A COWARD'S VENGEANCE
When the _pobratim_ returned to Budua they found the whole town
divided into two camps, and, consequently, in a state of open war.
Since the evening of the _karvarina_ two parties had formed
themselves, the Vranites and the Radonites. The first, indeed, were
few, and did not consist of friends of Vranic, but simply of people
who had a grudge, not only against Radonic, but against Bellacic and
the twenty-four men of the jury, who were accused of peculation. On
the whole, public opinion was bitter against the tailor, for, after
having made peace with his enemy, he had tried to murder him; then
--as if this had not been enough--he had gone on the morrow and given
warning to the police that Radonic, who had cowardly murdered his
brother, had returned to Budua, and was walking about the streets
unpunished; moreover, that the _heyduk_ had threatened to murder him,
so he came to appeal for protection.
This happened when Budua had just been incorporated with the Austrian
empire, and the people, jealous of their customs, looked upon the
protection of the government as an officious intermeddling with their
own private affairs, and strongly resented their being treated as
children unable to act for themselves.
Although a few crimes had been left unpunished, simply not to rouse
at once the general feeling against its present masters, still the
new jurisdiction was bent upon putting a stop to the practice of the
_karvarina_; and to make this primitive country understand that,
under a civilised form of government, people paid taxes to be
protected by wise and just laws; therefore, it was the duty of a
well-regulated police to discover and punish equitably all offences
done to any particular man.
In the present case, where notice was brought to the police of facts
that had happened, and aid was requested, steps had to be taken to
secure the person of the offender, and, therefore, to have Radonic
arrested at once for manslaughter.
Friends, however, came at once to inform Radonic of what had taken
place, advising him to take flight, and put at once the border
mountains of Montenegro between himself and the Austrian police.
The officials gave themselves and, what was far worse, everybody else
no end of trouble and annoyance with Vranic's case. They went about
arresting wrong persons, as a well-regulated police sometimes does,
and then, after much bother and many cross-examinations, everyone was
set free, and the whole affair dropped.
Milena, who was slowly recovering from her long illness, was the
first to be summoned to answer about her husband's crime. Bellacic
was after that accused of sheltering the murderer, and threatened
with fines, confiscation, imprisonment and other such penalties;
then he was also set free. The twenty-four men of the jury were next
summoned; but, as they had only acted as peacemakers on behalf of
Vranic, they, too, were reprimanded, and then sent about their
business.
After this Vranic's partisans dwindled every day, till at last he
found himself shunned by everyone. Even his customers began to
forsake him, and to have their clothes made by a more fortunate
competitor. At last he could not go out in the streets without having
the children scream out after him:
"Spy! spy! Austrian spy!"
The clergy belonging to the Orthodox faith looked upon the new law
against the _karvarina_ as an encroachment on their privileges. A
tithe of the price of blood-money always went to the Church; sundry
candles had to be lighted to propitiate, not God or Christ, but some
of the lower deities and mediators of the Christian creed. The law,
which took from them all interference in temporal matters, was a blow
to their authority and to their purses. Even if they were not begged
to act as arbitrators, they were usually invited as guests to the
feast, so that some pickings and perquisites were always to be got.
Vranic obtained no satisfaction from the police, to whom he had
applied; he was only treated as a cur by the whole population, was
nearly excommunicated by the Church, and looked upon as an apostate
from the saintly customs of the Iugo Slavs.
Taunted by his own family with having made a muddle of the whole
affair, treated with scornful disdain by friends and foes, the poor
tailor, who had never been very good-tempered, had got to look upon
all mankind as his enemies.
Thus it happened, one day, that Bellacic was at the coffee-house with
Markovic and some other friends, when Vranic came in to get shaved.
"What! do you shear poodles and curs?" he asked.
The loungers began to laugh. Vranic, whose face was being lathered,
ground his teeth and grunted.
"I say, has he a medal round his neck?"
"What! do they give a medal to spies?" asked one of the men.
"No," quoth Bellacic; "but according to their law, no dog is allowed
to go about without a medal, which proves that he has paid his
taxes."
"Keep quiet," said the barber and _kafedgee_, "or I'll cut you!"
"Do government dogs also pay taxes?" said another man, smiling.
