THE FACE IN THE MIRROR
A few days after Radonic had been brought back dying, Uros was
walking down the mountain path leading from the heights of Montenegro
to the Dalmatian coast. He was even in higher spirits than he was
usually wont to be.
His father had accompanied him to the frontier, and on the way he had
opened his heart to him, and told him of his love for Milena, and
even obtained his consent for his marriage, which might take place as
soon as her widowhood was over. Bellacic, moreover, had promised to
write to his friend, Giulianic, to release him from his pledge.
The day, as it dawned now, was a glorious one, bright, clear and
fresh. After the storm and rain of the day before, the dark crags of
the Cernagora seemed but newly created, or only just arisen out of
the glittering waters that stretched down below in a translucent,
misty mass of sluggish streams flowing through a cloudy ocean.
The breeze that blew from the mountain-tops seemed to him like some
exhilarating, life-giving fluid. Exercise--not prolonged as yet
--rendered his senses of enjoyment keener; he felt happy with himself
and with the world at large. He was in one of those rare moods in
which a man would like the earth to be a human being, so as to clasp
it fondly to his breast, as he does a child, or the woman he loves.
Although he did not rejoice at Radonic's death, still, as he loved
Milena, it was natural that he was glad the obstacle to his happiness
had been removed, and a wave of joy seemed to rise from his heart
upwards as his nerves tingled with excitement at the thought that in
a few months she might be his wife.
Therefore, with his blithe and merry character, ever prone to look on
the bright side of life, it is easy to imagine his buoyancy of
spirits as he walked down to Budua. Every step was bringing him
nearer her; before the sun had reached its zenith he would be at
home, clasping her in his arms; she--Milena--would be his for ever,
and he crossed his arms and hugged himself in his excited state of
mind.
Then he began to imagine Milenko's delight when he would hear that
he, too, could marry the girl he loved.
It is not to be wondered at that he thought the earth a good
dwelling-place, and that life--taking it on the whole--was not only
worth living, but very pleasant besides. It is true, he said to
himself, that man sometimes mars the work of God with his passions;
still, _karvarinas_ were the clouds of life, enhancing the beauty of
the bright days which followed sudden showers. Sullen and malicious
men like Vranic and his brood were buzzing insects, more tedious than
harmful to their fellow-creatures.
Such were the thoughts that flitted through his mind as he walked
briskly along, singing as blithely as a lark. As he had, the day
before, sent word to Milenko that he would be back on the morrow, he
stopped at every turn of the road, and, shading his eyes with his
hand, he looked down the road, hoping to see his friend's graceful
figure coming to meet him, as was sure to be the case.
He had never been separated from Milenko for so many days, and now
that he was about to see him, his longing seemed to increase at every
step.
As for Milenko, being of a more sensitive character, and having
remained on board, he had missed his friend even more keenly than
Uros had done. He would have started to meet him at early dawn, but
he had been obliged to remain behind and look after the ship's cargo,
that had been delayed the evening before on account of some trifling
incident--for, sometimes, things of no importance in themselves lead
to the most dreadful calamities. Likewise, the string of one of
Milenko's shoes broke, so he stopped to tie it; after some steps it
broke again. He stopped once more, pulled off his shoe, unlaced it,
tied the string as well as he could. After a quarter of an hour the
string of the other shoe broke too; he had again to stop and mend it.
More than five minutes was thus lost; besides, the loose strings not
only made him linger, but even slacken his pace.
Uros went down singing snatches of some merry song, little thinking
that the delay in meeting his friend would almost cost him his life.
The news of Radonic's death had soon been spread about Budua, and he,
who had never been a favourite during his lifetime, became a hero
after death. The Samson-like way in which he had fought was extolled,
the number of wounds he had received, the hundreds of Turks he had
killed went on daily increasing. His dauntless courage, his bold
feats, his cunningness in council were becoming legendary; in fact,
he was for some time a second Marko Kraglievic. The Vranite party
--especially after the night of the burying-ground affair--had
dwindled into nothing. The Radonites ruled the day.
Earless Vranic, as he was called everywhere, was galled by his
defeat; his envious, jealous disposition could find no rest. Being,
moreover, doomed to a certain death, he found himself like a stag at
bay, and he almost felt at times the courage of despair.
The radiant day which followed the dreadful night when the vampire
appeared to him brought no change to Vranic's gloom. He was too much
like a night-bird now to feel any pleasure at the sight of the sunlit
sky. Like an owl he shunned the light, and only prowled about when
every man had shut himself up in his house. He dreaded the sight of a
human face on account of the scowl of hatred he was sure to see
there, for he knew that everyone looked upon him not as a man, but as
the bloodsucker he would soon become.
