now, and, even if he were not, he
doubtless knew that another man had been caught in his stead, and he,
therefore, would either keep quiet or stealthily leave the town. If
he had at least caught a glimpse of the murderer's face, then he
might recognise him again; but he had seen little more than two dark
forms struggling together. Nothing else than that.
Then he asked himself if God--if the good Virgin--would allow them to
condemn him to death innocently? He fell on his knees, crossed
himself, and uttered many prayers; but, during the whole time, he saw
his body hanging on the gallows, and, with that frightful sight
before his eyes, his prayers did not comfort him much.
Then he began to fancy that he must have been guilty of some sin for
which he was now being punished. Though he recalled to mind all his
past life, though he magnified every little misdemeanour, still he
could not find anything worthy of such a punishment. He had kept all
the fasts; he had gone to church whenever he had been able to do so;
he had lighted a sufficient number of candles to the saints to secure
their protection. If, at times, he had been guilty of cursing, of
calling the blessed Virgin Mary opprobrious names, he only had done
so as a mere habit, as everybody else does, quite unintentionally.
The priest--at confession--had always admonished him against this bad
habit; but he had duly done penance for these trifling sins, and he
had got the absolution.
He asked himself why he was so unlucky. He had not fallen in love
with his neighbour's wife, nor asked for impossible things. Why could
not life run on smoothly for him, as it did for everybody else? What
devil had prompted him to leave his ship at a time when he might have
been quietly asleep? Then the thought struck him that, after all,
this was only a bewildering dream, from which he would awake and
laugh at on the morrow.
He got up, walked about his narrow cell, feeling his way in the
darkness. Alas! this was no dream.
Then he thought of his parents; he pictured to himself the grief they
would feel at hearing of his misfortune. His mother's heart would
surely burst should he be found guilty and be condemned to be hanged.
And his father--would he, too, believe him to be a murderer?
He again sank on his knees, and uttered a prayer; not the usual
litanies which he had been taught, but a _Kyrie Eleison_, a cry for
help rising from the innermost depths of his breast.
The darkness of the prison was so oppressive that it seemed to him as
if his prayer could never go through those massive stone walls;
therefore, instead of being comforted, doubt and dread weighed
heavily upon him. In that mood he recalled to his mind all the
incidents of a gloomy story which had once been related to him about
a little Venetian baker-boy, who, like himself, had been found guilty
of manslaughter. This unfortunate youth had been imprisoned, cruelly
tortured, and then put to death. When it was too late, the real
murderer confessed his guilt; but then the poor boy was festering in
his grave.
Still, he would not despair, for surely Uros must, on the morrow,
hear of his dreadful plight, and then he would use every possible and
impossible means to save him.
But what if the ship started on the morrow, leaving him behind, a
stranger in an unknown town?
The tears which had been gathering in his eyes began to roll down his
cheeks in big, burning drops, and now that they began to flow he
could not stop them any more. He crouched in a corner, and, as the
cold, grey gloaming light of early dawn crept through the grated
window of his cell, his heavy eyelids closed themselves at last;
sleep shed its soothing balm on his aching brain.
Not long after Milenko had gone on shore, Uros woke suddenly from his
sleep. He had dreamt that a short, dark-haired, swarthy, one-eyed
man, with a face horribly pitted by small-pox, was murdering his
friend; and yet it was not Milenko either, but some one very much
like him.
He jumped up, groped his way to his mate's hammock and was very much
astonished not to find him there. Having lost his sleep, he lit a
cigarette and went to look down into the waters below. The sea on
that side of the ship was as smooth and as dark as a black mirror. He
had not been gazing long when, as usual, he began to see sparks, then
fiery rods whirling about and chasing each other. The rods soon
changed into snakes of all sizes and colours, especially
greenish-blue and purple. They twirled and twisted into the most
fantastic shapes; then they all sank down in the waters and
disappeared. All this was nothing new; but, when they vanished, he
was startled to behold, in their stead, the face of the pitted man he
had just seen in his sleep stare at him viciously with his single
eye. He drew back, frightened, and the face vanished. After an
instant, he looked again; he saw nothing more, but the inky waters
seemed thick with blood.