"Ask the cur! he'll tell you," replied Bellacic.
"Mind, Bellacic!" squeaked out Vranic, who was now shaved; "curs have
teeth!"
"To grind, or to grin with?"
"By St. George and St. Elias! I'll be revenged on all of you, and you
the very first!" and livid with rage, grinding his teeth, shaking his
fist, Vranic left the coffee-house, followed by the laughter of the
by-standers, and the barking of the boys outside.
"He means mischief!" quoth the _kafedgee_.
"When did he not mean mischief," replied Markovic, "or his brother
either?"
"Don't speak of his brother."
"Why, he's dead and buried."
"The less you speak of some dead people, the better," and the
_kafedgee_ crossed himself.
"He's a sly fox," said one of the men waiting to be shaved.
"Pooh! foxes are sometimes taken in by an old goose, as the story
tells us."
Everybody knew the old story, but, as the barber was bent upon
telling it, his customers were obliged to listen.
Once upon a time, there was a little silver-grey hen, that got into
such an ungovernable fit of sulks, that she left the pleasant
poultry-yard where she had been born and bred, and escaped on to the
highway by a gap in the hedge. The reason of her ill-humour was that
she had seen her lord and master flirt with a moulting old hatching
hen, and she had felt ruffled at his behaviour.
"Surely, the only advantage that old hen has over me," she
soliloquised, "is a greater experience of life. If I can but see a
little more of the world, I, too, might be able to discuss
philosophical topics with my husband, instead of cackling noisily
over a new-laid egg. It is an undeniable fact that home-keeping hens
have only homely wits, and cocks are only hen-pecked by hens of
loftier minds than themselves, and not by such common-place females
who think that life has no other aim than that of laying a fresh egg
every day."
On the other side of the hedge she met a large turkey strutting
gravely about, spreading out his tail, making sundry gurgling noises
in his throat, puffing and swelling himself in an apoplectic way,
until he got of a bluish, livid hue about his eyes, whilst his gills
grew purple.
Surely, thought the little grey hen, that turkey must be a doctor of
divinity who knows the aim of life; every word that falls from his
beak must be a priceless pearl.
The little silver-grey hen looked at him with the corner of her eye,
just as coquettish ladies are apt to do when they look at you over
the corners of their fans.
"I say, Mrs. Henny, whither are you bound, all alone?" said the old
turkey, with his round eyes.
"I am bent upon seeing a little of the world and improving my mind,"
said the little hen.
"A most laudable intention," said the turkey; "and if you'll permit
me, young madam, I myself will accompany, or rather, escort you in
this journey, tour, or excursion of yours. And if the little
experience I have acquired can be of some slight use to you----"
"How awfully good of you!" said the gushing little hen. "Why, really,
it would be too delightful!"
As they went on their way the old turkey at once informed the little
hen that he was a professor of the Dovecot University, and he at once
began to expatiate learnedly about adjectives, compounds, anomalous
verbs, suffixes and prefixes, of objective cases and other such
interesting topics. She listened to him for some time, although she
could not catch the drift of his speech. At last she came to the
conclusion that all this must be transcendental philosophy, so she
repeated mechanically to herself all the grave words he spouted, and
of the whole lecture she just made out a charming little phrase, with
which she thought she would crush her husband some day or other. It
was: "Don't run away with the idea that I'm anomalous enough to be
governed by objective cases, for, after all, what's a husband but a
prefix?"
"And are you married?" asked the little hen, as soon as the turkey
had stopped to take breath.
"I am," said the old turkey, with a sigh, "and although I have a
dozen wives, I must say I haven't yet found one sympathetic listener
amongst them."
"Are they worldly-minded?" asked she.
"They are frivolous, they think that the aim of life is laying eggs."
"Pooh!" said the little hen, scornfully.
As they went along, they met a gander, which looked at them from over
a palisade.
"I say, where are you two off to?"
"We are bent upon seeing the world and improving our minds."
"How delightful. Now tell me, would it be intruding if I joined your
party? I know they say: Two are company, and three are not, still----"
"They also say: The more the merrier," quoth the little hen.
The turkey blushed purple, but he managed to keep his temper.