Having recovered from his fainting-fit after the visit of the
_voukoudlak_, he almost lost his senses again, seeing the black
dagger on the table in front of him. With a fluttering heart, and
aching head and tottering limbs, he walked about his room, asking
himself what he should do and how he could escape the wretchedness of
his present life. Suicide never came into his head, for, in spite of
all his misery, life still was dear to him. The best thing would,
perhaps, be to leave Budua for a short time, and thus frustrate the
vampire.
As he had to go and pay the priest for the ceremony of the exorcism,
he decided to ask, and perhaps take, his advice upon what he was to
do and where he should go. He went grudgingly, indeed, to pay a large
sum of money for a ceremony which had been of no avail, and although
it had not been the priest's fault if the ghost had not been killed,
still the money was being thrown away, for all that.
Before leaving the house, he took the black dagger, washed and
scrubbed it with fine sand to cleanse it from the offensive smell it
had, then he put it in his breast pocket, where he had had it some
nights before. With heavy steps he trudged towards the priest's house
at dawn, before the people of the town were up and about the streets.
The priest, who was an early riser, had just got up. Vranic, with
unwilling hands, undid the strings of his purse, and counted out,
with many a sigh, the sum agreed upon, for the priest would not bate
a single cent. Then Vranic, with his eyes gloating on the silver
dollars, told the clergyman how the vampire had appeared to him and
overcome him.
"Aye," said the priest, "I was afraid that would be the case."
"And now I'd like to leave the town, for I might thus avoid the
vampire."
"The best thing you could do."
"Yes, but where am I to go in order to escape the ghost?"
"I think the best place for you is the Convent of St. George. Surely
the spectre 'll not follow you there in those hallowed walls, amongst
all those saintly men."
"Yes, but will the brotherhood receive me?"
"Tell them that I sent you. Moreover, I'll call myself during the day
and speak to them. May I add that, perhaps, you'll be induced to turn
caloyer yourself some day or other. Meanwhile, a little charity to
the convent would render your stay more agreeable. You know the
brotherhood is poor."
Vranic thanked the priest, and promised to be guided by his advice;
still, he could not help thinking of all the money this new scheme
might cost him. It is true, if he turned friar, he might get rid of
the vampire, but would he not also lose all his money into the
bargain?
Which was the greater evil of the two--to be sucked of all his blood,
or drained of all his money?
Out of the town gate, far from the haunts and scowling faces of men,
he breathed a little more at ease. Were they not all a set of
grasping, covetous ghouls, whose only aim was to wrench all he had
from him? The dazzling sunshine and the dancing waves, far from
soothing him, only irritated him, for he fancied that all the world
was blithe, merry and happy, and he alone was miserable. He thought
how happy he, too, might have been had that cursed _karvarina_ not
taken place. He had never felt any deep hatred against Radonic, nor
had he any real reason for disliking him; for, to be true to himself,
his brother's murder had been an incident, not an accident, in his
life. It was not Radonic's fault if the ghost-seer had become a
vampire after his death. All his grudge was rather against Bellacic,
who had helped to frustrate him of a good round sum of money, owed to
him for his brother's blood. He hated him especially for having
inflicted a bodily and moral wound by cutting off his ear, rendering
him thus an object of everlasting scorn in the whole town.
Radonic was dead, but Bellacic lived to triumph over him. If he could
only wreak his vengeance upon him he might pacify the vampire's rage;
if not, he could always make his escape into the convent. With these
thoughts in his head, he clutched the handle of the dagger and, as he
did so, he shivered from head to foot with a kind of hellish delight.
Just then he fancied he heard a distant chuckle and looked round. He
could see nobody. It was only his imagination. Almost at the same
time he heard a voice whisper softly in his ear:
"Use this dagger against my enemies better than you did against me,
and then, perhaps, you might be free."
Was it his brother ordering him what he was to do? Instead of
stopping at the convent, should he go on to Montenegro, waylay
Bellacic and murder him?
He had been walking, or rather, crawling quietly on, for about two
hours; the sun was high up in the sky, the day was hot, the road
dusty, and, worn out by sleeplessness, by worry and, above all, by
the great loss of blood, he was now overcome by weariness and
weakness. The monastery was at last in sight; still, he felt as if he
could hardly crawl any further on; so, undecided as he was, he sat
down at the side of some laurel-bushes to rest and make up his mind
as to what he was to do.