The next morning Milenko was looked for everywhere uselessly. Uros,
who was the last person that had seen him, related how he had gone
off to sleep and had left him leaning on the main-yard. At first,
every one thought that he had gone on shore for something, and that
he would be back presently; but time passed and Milenko did not make
his appearance. The wind was favourable, the sails were spread, they
had only to heave the anchor to start; everybody began to fear that
some accident had happened to him to detain him on shore. Uros was
continually haunted by his dream, especially by the face of the
single-eyed man. He offered to go in search of his friend.
"Well," replied the captain, "I think I'll come with you; two'll find
him quicker than one alone, for now we have no time to lose."
They went on shore and enquired at a coffee-house, but the sleepy
waiters could not give them any information. They asked some boatmen
lounging about the wharf, still with no better success. A porter from
Ragusa finally said that he had heard of a murder committed that
night on the road, but all the particulars were, as yet, unknown.
Doubtless it was a skirmish between some smugglers and the watch.
Anyhow, when Uros heard of bloodshed, his heart sank within him, and
the image of the swarthy man appeared before the eyes of his mind,
and he fancied his friend weltering in a pool of dark blood.
"Had we not better go at once to Ragusa? we might hear something
about him there?" said the captain to Uros.
"But do you think he can have been murdered?"
"Murdered? No; what a foolish idea! He had no money about him; he was
dressed like a common sailor; he could not have been flirting with
somebody's sweetheart. Why should he have been murdered?"
The two men hired a gig and drove off at once. When they reached
Ragusa, they found the quiet town in a bustle on account of a murder
that had taken place on the roadside. The old counts and marquises of
the republic forgot their wonted dignity--forgot even their drawling
way of speaking--and questioned the barber, the apothecary, or the
watch at the town gate with unusual fluency.
A murder on the road to Gravosa! A most unheard-of thing. Soon people
would be murdered within the very walls of the town! Such things had
never happened in the good olden times!
"And who was the murdered man?" asked one.
"A stranger."
"And the murderer?"
"A stranger, too; a mere boy, they say."
"Oh! that explains matters," added a grave personage; "but if
strangers will murder each other, why do they not stay at home and
slaughter themselves?"
Such were the snatches of conversation Uros and the captain heard on
alighting at Porta Pilla; and as they asked their way to the police
station, everybody stared at them, and felt sure that in some way or
other they were connected with the murder.
At the police station, the captain stated how his mate had
disappeared from on board, and asked permission to see the murdered
man. They were forthwith led to the mortuary-chapel, and they were
glad to see that the corpse was a perfect stranger.
"What kind of a person is the young man you are looking for?" asked
the guard who had accompanied them.
"Rather above the middle height, slim but muscular, with greyish-blue
eyes, a straight nose, a square chin, curly hair, and a small dark
moustache."
"And dressed like a sailor?"
"Yes."
"Exactly as you are?" said he to Uros.
"Yes; have you seen him?"
"Why, yes; he is the murderer."
Uros shuddered; the captain laughed.
"There must be some mistake," said the latter. "You have arrested the
wrong person; such things do happen occasionally."
"He was arrested while struggling with the man he killed. He was not
only all dripping with blood, but he still held his dagger in his
hand."
"With all that, it's some mistake; for he didn't know this man," said
the captain, pointing to the corpse stretched out before them. "If he
did kill him, then it was done in self-defence."
"But where is he now?" asked Uros.
"Why, in prison, of course."
Uros shuddered again.
"We can see him, can't we?" said the captain.
"You must apply to the authorities."
The departure of the _Spera in Dio_ had to be put off for some days.
Uros went on board the ship, whilst the captain remained at Ragusa to
look after his lost mate. There he soon found out that, in fact, it
was Milenko who had been arrested; and after a good deal of trouble
he succeeded in seeing him.
Although he did his best to comfort him and assure him that in a few
days the real murderer would be found, he could not help thinking
that the evidence was dead against him. Anyhow, he had him
transferred to a better cell, and, by dint of _backseesh_, saw that
his bodily comforts were duly attended to.
On the following day, the captain, Uros and the crew were examined;
and all were of opinion that Milenko could not possibly ever have
been acquainted with the unknown man, and, therefore, had no possible
reason for taking away his life. The great difficulty, meanwhile, was
to find out who the murdered man really was, from where he had come,
whither he was going in the middle of the night.
After that, the captain went to a lawyer's; and having put the whole
affair in his hands, found out that he could do nothing more for
Milenko than he had already done; so he went and lit a candle for his
sake, recommended him to the mercy of the Virgin and good St.