They went on together, and the gander, who was a great botanist, told
them the name of every plant they came across; and then he spoke very
learnedly with the turkey about Greek roots and Romance particles.
A little farther on they met a charming little drake with a killing
curled feather in his tail, quite an _accroche-coeur_, and the little
hen ogled him and scratched the earth so prettily with her feet that
at last she attracted the drake's notice.
After some cackling the little drake joined the tourists,
notwithstanding the gurgling of the turkey and the hissing of the
gander.
As they went on, they of course spoke of matrimony; the gander
informed them that he was a bachelor, and the little drake added that
he was an apostle of free love, at which the little hen blushed, the
turkey puffed himself up until he nearly burst, and the gander looked
grave. The worst of it was, that the little drake insisted on
discussing his theories and trying to make proselytes.
They were so intently attending to the little drake's wild theories,
that they hardly perceived a hare standing on his hind legs, with his
ears pricked up, listening to and looking at them.
The hare, having heard that they were globe-trotters, bent upon
seeing the world and improving their minds, joined their party at
once; they even, later on, took with them a tortoise and a hedgehog.
At nightfall, they arrived in a dense forest, where they found a
large hollow tree, in the trunk of which they all took shelter.
The little hen ensconced herself in a comfortable corner, and the
drake nestled close by her; the hare lay at her feet, and the gander
and turkey on either side. The tortoise and the hedgehog huddled
themselves up and blocked up the opening, keeping watch lest harm
should befall them.
They passed the greater part of the night awake, telling each other
stories; and as it was in the dark, the tales they told were such as
could not well be repeated in the broad daylight.
Soon, however, the laughter was more subdued; the chuckling even
stopped. Sundry other noises instead were heard; then the drowsy
voices of the story-tellers ceased; they had all fallen fast asleep.
Just then, while the night wind was shivering through the boughs, and
the moon was silvering the boles of the ash-trees, or changing into
diamonds the drops of dew in the buttercups and bluebells, a young
vixen invited a shaggy wolf to come and have supper with her.
"This," she said, stopping before the hollow tree, "is my larder. You
must take pot-luck, for I'm sure I don't know what there is in it.
Still, it is seldom empty."
The wolf tried to poke his nose in, but he was stopped by the
tortoise.
"They have rolled a stone at the door," said the wolf.
"So they have; but we can cast it aside," quoth the vixen.
They tried to push the tortoise aside; but he clung to the sides of
the tree with his claws, so that it was impossible to remove him.
"Let's get over the stone," said the wolf.
They did their best to get over the tortoise, but they were met by
the hedgehog.
"They've blocked up the place with brambles and thorns," said the
vixen.
"So they have," replied the wolf.
"What's to be done?" asked the one.
"What's to be done?" replied the other.
"I hear rascally robbers rummaging around," gurgled the turkey-cock,
in a deep, low tone.
"Did you hear that?" asked the wolf.
"Yes," said the vixen, rather uneasy.
"We'll catch them, we'll catch them," cackled the hen.
"For we are six, we are six," echoed the drake.
"There are six of them," said the vixen.
"And we are only two," retorted the wolf.
"So they'll catch us," added the vixen.
"Nice place your larder is," snarled the wolf.
"I'm afraid the police have got into it," stammered the vixen.
"Hiss, hiss, hiss!" uttered the gander, from within.
"That's the scratch of a match," said the vixen.
"If they see us we are lost," answered the wolf.
Just then the turkey, who had puffed himself up to his utmost,
exploded with a loud puff.
"Firearms," whispered the wolf.
"It's either a mine or a bomb," quoth the vixen.
"Dynamite," faltered the wolf.
They did not wait to hear anything else; but, in their terror, they
turned on their heels and scampered off as fast as their legs could
carry them. In a twinkling they were both out of sight.
The travellers in the hollow tree laughed heartily; then they
returned to their corners and went off to sleep. On the morrow, at
daybreak, they resumed their wanderings, and I daresay they are
travelling still, for it takes a long time to go round the world.
A few days afterwards Bellacic went to visit one of his vineyards.
This, of all his land, was his pride and his boast. He had, besides,
spent much money on it, for all the vines had been brought from Asia
Minor, and the grapes were of a quality far superior to those which
grew all around. The present crop was already promising to be a very
fair one.