He had not been sitting there a quarter of an hour, blinking at the
sun, like an owl, when he heard snatches of an unknown song, wafted
from afar. It was not one of the plaintive lays of his own country,
but a lively, blithe Italian canzonet, with trills that sounded like
the merry warbling of a lark. The singing stopped--it began again,
then stopped once more; after that he heard a light, brisk step
coming towards him. A man who could sing and walk in such a way must
surely be happy, he thought. Then, without knowing who the man was,
he hated him for being happy. Why should some people have all the
sweetness, and others all the gall of life? he asked himself. Is not
this world a fool's paradise for him and a dungeon for me? In my
wretchedness he seems to taunt me with his mirth. Well, if ever I
become a vampire, the first blood I'll suck is that man's; and I'll
drain the very last drop, for it must be warm and sweet.
Just then the light-hearted singer passed by the laurel-bushes,
without perceiving the owl-like man half hidden behind them. Vranic,
lifting up his head, saw the flushed face, the sparkling eyes, the
red and parted lips of his enemy's son--the youth who, by his beauty
and his criminal love, had been the cause of all the mischief. Had it
not been for him, his brother would probably not have been murdered,
and, what was far worse, become a _voukoudlak_. Instinctively he
clasped the handle of his dagger, and the words he had heard a little
while before rang once more in his ears, urging him to make good use
of the knife now that an opportunity offered itself. Besides, would
not his revenge be a far keener one in killing this young man, his
father's only son, than in murdering Bellacic himself? This was real
_karvarina_, and his lost ear would be dearly paid for.
Uplifted by a strength which was not his own, urged on almost
unconsciously, Vranic jumped up and ran after the merry youth.
Uros just at that moment had perceived Milenko at a distance, and,
hurrying down to meet him, he, in his joy, had not heard the fiend
spring like a tiger from behind the bush and rush at him with
uplifted knife.
Milenko, seeing Vranic appear all at once, with a dagger in his hand,
stopped, uplifted both his hands, and uttered a loud cry of terror,
threat and anger.
Uros, for an instant, could not understand what was happening; but
hearing someone running after him, and already close to his heels, he
turned round, and to his horror he saw Josko Vranic scowling at him.
The face, with its blinking eyes and all its nerves twitching
frightfully, had a fierce and fiendish expression--it was, in fact,
just as he had seen it in the glass on New Year's Eve, at the fatal
stroke of twelve.
A moment of overpowering superstitious terror came over Uros; he knew
that his last hour had arrived. In his distracted state, Uros had
only time to lift up his arm in an attitude of self-defence, but
Vranic was already upon him, plunging the sharp-pointed blade in his
breast. The youth uttered a low, muffled groan, staggered, put his
hands instinctively to the deep gash, as if to stop the blood from
all rushing out; then he fell senseless on the ground.
Vranic plucked the poniard out of the wound mechanically; his arm
fell heavily of its own weight. Then, struck with a sudden terror,
not because he saw Milenko rushing up, but because he was bewildered
at what he had so rashly done, he, after standing quite still for a
moment, turned round and fled.
Milenko had already rushed to his friend's side; he was clasping him
in his arms, lifting him up with the tender fondness of a mother
nursing a sickly babe. Alas! all his loving care seemed vain; the
point of the dagger must have entered within his heart, and death had
been instantaneous.
Milenko did not lose his presence of mind for an instant; nor did he
try to run after the murderer. He took off his broad sash which he
wore as a belt, tore up his shirt, rolled a smooth stone in the rag,
and with this pad (to stop up the blood) he bandaged up the wound as
tightly as he possibly could. Then he took up his friend in his arms,
and although Uros was a heavier weight than himself, still his life
of a sailor had strengthened his muscles to such a degree that he
carried his burden, if not with ease, at least, not with too great
difficulty, down to the neighbouring convent.
It was well known in town that some of the holy men were versed in
medicine, and especially that the secret of composing salves, and the
knowledge of simples with which to heal deadly wounds, was
transmitted by one friar on his death-bed to another. Still, when
Milenko had laid down his friend upon a bed, the wisest of these wise
men shook their heads gravely and declared the case to be a desperate
one. The head surgeon said that, if life were not already extinct--as
Milenko had believed--still the youth's recovery could only be
brought about by a miracle, for he was already beyond all human help.
Milenko felt his legs giving way. A cold, damp draught seemed to blow
on his face.