Nicholas, and decided to start on the following morning, without any
further and unprofitable delay. Had the young man been his own son,
he would not have acted otherwise. Uros, however, decided to remain
behind, and join the ship at Trieste after a few days.
On the morrow Uros, after having seen the _Spera in Dio_ disappear,
went to spend a few hours with his friend. A week passed in this way;
then, not knowing in what way to help Milenko, he bethought himself
to seek the aid of some old woman versed in occult lore, in whose
wisdom he had much more faith than in the wordy learning of gossiping
lawyers.
Having succeeded in hearing of such a one from the inn-keeper's wife,
he went to her at once and explained what he wanted of her.
She looked at him steadily for a while; then she went to an old chest
and took out a quaint little mirror of dark, burnished metal, and
making him sit in a corner, bade him look steadily within it. As soon
as he was seated, she took a piece of black cloth, like a pall, and
stretched it around him, screening him from every eye. Having done
this, she threw some powder on the fire, which, burning, filled the
room with fragrant smoke, or rather, with white vapour, which had a
heady smell of roses. After a few moments of silence, she took the
_guzla_ and played, as a kind of prelude, a pathetic, dirge-like
melody; then she began to sing in a low, lamentable tone, Vuk
Stefanovic Karadzic's song, entitled--
GOD'S JUSTICE.
Upon a lonely mead two pine-trees grew,
And 'twixt the two a lowly willow-tree;
No pines were those upon the lonely mead,
Where nightly winds e'er whistle words of woe.
The one was Radislav--a warrior brave;
Whilst Janko was the other stately tree.
They were two brothers, fond of heart and true;
The weeping willow-tree that rose between
Had whilom been their sister Jelina.
Both brothers loved the maid so fair and good,
Fair as a snow-white lily fresh with dew,
And good, I ween, as a white turtle-dove.
Once Janko to his sister gave a gift;
It was a dagger with a blade of gold.
That day Marija, who was Janko's wife
(A wanton woman with a wicked heart),
Grew grey and green with envy and with grudge,
And to Zorizza, Radislavo's wife,
She said: "Pray tell me in what way must I
Get these two men to hate that Jelina,
Whom they love more, indeed, than you or me."
"I know not," said Zorizza, who was good--
Aye, good indeed, and sweet as home-made bread;
"And if I knew, I should pray day and night
For God to keep me from so foul a deed."
Marija wended then her way alone,
And as her head was full of fiendish thoughts,
She saw upon the mead her husband's foal,
The fleetest-footed filly of the place.
Whilst with one hand she fondled the young foal,
The other plunged a dagger in her breast;
Then, taking God as witness, swore aloud
That Jelina had done that deed of blood.
With doleful voice the brother asked the girl
What made her mar the foal he loved so well.
Upon her soul the maiden took an oath
That she nowise had done that noxious deed.
A few days later, on a dreary night,
Marija went and killed the falcon grey--
The swiftest bird, well worth its weight in gold.
Then creeping back to bed, with loud outcry
She woke the house; she said that, in a dream,
She saw her Janko's sister, as a witch,
Kill that grey falcon Janko loved so well.
Behold! at early morn the bird was dead.
"This cruel deed shall rest upon thy head,"
Said Janko to the girl, who stood amazed.
E'en after this Marija found no peace,
But hated Jelina far more than death,
So evermore she pondered how she could
Bring dire destruction down upon the maid.
One night, with stealthy steps, she went and stole
The golden-bladed knife from Jelka's room;
And with the knife she stabbed her only babe.
The foul deed done, she put the knife beneath
The pillow white whereon lay Jelka's head.
At early twilight, when the husband woke,
He found his rosy babe stabbed through the breast,
All livid pale within a pool of blood.
Marija tore her hair and scratched her cheeks
With feigned despair; she vowed to kill the witch
Who wantonly had stabbed her precious babe.
"But who has done this cruel, craven crime?
Who killed my child?" cried Janko, mad with rage.
"Go seek thy sister's knife, with golden blade;
Forsooth, 'tis stained with blood." And Janko went,
And found that Jelka still was fast asleep,
But 'neath her pillow, peeping out, he saw--
All stained with blood--the knife with golden blade.
He grasped his sleeping sister by her throat,
Accusing her of having killed his child.
And she--now startled in her morning sleep--
Midst sighs and sobs disowned the dreadful deed;
Still, when she saw the knife all stained with gore,
She grew all grey with fear and looked aghast,
And guilty-like, before that gruesome sight.