On reaching the first vines, Bellacic was surprised to perceive that
all the leaves were limp, withering or dry. The next vines were even
in a worse condition. He walked on, and, to his horror, he perceived
that the whole of his vineyard was seared and blasted, as if warm
summer had all at once changed into cold, bleak, frosty winter. Every
stem had been cut down to the very roots. Gloomy and disconsolate he
walked about, with head bent down, kicking every vine as he went on;
all, all were fit for firewood now. It was not only a heavy loss of
money, it was something worse. All his hopes, his pride, seemed to be
crushed, humbled by it. He had loved this vineyard almost as much as
his wife or his son, and now it was obliterated from the surface of
the earth.
Had it been the work of Nature or the will of God, he would have
bowed his head humbly, and said: "Thy will be done"; but he was
exasperated to think that this had all been the work of a man--the
vengeance of a coward--a craven-hearted rascal that, after all, he
had never harmed, for this could be only Vranic's doing. In his
passion he felt that if he had held the dastard at that moment, he
would have crushed him under his feet like a reptile.
As Bellacic slowly arrived at the other end of the vineyard, he felt
that just then he could not retrace his steps and cross the whole of
his withering vines once more. He stopped there for a few moments,
and looked around; then it seemed to him as if he had seen a man
crouch down and disappear behind the bushes.
Could it be Vranic coming to gloat over him and enjoy his revenge? or
was it not an image of his over-heated imagination?
He stood stock-still for a while, but nothing moved. He went slowly
on, and then he heard a slight rustling noise. He advanced, crouching
like a cat or a tiger, with fixed, dilated eyes and pricked-up ears.
He saw the bushes move, he heard the sound of footsteps; then he saw
the figure of a man bending low and running almost on all fours, so
as not to be seen.
It was Vranic; now he could be clearly recognised. Bellacic ran after
him; Vranic ran still faster. All at once he caught his foot on a
root that had shot through the earth; he stumbled and fell down
heavily. As he rose, Bellacic came up to him.
"Villain, scoundrel, murderer! is it you who----? Yes, it could be no
other dog than you! Moreover, you wanted to see how they looked."
"What?" said Vranic, ghastly pale, trembling from head to foot.
"What?--I really don't know what you mean."
"Do you say that you haven't cut down my vines?"
"_I_ cut your vines? What vines?"
"Have, at least, the courage of your cowardly deeds, you sneak."
Thereupon Bellacic gave him a blow which made him reel. Vranic began
to howl, and to take all the saints as witnesses of his innocence.
"Stop your lies, or I'll pluck that vile tongue of yours out of your
mouth, and cast it in your face!"
Vranic thereupon took out his knife and tried to stab Bellacic. The
two men fought.
"Is that the knife with which you cut my vines?"
"No; I kept it for you," replied Vranic, aiming a deadly blow at his
adversary.
Bellacic parried the blow, and in the scuffle which ensued Vranic
dropped his knife as his antagonist overpowered him and knocked him
down.
Although Vranic was struggling with all his might, he was no match
for Bellacic, who pinned him down and managed to pick up the dagger.
"You have cut down all my vines; now you yourself 'll have a taste of
your own knife."
"Mercy! mercy! Do not kill me!"
"No, no; I'll not kill you," said Bellacic, kneeling down upon him;
then, bending over him and catching hold of his right ear, he, with a
quick, firm hand, severed it at a stroke.
Vranic was howling loud enough to be heard miles off.
"Now for the other," said Bellacic. "I'll nail them to a post in my
vineyard as a scarecrow for future vermin of your kind."
Vranic, however, wriggled, and, with an effort, managed to rise; then
he took to his heels, holding his bleeding head and yelling with pain
and fear.
Bellacic made no attempt to stop him, or cut off his other ear, as he
had threatened to do; he quietly walked away, perfectly satisfied
with the punishment he had inflicted on the scoundrel. Instead of
returning home he thought it more prudent to go and spend the night
in the neighbouring convent, and thus avoid any conflict with the
police.