"He might," continued the old man, "last some hours; he might even
linger on for some days."
"Anyhow," added another caloyer, "we have time to administer the Holy
Sacrament and prepare him for heaven."
"Oh, yes! there is time for that," quoth the doctor, shrugging his
shoulders; "but, before the wine and bread, I'll prepare the
cathartic water with which to wash the wound, for while there is life
a doctor must not give up hope."
"Then," said Milenko, falteringly, "I can leave him to your care, and
run and fetch his mother; he'll not pass away till my return?"
"Not if you make every possible haste."
"You promise?"
"He is in God's hands, my son."
With a heavy heart, and with the tears ever trickling down his
cheeks, Milenko ran down the mountain, and all the way from the
convent to the gates of Budua. He stopped to take breath before
Bellacic's house, and then he went in, and, composing his face as
well as he could, he gently broke the terrible news to the forlorn
mother.
Mara was a most courageous woman. Far from fainting and requiring all
attendance upon herself, she bethought herself at once of the
difficulty in the way, for she knew that no women were admitted into
a convent of monks. One person alone might help her. This was her
uncle, a priest of high degree, and a most important personage in the
town.
She hastened to his house, and, having explained matters to him, she
implored him to start at once with her for the Convent of St. George
and obtain for her the permission she required. The good man,
although he hated walking, was not only very fond of his niece, but
loved Uros as his own son, so he acceded at once to her request and
set out with her, notwithstanding that it was nearly dinner-time, and
not exactly an hour suited for a long up-hill walk. Milenko, having
broken the news to Mara, hastened to his own house to inform his
parents of the great misfortune. His father, snatching up a loaf of
bread and a gourd of wine, started at once with him. He would go as
far as the convent, enquire there how Uros was getting on, and then
hasten on to Montenegro and inform Bellacic of what had taken place.
When they all got to the convent they found that Uros was still alive
and always unconscious.
Just when Milenko had got back to the convent he remembered that, in
his hurry to go and return, he had forgotten one person, dearer to
his friend, perhaps, even than father or mother; that person was
Milena.
When the news of Radonic's death reached Budua, Milena made up her
mind to return to her father's house. Still, she was rather weak to
undertake the journey, and, moreover, she would not go there until
Uros had come back.
On the morning on which Uros was expected she had gone to her own
house, to put things in order previous to her departure, and Mara had
promised to come and see her that afternoon, and take her home with
her.
Time passed; Milena was sitting in her house alone, waiting for her
friend. At every step she heard outside, her heart would begin to
beat faster, and with unsteady steps she would go to the window,
hoping to see Uros and his mother; but she was always disappointed.
Her sufferings had told their tale upon her thin pale face, which,
though it had lost all its freshness, had acquired a new and more
ethereal kind of beauty. Her large and lustrous eyes--staring at
vacancy--seemed to be gazing at some woful, soul-absorbing vision.
The whole of that day she had been a prey to the most gloomy
forebodings.
All at once a little urchin of about four or five summers stood on
the doorstep.
"_Gospa_ Milena," lisped the little child, "I've come to see you."
It had been a daring deed to wander all the way from home by
himself, and he was rather frightened.
This child was the son of one of Mara's neighbours, whom Milena had
of late made a pet of, and whom she had sometimes taken along with
her when coming to her house.
Milena turned round and looked at the little child, that might well
have been taken for an angel just alighted from heaven, for the
slanting rays of the setting sun shining through his fair,
dishevelled, curly locks seemed to form a kind of halo round his
little head.
"Have you come all the way from home to see me?"
"Yes," said the child, staring at her to see whether she was cross.
"I've come for you to tell me a story."
Milena caught up the boy and covered him with kisses. She was about
to ask him if he knew whether Uros had returned, but the question
lingered for an instant on her lips; then she blushed, and feared to
frame her thoughts in words. Anyhow, it was a very good excuse to
shut up her house and take the little boy back home.
"Will you tell me a story?" persisted the urchin.
"Yes," said Milena, smiling, "for you must be tired and hungry, too."
She went into the orchard behind the house, and presently came back
with a huge peach, which made the child's eyes glisten with pleasure.
"Now, come and sit down here, and when you've finished your peach
I'll take you home."
Thereupon she sat down on her favourite seat, the doorstep, and the
child nestled by her side.
"What story shall I tell you?"
"One you've already told me," replied the boy, for, like almost all
children, he liked best the stories he already knew.
Milena then began the oft-repeated tale of
THE MAN WHO SERVED THE DEVIL.