"An I have done this horrid, heinous deed,
Then I deserve to die a dreadful death.
If thou canst think that I have killed thy child,
Then take and tie me to thy horses' tails,
So that they tread me down beneath their hoofs."
The maid was led within the lonely mead,
Her limbs were bound unto the stallions' tails;
They lashed the horses, that soon reared and ran
Apart, and thus they tore her limbs in twain.
But lo! where'er her blood fell down in drops,
Sweet sage grew forth, and marjoram and thyme,
And fragrant basil, sweetest of all herbs;
But on the spot where dropped her mangled corse,
A bruised and shapeless mass of bleeding flesh,
A stately church arose from out the earth,
Of dazzling marbles gemmed with precious stones--
A wondrous chapel built by hallowed hands.
Marija, then, upon that day fell ill,
And nine long years she languished on her bed,
A death in life, still far more dead than quick;
And as she lay there 'twixt her skin and bones
The coarse and rank weeds grew, and 'midst the weeds
There nestled scorpions, snakes, and loathsome worms,
Which crept and sucked the tears from out her eyes.
In those last throes of death she wailed aloud,
And bade for mercy's sake that they might take
And lay her in that church which had sprung out
Where Jelka's body dropped a mangled corpse.
In fact, her only hope was to atone
For all those dreadful deeds which she had done.
But when they reached the threshold of the church,
A low and hollow voice came from the shrine,
And all who heard the sound were sore amazed.
"Avaunt from here! Till God forgive thy crimes,
This sacred ground is sure no place for thee."
Appalled to death, unable yet to die,
She begged them as a boon that they would tie
Her to the horses' tails, for dying thus she hoped
That God might then have mercy on her soul.
They bound her wasted limbs to stallions' tails;
Her bones were broke, her limbs were wrenched in twain,
And where the sods sucked up her blood impure,
The earth did yawn, and out of that wide gulf
Dark waters slowly rose and spread around;
Still, lifeless waters, like a lake of hell.
Within the mere the murdered foal was seen,
Just as we see a vision in a dream.
The falcon grey then flew with fluttering wing,
And panting, fell within that inky pool.
Then from the eddy rose a tiny cot.
Within that cot a rosy infant slept,
And smiled as if it saw its mother's breast.
But lo! its mother's claw-like hand arose
Out of the stagnant waters of the lake,
And plunged a dagger in the infant's breast.
The old woman, having finished her song, waited for a while till the
young man looked up.
Presently, Uros, with a deep sigh, lifted his eyes towards her.
"Always the same man, with that fiendish face of his," quoth he,
shaking his head.
"But tell me what you have seen now, that I might help you--if I
can."
"That man, who has been haunting me all these days."
"Explain yourself better; did you only see his face, now?"
Uros first explained to the _baornitza_ what he had witnessed in the
sea the night when Milenko was arrested for murder.
"Have you often seen such things in the sea before?"
"From my earliest childhood, and almost every time I looked; very
often Milenko and I saw the very same things."
"But are you sure you never saw the face before?"
"Oh! quite sure."
"Now, tell me minutely what you have seen in the glass."
"First the mirror grew hazy, just as if clouds were flitting over it;
then, little by little, it got to be more transparent, and of a
silvery, glassy grey. After that it grew greenish, and I could
distinguish down within its depths a beautiful landscape. It was a
country road seen by night; the moon was rising behind the hills at a
distance, and presently the trees, the rocks, the road, were clearer.
All at once two men were seen walking on the way. I could not see
their faces, for I was behind them; still, I was sure who the shorter
man was. They walked on and disappeared, but then I saw one of them
come running back. I was not mistaken; it was the man with the single
eye. His was, indeed, the face of a fiend.
"He must have been running for some time, for he was panting, nay,
gasping for breath. He stopped, looked over his shoulder, then threw
the knife he was holding within a bush. It was a bush with silvery
leaves, and all covered with flowers. He then wiped his wet hands on
the leaves of the shrub, on the scanty grass, then rubbed them with
the sandy earth to remove all the traces of the blood. This done, he
again took to his heels and disappeared."
"And that is all you saw?"
"No! the mirror resumed again its real, dark colour, but, as I
continued looking within it, hoping to see something more, I saw it
turn again milky-white; then of a strong grass green, and, in the
midst of that glaring green paint, I had a glimpse of a Turkish flag;
then, as the red flag vanished, I beheld two words cut out and
painted in white in that garish green background. Those mysterious
words remained for some time; then they vanished, and I saw nothing
more."