Bellacic, who had ever been generous to the monks, was now welcomed
by the brotherhood; the best wine was brought forth and a lay servant
was at once despatched to town to find out what Vranic had done, and,
on the morrow, one of the friars themselves went to reconnoitre and
to inform Mara that her husband was safe and in perfect health.
Upon that very day the _Spera in Dio_ cast anchor in the harbour of
Budua, and Uros reached home just when the police had come to arrest
his father for having cut off Vranic's ear; and the confusion that
ensued can hardly be described.
For the sake of doing their duty, the guards, who were Buduans, made
a pretence of looking for Bellacic; they knew very well that he would
not be silly enough to wait till they came to arrest him.
Mara, like all women in such an emergency, was thoroughly upset to
see the police in her house. She threw her arms round her son, and
begged him to keep quiet, and not to interfere in the matter, lest
their new masters' wrath should be visited upon him. Anyhow, as the
police tried to make themselves as little obnoxious as they possibly
could, and as they went through their duties with as much grace, and
as little zeal, as possible, Uros did not interfere to prevent them
from discharging their unpleasant task.
The poor mother wept for joy at seeing her son, and for grief at the
thought that her husband was an exile from his house at his time of
life; but just then the good friar came in and brought news from
Bellacic, and comforted the family, saying that in a very few days
the whole affair would be quieted, and their guest would be able to
come back home.
"And will he remain with you all that time?" asked Mara.
"We should be very pleased to have him," replied the friar; "but for
his sake and ours, it were better for him to cross the mountain and
remain at Cettinje till the storm has blown over."
"And when does he start?"
"This evening."
"May I come and see him before he goes?" asked Mara.
"Certainly, and if you wish to go at once, I'll wait here a little
while longer, just not to awaken suspicion."
Mara, therefore, went off at once, and the friar followed her a
quarter of an hour afterwards.
Uros, on seeing Milena, felt as if he were suffocating; his heart
began to beat violently, and then it seemed to stop. He, for a
moment, gasped for breath. She, too, only recovering from her
illness, felt faint at seeing him.
Uros found her looking handsomer and younger than before; her
complexion was so pale, her skin so transparent, that her eyes not
only looked much larger, but bluer and more luminous than ever. To
Uros they seemed rather like the eyes of an angel than those of a
woman. Her fingers were so long and thin; her hand was of a lily
whiteness, as it nestled in Uros' brown, brawny and sunburnt one.
All her sprightliness was gone; the roguish smile had vanished from
her lips. Not only her features, but her voice had also changed; it
was now so pure, so weak, so silvery in its sound; so veiled withal,
like a voice coming from afar and not from the person sitting by you.
It was as painful to hear as if it had been a voice from beyond the
grave, and it sent a pang to the young man's heart.
As he put his arm around her frail waist, the tears rose to his eyes,
and he could hardly find the words, or utter them softly enough, to
say to her: "Milena, _srce moja_," (my heart) "do you still love me?"
"Hush, Uros!" said she, shuddering; "never speak to me of love
again."
"Milena!"
"Yes," continued she, sighing, "my sin has found me out. Had I
behaved as I should have done, so many people would not have come to
grief. Vranic might still have been alive."
"But you never gave him any encouragement, did you?" said Uros,
misunderstanding her meaning.
The tears started to her eyes. Weak as she was, she felt everything
acutely.
"Do you think I could have done such a thing? And yet you are right;
I used to be so light once; but that seems to me so long, so very
long ago. But I have grown old since then, terribly old; I have
suffered so much."
"I was wrong, dearest; forgive me. I remember how that fiend
persecuted you. I was near sending him to hell myself, and it was a
pity I didn't; anyhow, I was so glad when I heard that Radonic
had----"
"Hush! I was the cause of that man's death. Through it my husband
became an outcast, and now your father has been obliged to flee from
his home----"
"How can you blame yourself for all these things? It is only because
you have been so ill and weak that you have got such fancies into
your head; but now that I am here, and you know how much I love
you----"
She shuddered spasmodically, and a look of intense pain and
wretchedness came over her features.
"Never speak of love any more, unless you wish to kill me."
Uros looked at her astonished.
"I know that in all this I am entirely to blame; but if a woman can
atone for her sin by suffering, I think----"
"Then you do not love me any more?" asked Uros, dejectedly.