"Once a farmer's only son married a very young girl----"
"How old was she?" interrupted the child.
"She was sixteen."
"Last time you told me she was fifteen."
"So she was, but that was a year ago. They had a very grand wedding,
to which all the people of the village were invited----"
"Not the village, the town," said the child.
"You are right," added Milena, correcting herself.
"For eight days they danced the _Kolo_ every night, and had grand
dinners and suppers."
"What had they for dinner?"
"They had roast lambs, _castradina_, chickens, geese----"
"And also sausages?"
"Yes; and ever so many other good things."
"But what had they for supper?"
"They had huge loaves of milk-bread and cakes with raisins----"
"Had they also peaches?" asked the boy, with his mouth full, whilst
the juice of his own luscious peach was trickling down his chin.
"Yes; they had also grapes, melons and pomegranates; so when every
guest had eaten till he could hardly stand, all squatted on the floor
and sucked sticks of sugar-candy. When the eight days' feasting was
over, the bridegroom weighed himself and, to his dismay, found that
he was eight pounds lighter than on the eve of his marriage."
"Why?" asked the child, with widely-opened eyes.
"Because," answered Milena, with a slight smile and the faintest of
blushes, "because, I suppose, he had danced too much."
"But if he ate till he couldn't stand?"
"Anyhow," continued Milena, "he was so frightened when he saw how
much he had lost in weight that he made up his mind to run away and
leave his wife at home."
"But why?" quoth the urchin.
"Because he thought that if he kept getting thin at that rate,
nothing would soon be left of him. He, therefore, made a bundle of
his clothes and went off in the middle of the night. He walked and
walked, and after a few days, at early dawn, he got to a bleak and
desolate country, where there was nothing but huge rocks, sharp
flints, and sandy tracts of ground. Far off he saw a large castle,
with high stone walls and big iron gates. Being very tired and not
seeing either a tree or a bush as far as eye could reach, he went
and knocked at one of the gates. An elderly gentleman, dressed in
black, came to open, and asked him what he wanted.
"'I come,' said the bridegroom, 'to see if you are, perhaps, in want
of a serving-man.'
"'You come in the nick of time,' said the old man, grinning. 'I'll
take you as my cook; you'll not have much to do.'
"'But,' answered the young man, 'I'm not very clever as a cook.'
"'It doesn't matter; you'll only have to keep a pot boiling and be
ever stirring what's in it.'
"He then led the young man into a kind of underground kitchen, where
there was an immense pot hanging on a hook, and underneath a roaring
fire was burning. Then the old gentleman gave the youth a ladle as
big as a shovel, and bade him stir continually, and every now and
then add more fuel to the fire.
"The youth stirred on and on for twenty-five years, and then he grew
tired and stopped for a while. When he was about to begin again he
heard a voice coming out of the cauldron, which said:
"'You've been mixing us up for a good long while; couldn't you let us
have a little rest?'
"The cook--who was no more a youth, but an elderly man--got
frightened. He left the kitchen and went to find his master.
"'Well,' said the elderly gentleman, who was not a day older than he
had been twenty-five years before, 'what is it you want?'
"'I'm rather tired of always stirring that pot, and I'd like to go
home.'
"'Quite right,' replied the master. 'I suppose you want your wages?'
"He then went to an iron box and took out two big sacks of gold
coins.
"'You have served me faithfully, and I'll pay you accordingly. This
money is yours.'
"The man took the money and thanked his master.
"'I'll give you, moreover, some advice, which is, perhaps, worth more
than the money itself. Listen to my words, and remember them. Upon
leaving me, always take the high road; on no account go through lanes
and byways. Never put up for the night at little hostelries, but
always stop at the largest inns. Whenever you are about to commit
some rash act, defer your purpose till the morrow. Lastly, when
people speak badly of the devil, tell them that he is less black than
he is painted.'
"The man thanked his master and went off. He walked for some time on
the highway, and then he met another traveller, who was walking in
the same direction. After a few hours they came to a crossway.
"'Let us take this path, for we'll get to the next town two hours
sooner,' said the traveller.
"The devil's cook was about to follow the stranger's advice, when he
heard his master's words ringing in his ears: 'Always take the high
road, and on no account go through lanes and byways.'
"He, therefore, told his fellow-traveller how he had pledged his word
to his master to follow his advice. As neither could persuade the
other, they parted company, promising each other to meet again at
nightfall, at the neighbouring town.