"Those words were in Turkish characters, were they not?"
"No; some of them were like ours, but not all."
"Then they must have been either Cyrillic or Greek; but, tell me, are
you quite sure you never saw those words before?"
"Oh! quite, they were so strange."
"You know, we happen sometimes to see things without noticing them,
even strange things. Then these objects, of which we seem to have no
knowledge, come back to us in our dreams, or when we gaze within a
mirror; so it may be that you have seen that face and those words
absently, with your eyes only, whilst your mind took no notice of
them."
"I don't think so."
"You may think otherwise in a few days. But let's see; you know where
the murder took place, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, the two men were, apparently, coming from Gravosa and going up
to Ragusa. Now, the spot where the shorter one stopped must have been
five, ten or fifteen minutes from the spot."
"I daresay a quarter of an hour. Sailors are not accustomed to run;
besides, that man is not very young."
"How do you know he is a sailor?"
"By his dress; and a Greek sailor, besides. He wore a dark blue
flannel shirt, a white belt or sash, and those rough, yellow
home-spun trowsers which they alone wear."
"Then probably the two words you saw were Greek. Now, the first thing
to be found is the knife; the second, and far more important fact, is
the meaning of those words. Are you sure not to forget them? Can you,
perhaps, write them down?"
"I'll never forget them as long as I live; they are engraven in my
mind."
"Then go and look for the knife. Come back to me to-morrow; perhaps I
may be of further help to you, that is, if you need more help."
Uros thanked the old woman, and then asked her where she had learnt
all the wonderful things she knew.
"From my own mother. Once a trade was in one family for ages; every
generation transmitted its secrets with its implements to the other.
It is true, people only knew one thing; but they knew it thoroughly.
Nowadays, young people are expected to have a smattering of
everything; but the sum of all their knowledge often amounts to
nothing."
Uros, taking leave of the wise old woman, went down the road leading
from Porta Pilla to the sea. Soon he came to the spot where Milenko
had been found clasping the murdered man in his arms. Then he looked
at every tree, at every stone he passed on his way. After a while, he
got to the corner where he had seen--in the mirror--the two men
disappear. From there he crawled on, rather than walked, so that not
a pebble of the road escaped his notice. After about a quarter of an
hour, he came to a shrub of a dusty, greyish green--it was an _Agnus
castus_ in full bloom. He recognised it at once; it was the bush that
had looked so silvery by the light of the moon within the magic
mirror. His heart began to beat violently. As he looked round, he
fancied he would see the murderer start from behind some tree and
pounce upon him. He looked at the shrub carefully; some of its lower
branches and the tops of many twigs were broken. He pushed the leaves
aside, and searched within it. The knife was there. He did not see it
at first; for its haft was almost the same colour as the roots of the
tree, and the point of the knife was sticking in the earth. He took
it up and examined it. All the part of the blade that had not been
plunged in the earth was stained with blood. It was a common knife,
one of those that all sailors wear in their belts. He put it in the
breast pocket of his coat, and walked down with long strides. He was
but a few steps from the shore.
Reason prompted him now to go to the police and give them the knife;
for it might lead to the discovery of the culprit. Still, this was
only a second thought--and Uros seldom yielded to practical
after-thoughts; and whenever he did so, he always regretted it.
He had not a great idea of the police. They were only good to write
things down on paper, making what they called protocols, which
complicated everything.
No; it was far better to act for himself, and only apply for help to
the police when he could have the murderer arrested.
As he got down to the shore the sun was sinking below the horizon;
the silvery waters of the main were now being transmuted into
vaporous gold. As he was looking at the sea and sky, from a
meteorological, sailor-like point of view, and wondering whereabouts
the _Spera in Dio_ was just then, his eyes fell upon a little skiff,
which had arrived a few days after they had. It was a Turkish caique,
painted in bright prasine green. He had seen it for days when his own
ship was loading and unloading, but then it had had nothing
particular to attract his attention; he had seen hundreds of these
barques in the East. Now, however, he could not help being struck by
its vivid green colour. He looked up; the red flag with the half-moon
met his eyes. He had but time to see it, when it disappeared, for the
sun had set.
How his heart began to beat! Surely the murderer was on board. He
strained his eyes to see the name of the ship, painted on either
side, but he could not distinguish it so far. Not a man was seen on
deck; the skiff seemed deserted.