She looked up into his eyes, and, in that deep and earnest glance of
hers, she seemed to give up her soul to him. If months ago she had
loved him with all the levity of a reckless child, now she loved him
with all the pathos of a woman.
Uros caught her in his arms and pressed her to his heart. She leaned
her head on his shoulder, as if unable to keep it upright; an ashy
paleness spread itself over all her features, her very lips lost all
their colour, her eyelids drooped; she had fainted. Uros, terrified,
thought she was dying, nay, dead.
"Milena, my love, my angel, speak to me, for Heaven's sake!" he
cried.
After a few moments, however, she slowly began to recover, and then
burst into a hysteric fit of sobbing.
When at last she came again to her senses, she begged Uros never to
speak to her of love, as that would be her death.
"Besides," added she, "now that I am better, I shall return to my
parents, for I can never go back to that dreadful house of mine. I
could never cross its threshold again."
Uros was dismayed. He had been looking forward to his return with
such joy, and now that he was back, the woman he worshipped was about
to flee from him.
"Do not look so gloomy," said she, trying to cheer him; "remember
that----"
Her faltering, weak voice died in her throat; she could not bring
herself to finish her phrase.
"What?" asked Uros, below his breath.
"That I'm another man's wife."
"Oh, Milena! don't say such horrible things; it's almost like
blasphemy."
"And still it's true; besides----"
Her voice, which had become steady, broke down again.
"Besides what?" said Uros, after a moment's pause, leaving her time
to breathe.
"You'll be a husband yourself, some day," she added in an undertone.
"Never," burst forth Uros, fiercely, "unless I am your husband."
"Hush!" said she, shuddering with fear and crossing herself. "Your
father wishes you to marry, and--I wish it too," she added in a
whisper.
"No, you don't, Milena; that's a lie," he replied, passionately.
"Could you swear it on the holy Cross?"
"Yes, Uros, if it's for your good, I wish it, too. You know that
I----"
Her pale face grew of deep red hue; even her hands flushed as the
blood rushed impetuously upwards.
"Well?" asked Uros, anxiously.
"That I love you far more than I do myself."
He clasped her in his arms tenderly, and kissed her shoulders, not
daring to kiss her lips.
"Would it be right for me to marry a young girl whom I do not love,
when all my soul is yours?"
"Still," said she, shuddering, "our love is a sin before God and
man."
"Why did you not tell me so when I first knew you? Then, perhaps, I
might not have loved you."
Milena's head sank down on her bosom, her eyes filled with tears,
there was a low sound in her throat. Then, in a voice choking with
sobs, she said:
"You are right, Uros; I was to blame, very much to blame. I was as
thoughtless as a child; in fact, I was a child, and I only wanted to
be amused. But since then I have grown so old. Lying ill in bed,
almost dying, I was obliged to think of all the foolish things I said
and did, so----"
"So you do not love me any more," he said, abruptly; but seeing the
look of sorrow which shadowed Milena's face, he added: "My heart,
forgive me; it is only my love for you that makes me so peevish. When
you ask me to forget you----"
"And still you must try and do so. The young girl your father has
chosen for you----"
"Loves some one else," interrupted Uros.
Milena looked up with an expression of joy she vainly tried to
control. The young man thereupon told her the mistake which had taken
place, and all that had happened the last time he and his friend had
been at Zara.
"Giulianic has taken a solemn oath that I shall never marry his
daughter, and as Milenko is in love with her, I hope my father will
release his friend from the promise----"
Just then the door opened, and Mara came in.
"Well, mother," said Uros, "what news do you bring to us?"
"Your father is safe, my boy. He left this morning for Montenegro; by
this time he must have crossed the border. On the whole, the police
tried to look for him where they knew they could not find him. He
left word that he wishes to see you very much, and begs you to go up
to Cettinje as soon as you can."
"I'll go and see Milenko, so that he may take sole charge of the
ship, and then I'll start this very evening."
"No, child, there is no such hurry! Rest to-night; you can leave
to-morrow, or the day after."
Having seen Milenko, and entrusted the ship for a few days entirely
to him, Uros started early on the next morning for the black
mountains.
