CHAPTER IX
THE HAYDUK
On the morning of the murder Vranic accompanied Radonic out of the town. He had told Milena he would do so. On reaching the gate fronting the open country and the dark mountains, Radonic stopped, and wished his friend Good-bye. The seer insisted upon walking a little way out of town with him.
"No, thank you; go back. The weather is threatening, and we'll soon have rain."
"Well, what does it matter? If you don't melt, no more shall I," and he laughed at his would-be witticism.
"The roads are bad, and you are no great walker."
Vranic, however, insisted.
Thus they went on together, through vineyards and olive-groves, until they got in sight of the white-walled convent. There Radonic tried once more to get rid of his friend. At last they reached the foot of the rocky mountain, usually fragrant with sage and thyme. Having got to the flinty, winding path leading to the fort of Kosmac:
"Now," said Radonic, "you must positively come no farther."
The road was uneven and very steep. Vranic yielded.
"Go back, and take care of Milena."
"Well, I do not say it as a boast, but you could not leave her in better hands."
"She is young, and, like all women—well, she has long hair and short brains. Look after her."
"Vranic has his eyes open, and will keep good watch."
"I know I can rely on you. Have we not always been friends, we two?
That is why, whenever I left my home, I did so with a light heart."
"Your honour is as dear to me as if it were my own."
"It is only in times of need that we really appreciate the advantage of having a friend. The proverb is right: 'Let thy trusted friend be as a brother to you'; and a friend to whom we can entrust our wife, is even more than a brother. I therefore hope to be able to repay you soon for your kindness."
"Don't mention it. It has been a pleasure for me to be of use to you; for, as honey attracts flies, a handsome young woman collects men around her. So there must always be someone to ward off indiscreet admirers. Moreover, as you know, they say I am a seer, and they are afraid of me."
At last they kissed and parted; the one walking quickly townwards, almost light-hearted, especially after the load of his friend's company, the other trudging heavily upwards.
After a few steps, Radonic climbed a high rock, and sat down to watch Vranic retracing his steps townwards. When he had seen him disappear, he at last rose and quietly followed him for a while. A quarter of an hour afterwards he was knocking at the gate of the white-walled convent. The monks, who are always fond of any break in their monotonous life, received him almost with deference—a sea captain, who had been all over the world, was always a welcome guest. After taking snuff with all of them, and chatting about politics, the crops and the scandal of the town, Radonic asked to be confessed; then he gave alms, was absolved of his peccadilloes, and finally took the Eucharist—a spoonful of bread soaked in wine—although he prided himself on being something of a sceptic. Still, he felt comforted thereby; he had blotted out all past sins and could now begin a new score. Religion, they say, in all its forms always tends to make man happy—aye, and better!
In this merry frame of mind he sat down to dinner with the jolly brotherhood, and after a copious but plain meal, he, according to the custom of this holy house, retired to one of the cells appointed to strangers, to have a nap. No sooner was he alone than he undid his bundle, took out a razor and shaved off all the hair of his cheeks and chin, leaving only a long pair of thick moustaches, which he curled upwards according to the fierce fashion of the Kotor. This done, he took off his soiled, ugly, badly-fitting European clothes and put on the dress of the country—one of the finest and manliest devised by man; so that, although not good-looking, he was handsome to what he had just been.
The monks, on seeing him come out, did not recognise him, and could not understand from whence he had sprung. Then they were more than astonished when they found out the reason for this transformation, for he told them that it was to surprise his wife, or rather, the moths attracted by her sparkling eyes.
"I thought I should never put on again the clothes of my youth, but fate, it appears, has decreed otherwise."
"Man is made of dust, and to dust he returneth. Sooner or later we have to become again what we once were. You know the story of the mouse, don't you?"
"No; or at least I don't think I do."
"Then listen, and I'll tell it you."
A great many years ago, in the times of Christ and His disciples, there lived somewhere in Asia a very good man, who had left off worshipping idols and had become a Christian.
Finding soon afterwards that it was impossible for him to dwell any more with his own people—who scoffed at his new creed, rated him for wishing to be better than they were, mocked him when he prayed, and played all kinds of tricks on him when he fasted—he sold his birthright and divided all his money amongst the poor, the blind and the cripples of his native town. Then he bade farewell to all his friends and relations, and with the Holy Scriptures in one hand, and a staff in the other, he went out of the town gate and walked into the wilderness.