A boy was fishing in a boat near there; he called him and asked him
to lend him the boat for an instant.
"What! do you want to fish, too?" asked the boy, pulling up.
"No; I'd like to see the name of that caique."
After two or three good strokes with the oars, Uros could see the
name plainly; it was _Panagia_, exactly the name he had read in the
mirror.
"Is that the ship you are looking for?"
"The very same one."
"Do you want to go on board?"
"Yes; I'd like to see the captain."
As soon as he was by the side of the caique he called out "_Patria!_"
for this is the name by which Greek sailors are usually addressed.
Some one got up at the summons. It was not the single-eyed man that
Uros was expecting to see, but a handsome, dark-eyed, shock-headed
young fellow.
"Is the captain on board?"
The youth tossed up his head negatively and said some words, but the
only one that Uros understood was _Caffene_.
As soon as Uros jumped on shore he went off to the coffee-house by
the pier, the only one at Gravosa. There were only a few seamen
smoking and sipping black coffee, but the person he wanted was not
amongst them.
"Do you wish to be taken on board his craft?" asked a kind of
ship-broker, hearing that Uros was asking about the Greek captain.
A few hours before he would simply have answered negatively. Now, as
he wanted to hear more of the ship and its crew, he asked:
"Is it the Greek captain whose caique is lying just outside?"
"Yes; the one painted in green."
"Where is he?"
"Just gone up to town. Are you going to Ragusa?"
"Yes."
"Well, as I'm going up too, I'll come with you."
An hour afterwards Uros was duly introduced to the man he had been
looking for.
The captain's first question was why Uros had remained behind, and as
the young man was anxious to lead the conversation about the murder,
he gave all the details about Milenko's arrest, and the reason why he
himself had not started with his ship.
"What!" asked Uros, "you haven't heard of the murder?"
"No," replied Captain Panajotti; "you see, I only speak Greek and a
little of the _lingua Franca_, so it is difficult to understand the
people here."
"But how is it you happen to be wanting hands? You Greeks only have
sailors of your own country."
"I've been very unfortunate this trip. One of my men has a whitlow in
the palm of his hand; another, a Slav, came with me this trip, but
only on condition of being allowed to go to his country while the
ship was loading and unloading----"
"Well?" asked Uros, eagerly.
"He went off and never came back."
"Are you sure he was a Slav, and not a Turk?"
"We, on board, spoke to him in Turkish, because he knew the language
like a Turk, but he was a Christian for all that; his country is
somewhere in the interior, not far from here. Now another of my men
has fallen ill----"
"The man with the one eye?"
"What! you know Vassili?" asked the captain, with a smile. "Yes, he's
ill."
"What's the matter with him?"
"I really don't know; he's lying down, skulking in a hole; the devil
take him."
"Since when?"
"Ten days, I think."
"But is he really ill?"
"He says he is; but why do you ask--do you know him?"
"I'll be straightforward with you," said Uros, looking the captain
full in the eyes. "I think the murdered man is the Slav who left your
ship ten days ago."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed the captain, astonished and grieved.
"I believe so."
"The one for whose murder your friend was arrested?"
"Exactly."
"Strange--very strange," said the captain, who had taken off his
shoe and was rubbing his stockinged foot, "and the murderer?"
"The man who has been ill ever since."
"Vassili?"
"You've said it."
"But have you any proofs?"
"I have."
"Then why did you not get him arrested?"
"I'll do so to-morrow."
"And if you can prove your friend's innocence----"
"We'll sail with you to Zara, my friend and I, if you'll have us, and
find you two other able-bodied seamen to take our place."
"But, remember, I'll not help you in any way to have a man on board
my ship arrested."
"No, I don't ask you to do so."
"I believe he's a fiend; still, he's a fellow-countryman of mine."
The two men thereupon shook hands and separated.
Uros went to the police, and, after a great ado, he managed to find
one of the directors.
"What do you want?" said the officer, cross at being disturbed out of
office hours.
"I've found the murderer at last," replied Uros.
"And what murderer, pray? Do you think there's only one murderer in
the world?"
Uros explained himself.
"And who is he?"
"A certain Vassili, a Greek, on board a caique now lying at Gravosa."
"And how have you found out that he is the murderer, when we know
nothing about it?"
"By intuition."
"Well, but you don't expect us to go about arresting people on
intuition, do you?" asked the officer, huffishly.
Uros proceeded to relate all he knew; then he produced the knife
which he had found.