Mara could hardly tear herself away from him. She had been waiting so
eagerly for his arrival, and now, when he had come home, she was
obliged to part from him.
"Do not stay there too long, for then you will only return to start,
and I'll have scarcely seen you."
"No, I'll only stay there one or two days, no more."
"And then I hope you'll not mix up in any quarrel. I'm so sorry
you've come back just now."
"Come, mother," said Uros, smiling pleasantly as he stood on the
doorstep before starting, "what harm can befall me? I haven't mixed
up in any of the _karvarina_ business, nor am I running away as an
outlaw; if we have some enemies they are all here, not there. I
suppose I'll find father at Zwillievic's or some other friend's
house. Your fears are quite unfounded, are they not?"
All Uros said was quite true, but still his mother refused to be
comforted. As he bade Milena good-bye, "Remember!" she whispered to
him, and she slipped back into her room.
Did she wish him to remember that she was Radonic's wife?
Uros thereupon started with a heavy heart; everybody seemed to have
changed since he had left Budua.
The early morning was grey and cloudy, and although Uros was very
fond of his father, and anxious to see him, still he was loth to
leave his home.
At the town gate Uros met Milenko, who had come to walk part of the
way with him. Uros, who was thinking of his mother and especially of
Milena, had quite forgotten his bosom friend. Seeing him so
unexpectedly, his heart expanded with a sudden movement of joy, and
he felt at that moment as if they had met after having been parted
for ages.
"Well?" asked Milenko, as they walked along. "Do you remember when we
first started from Budua, we thought that we'd have reached the
height of happiness the day we'd sail on our own ship?"
"I remember."
"The ship is almost our own, and happiness is farther off than ever."
"Wait till we come back next voyage, and things might look quite
different then."
The sun just then began to dawn; the dark and frowning mountains lost
all their grimness as a pale golden halo lighted up their tops;
drowsy nature seemed to awake with a smile, and looked like a rosy
infant does when, on opening its eyes, it sees its mother's beaming
face.
The two friends walked on. Uros spoke of the woman he loved, and
Milenko listened with a lover's sympathy.
Milenko walked with his friend for about two hours; then he bade Uros
good-bye, promising him to go at once to his mother and Milena, and
tell them how he was faring.
Uros began to climb up the rugged path leading towards Montenegro.
After a quarter of an hour, the two friends stopped, shouted "Ahoy!"
to each other, waved their hands and then resumed their walk. Towards
nightfall Uros reached the village where Zwillievic lived.
With a beating heart, sore feet and aching calves he trudged on
towards the house, which, as he hoped, was to be the goal of his
journey. As he pushed the door open he shuddered, thinking that
instead of his father he might happen to find Milena's husband.
The apartment into which he entered was a large and rather low room,
serving as a kitchen, a parlour, a dining and a sleeping room. It
was, in fact, the only room of the house. Its walls were cleanly
whitewashed; not a speck of dust could be seen anywhere, nor a cobweb
amidst the rafters in the ceiling. The inner part was used for
sleeping purposes, for against the walls on either side there were
two huge beds. By the beds, two boxes--one of plain deal, like the
chests used by sailors; the other, made of cypress-wood and quaintly
carved--contained the family linen. In the middle of the room stood a
rough, massive table, darkened and polished by daily use, and some
three-legged stools around it. The walls were decorated with the real
wealth of the family--weapons of every shape, age and kind. Short
guns, the butt ends of which were all inlaid with mother-of-pearl;
long carbines with silver incrustations; modern rifles and
fowling-pieces; swords, scimitars, daggers, yatagans; pistols and
blunderbusses with niello and filigree silver-work, gemmed like
jewels or church ornaments. These trophies were heirlooms of
centuries. Over one of the beds there was a silver- and gold-plated
Byzantine icon, over the other a hideous German print of St. George.
The Prince of Cappadocia, who was killing a grass-green dragon, wore
for the occasion a yellow mantle, a red doublet and blue tights.
Under each of these images there was a fount of holy water and a
little oil-lamp.
As Uros stepped in, Milena's mother, who was standing by the hearth,
preparing the supper, turned round to see who had just come in. She
looked at him, but as he evidently was a stranger to her, she came up
a step or two towards him.