"As soon as the devil's cook reached the inn where he was to spend
the night, he asked for his new friend, and, on the morrow, he was
grieved to hear that a wayfarer, answering to the traveller's
description, had been murdered the day before, when crossing the
lonely byway leading to the town.
"The devil's cook set out once more on his way, and he was soon
overtaken by a party of merry pedlars, all journeying towards his
native town, where, a few days afterwards, there was to be a fair
held in honour of a patron saint. He made friends with all of them,
especially as he bought silk kerchiefs, dresses and trinkets, as
presents for his wife. They trudged along the high road, avoiding all
short cuts, lanes and byways. In the evening they came to a large
village, where they were to pass the night.
"'Let us stop here,' said one of the party, pointing to a tavern by
the roadside; 'I know the landlord; the cooking is very good, nowhere
can you get a better glass of wine; and besides, it is much cheaper
than at the large inn farther down.'
"The devil's cook was already on the threshold, when he again
remembered his master's words:
"'Never put up at little hostelries, but always stop at the larger
inns.'
"He, therefore, parted from his company, and went off by himself to
the next inn.
"He had his supper by himself, and then, being very tired, he went
off to bed. In the middle of the night he was awakened by a very loud
noise and a great bustle. He got out of bed, and, going to the
window, he saw the sky all red, and the village seemed to be in
flames. He went downstairs, and he was told that the little tavern by
the roadside was burning. It appears that the travellers who had
stopped there had all got drunk. Somehow or other they had set fire
to the house, and, in their sleep, had all got burnt.
"The devil's cook was again grateful to his master for his good
advice, and on the morrow he once more set out on his way alone.
"In the evening he at last reached his native town. He was surprised
at the many changes that had taken place since he had left it
twenty-five years before. On the square, just in front of his own
house, a large inn had been built; therefore, instead of going at
once to his wife's, he went to pass the night at the inn, and see
what was taking place at home.
"From the windows of the inn he saw all his house illuminated, and
people coming in and going out as if some wedding or other grand
feast were taking place. Then, in one of the rooms of the first floor
he saw his wife--now a buxom matron--together with two handsome
youths in priest's attire. To his horror and dismay, he saw her
hugging and fondling the young men, who were covering her with
kisses. At this sight he got into such a rage that he took out his
pistol."
"No," said the child, interrupting, "he took up his gun, which was in
a corner of the room."
"Quite right," answered Milena; "he took up his gun, aimed at his
wife, and was about to shoot, when he fancied he heard his master's
voice saying:
"'Whenever you are about to commit some rash act, put off your
purpose till the morrow.'
"He, therefore, thought he would postpone his revenge till the next
day, and he went downstairs to have his supper.
"'Who lives opposite,' he asked of the landlord, 'in that house where
they seem to be having such grand doings?'
"'A very virtuous woman,' quoth the host, 'whose husband disappeared
in a strange, mysterious way on the eighth day of the wedding feast,
and has never been heard of since.'
"'And she never married again?'
"'No, of course not.'
"'But who are those two handsome priests that are with her?'
"'Those are her two boys, twins born shortly after the marriage. The
house is illuminated as to-morrow the two young men are to be
consecrated priests, and their mother is giving a feast in their
honour.'
"On the morrow the husband went home, made himself known, presented
each of his two sons with a sack of gold coins, gave his wife all the
beautiful presents he had bought for her; then he went to church and
assisted at the ceremony of the consecration. After that he gave all
his old friends a splendid feast, which lasted eight days; and he
told them how, for twenty-five years, he had served the devil, who
was by no means as black as he is painted."
"I wonder," said the child, "if he got thin again after the feast."
"I don't know," replied Milena, "for the story stops there."
"No, it doesn't, for my papa said that many people tried to go and
offer themselves as cooks to the devil, but that they had never been
heard of since then."
"And now I'll take you home. Perhaps we'll meet _gospa_ Mara on our
way."
"No, we'll not meet her," said the child, abruptly.
"Why? Because Uros has come home?"
"But Uros hasn't come home."
"How do you know?"
"I know, because _Capitan_ Milenko came this morning and told _gospa_
Mara that Josko Vranic had killed Uros, and so she went off at once
to the Convent of St. George, where----"
Milena heard no more. A deadly faintness came over her; she loosened
the grasp of the door she had clutched, her legs sank under her, and
she fell lifeless on the ground.
The urchin looked at her astonished. He, for a moment, gave up
sucking his peach-stone; then he turned on his heels and scampered
home to inform his mother about what had happened.