"Well, there is some ground to your intuition; and if the murdered
man happens to be the Slav sailor who disappeared from on board the
ship you speak of, well, then, there is some probability that this
one-eyed man is the murderer."
"Anyhow, could you give orders for the ship to be watched to-night?"
"Yes, I can do that."
"At once?"
"You are rather exacting, young man."
"Think of my friend, who has been in prison ten days----"
"I'll give orders at once. There, are you satisfied now?"
"Thank you."
Uros, frightened lest the murderer might escape, hastened down to
Gravosa to keep watch on the caique. On his way thither he stopped at
a baker's shop and bought some bread, as he had been fasting for many
hours. Having got down to the shore, he eat his bread, had a glass of
water and a cup of black coffee at the coffee-house, lit a cigarette,
and then went to stretch himself down on a boat drawn up on the sand,
from where he could see anyone who came out of the Greek ship.
Although there was no moon, still the air was so clear, and the stars
shone so brightly, that the sky was of a deep transparent blue, and
the night was anything but black. A number of little noises were
heard, especially the many insects that awake and begin to chirp when
all the birds are hushed. One of them near him was breathing in a
see-saw, drilling tone, whilst another kept syncopating this song
with a sharp and shrill _tsit, tsit_. In some farmyard, far off, the
growl of an old dog was occasionally heard in the distance, like a
bass-viol; but the pleasantest of all these noises was the plap-plap
of the wavelets lapping the soft sand.
Presently, a custom-house guard came and sat down near Uros, and they
began talking together; and then time passed a little quicker.
It must have been about half-past one when Uros saw a man quietly
lower himself down from the caique into the sea, and make for the
shore. He must have swum with one hand, for his other was holding a
bundle of clothes on his head. Uros pointed out the swimming figure
to the guard, who at once sprang up and ran to the edge of the shore.
The man, startled, veered and swam farther off. The watchman
whistled, and another guard appeared at fifty paces from there. The
man jerked himself round, evidently intending to go back to his ship;
but Uros, who was on the alert, had already pushed into the sea the
boat on which he had been stretched, and began paddling with a board
which was lying within it.
The man, evidently thinking that Uros was a custom-house officer,
seeing now that he could not get back on board, put on a bold face
and swam once more towards the shore, whither Uros followed him. Three
custom-house guards had come up together, and were waiting for him to
step out of the water. Uros landed almost at once, and pushing the
boat on the sand, turned round and found himself face to face with
the dripping, naked figure. It was the fiendish, pitted, single-eyed
man he had seen in his visions. He was by no means startled at seeing
him; for he would have been astonished, indeed, if it had been
someone else.
Uros, grasping him by one of his arms and holding him fast for fear
he might escape, exclaimed: "That's the man!--that's the murderer!"
"Leave him," said the watchman; "if he tries to escape he's dead."
"Oh! but I don't want him dead; do what you like with him, but don't
kill him; tie him up, cut off his legs and his arms, but spare his
life until he has confessed."
The guards gave another shrill whistle, and presently the policemen
came running up.
The naked man, who did not know a word of Slav, and only very little
Italian, was taking his oath in Greek that he was no smuggler. He at
once opened his bundle, wrapped up in an oil-cloth jacket, and showed
the guards that there was nothing in it but a few clothes. The Greek
sailor was ordered to dress himself; then the policemen handcuffed
him and led him off to the station, where Uros followed him.
On the morrow the Greek captain was sent for, and he stated that,
having accused Vassili--who, for ten days, had been shamming
illness--of having murdered the Slav, this sailor had threatened him
to go to the Greek consulate on the morrow. The guilty man, however,
had, on second thoughts, deemed it more advisable to seek his safety
in flight, little thinking to what danger he was exposing himself.
The knife was produced and identified as having belonged to the
prisoner; then, being confronted with Milenko, who at once recognised
him as the murderer, he--overwhelmed by so many damning proofs
--confessed his guilt and pleaded for mercy, saying that he had only
killed his antagonist in self-defence.
Milenko's innocence being thus proclaimed, he was at once set free,
whilst Uros was heartily congratulated on his intuition, and the
officer who had snubbed him the evening before, strongly advised him
to leave the sea and become a detective, for if he had the same skill
in finding the traces of criminals as he had displayed in this case,
he would soon became a most valuable officer, whilst Milenko was told
that he ought to think himself fortunate in having such a friend.