"Good evening, _domacica_," for she was not only the lady of the
house, but the wife of the head of the family and the chief of the
clan, or tribe.
"Good evening, _gospod_," said she, hesitatingly.
"You do not know me, I think. I am a kind of cousin of yours, Uros
Bellacic."
"What, is it you, my boy? I might have known you by your likeness to
your mother; but when I saw you last you were only a little child,
and now you are quite a grown-up man," added she, looking at him with
motherly fondness. "Have you walked all the way from Budua?"
"Yes, I left home this morning."
"Then you must be tired. Come and sit down, my boy."
"I am rather tired; you see, we sailors are not accustomed to walk
much. But tell me first, have you seen my father? Is he staying with
you?"
"Yes, he came yesterday. He is out just now, but he'll soon be back
with Zwillievic. Sit down and rest," said she, "and let me give you
some water to wash, for you must be travel-sore and dusty."
As Uros sat down, she, after the Eastern fashion, bent to unlace his
_opanke_; but he, unaccustomed to be waited upon by women, would not
allow her to perform such a menial act for him.
He had hardly finished his ablutions when his father and the
_gospodar_ came in. Seeing his son, Bellacic stretched out his arms
and clasped him to his heart. Then they began talking about all that
had taken place since they had seen each other; and, supper being
served, Uros, while he ate with a good appetite, related all the
adventures of his seafaring life, and did his best to keep his father
amused. At the end of the meal, when everyone was in a good-humour,
the pipes being lit and the _raki_ brought forth, he told them how
Milenko had fallen in love with the girl who ought to have been his
bride, how she reciprocated his affection, and the many complications
that followed, until Giulianic swore, in great wrath, that he, Uros,
should never marry his daughter. Although this part of the story did
not amuse the father as much as it did the rest of the company, still
it was related with such graphic humour that he could not help
joining in the laughter.
On the morrow, Bellacic, wanting to have a quiet talk with his son,
proposed that they should go and see a little of the country, and,
perhaps, meet Radonic, who was said to be coming back from the
neighbourhood of Scutari.
As they walked on, Bellacic spoke of his lost vineyard, and of his
rashness in cutting off Vranic's ear; then he added:
"Remember, now that you are going back to Budua, you must promise me
that, as long as you are there, you'll not mix up in this stupid
_karvarina_ business. I know that I am asking much, for if we old men
are hasty, recommending you who are young and hot-headed to be cool
is like asking the fire not to burn, or the sun not to shine; still,
for your mother's sake and for mine, you'll keep aloof from those
reptiles of Vranics, will you not?"
Uros promised to do his best and obey.
"I'd have liked to see you married and settled in life," and Bellacic
cast a questioning glance at his son.
Uros looked down and twisted the ends of his short and crisp
moustache.
"It is true you are very young still; it is we--your mother and I
--who are getting old."
Uros continued to walk in silence by his father's side.
"If Ivanka is in love with your friend, and Giulianic is willing to
give her to him, I am not the man to make any objections. The only
thing I'd like to know is whether it is solely for Milenko's sake
that you acted as you did."
Uros tried to speak, but the words he would utter stuck in his
throat.
"Then it is as I thought," added Bellacic, seeing his son's
confusion; "you love some one else."
Uros looked up at his father for all reply.
"Answer me," said Bellacic, tenderly.
"Yes," said the young man, in a whisper.
"A young girl?"
"No."
"A married woman?" asked the father, lifting his brows with a look of
pain in his eyes.
"Yes."
"A relation of ours?"
"Yes."
"Milena?"
Uros nodded.
Just then, as they turned the corner of the road, they met a crowd of
men coming towards them; it was a band of blood-stained Montenegrins
returning from an encounter with the Turks. They were bearing a
wounded man upon a stretcher.
"Milena would have been the girl your mother and I might have chosen
for your bride; and, indeed, we have learnt to love her as a
daughter; but fate has decreed otherwise."
They now came up to the foremost man of the band.
"Who is wounded?" asked Bellacic of him.
"Radonic," answered he.
"Is the wound a bad one?"
"He is dying!" replied the Montenegrin, in a whisper.