He wandered for many days until he arrived on top of a steep, treeless, wind-blown hill, and, almost on the summit, he found a small cave, the ground of which was strewn with fine white sand, as soft to the feet as a velvet carpet. On one side of this grotto there was a fountain of icy cold water, and on the other, hewn in the rock as if by the hand of man, a kind of long niche, which looked as if it had been made on purpose for a bed. The Christian, who had decided to become a hermit, saw in this cave a sign of God's will and favour; therefore, he stopped there. For some time he lived on the roots of plants, berries and wild fruit, that grew at the foot of the hill; then he cultivated a patch of ground, and so he passed his time, praying, reading his holy Book, meditating over it, or tilling his bit of glebe.
Years and years passed—who knows how many?—and he had become an old man, with a long white beard reaching down to his knees, a brown, sun-burnt skin, and a face furrowed with wrinkles. Since the day he had left his country, he had never again seen a man, a woman or a child, nor, indeed, any other animal, except a few birds that flew over his head, or some small snakes that glided amongst the stones. So one evening, after he had said his lengthy prayers and committed his soul to God, he went to lie down on his couch of leaves and moss; but he could not sleep. He, for the first time, felt lonely, and, as it were, home-sick. He knew he would never behold again the face of any man, so he almost wished he had, at least, some tiny living creature to cherish. Sleep at last closed his eyes. In the morning, on awaking, he saw a little mouse frisking in the sand of his cave. The old hermit looked astonished at the pretty little thing, and he durst not move, but remained as quiet as a mouse, for fear the mouse would run away.
The animal, however, caught sight of him, and stood stock-still on its hind legs, looking at him. Thus they both remained for some seconds, staring at each other. Then the hermit understood at last that God, in His goodness, had heard his wish, and had sent him this little mouse to comfort him, and be a companion to him in his old age. And so it was.
Days, months, years passed, and the mouse never left the hermit, not even for a single instant; and the godly man grew always fonder of this friendly little beast. He played with it, patted it, and called it pet names; and at night, when he crept into his niche to sleep, he took the mouse with him.
One night, as he pressed the little animal to his breast, he felt his heart overflow with love for it, and in his unutterable fondness he begged the Almighty to change this dear little mouse into a girl; and lo, and behold! God granted his prayer, for, of course, he was a saintly man. The hermit pressed the girl to his heart, and then fell upon his knees and thanked the All-Merciful for His great goodness.
The girl grew up a beautiful maiden—tall, slender, and most graceful in her movements, with a soft skin, and twinkling, almost mischievous eyes.
Years passed. The hermit now had grown to be a very old man; and in his last years his spirit was troubled, and his heart was full of care. He knew that he had passed the time allotted to man here below, and he was loth to think that he would have to die and leave his daughter alone in the wilderness. Besides, she had reached marriageable age; and if it is no easy matter for a match-making mother to marry her daughter in a populous town, it was a difficult task to find a husband for her in that desert. Moreover, he did not exactly know how to broach the subject of matrimony to a girl who was so very ingenuous, and who thought that all the world was limited to the cave and the hill on which she lived. Still, he did not shrink from this duty; and, therefore, he told her what he had read in scientific books about the conjunctions of planets in the sky. Then he quoted the Scriptures, and said that it was not good for man to be alone, nor for woman either; that even widows should marry, if they cannot live in the holy state of celibacy.
The poor girl did not quite fathom all the depths of his speech, but said she would be guided by his wisdom.
"Very well," said the anchorite, "I shall soon find you a husband worthy of you."
"But," said the girl, ingenuously, "why do you not marry me yourself?"
"I marry you? First, my dear, I am a hermit, and hermits never marry, for if they did, they might have a family, then—you understand—they wouldn't be hermits any more, would they?"
"But they needn't have a family, need they?"
"Well, perhaps not; besides, I can't marry you, because——"
"Because?"
"I," stammered the anchorite, blushing, "I'm too old."
"Ah, yes!" echoed the maid, sighing; "it's a fact, you are very old."
That night, after the hermit and his adopted daughter had said their prayers, she, who was very sleepy, went off to bed, whilst he, who was as perplexed as any father having a dowerless daughter, went out of his cavern to meditate.
The full moon had just risen above the verge of the horizon, and her soft light silvered the sand of the desert, and made it look like newly fallen snow.
The old man stood on top of the hill, and stretching forth his arms to the Moon:
"Oh! thou mightiest of God's works, lovely Moon, take pity upon a perplexed father, and listen to my prayer. I have one fair daughter that has now reached marriageable age; she is of radiant beauty, and well versed in all the mysteries of our holy religion. Marry my daughter, O Moon!"
"Now," said Radonic, interrupting, "that's foolish; how could the old hermit expect the Moon to marry his daughter?"
"First, this is a parable, like one of those our blessed Saviour used to tell the people; therefore, being a parable, it's Gospel, and you must believe it as a true story, for it is the life of one of the holy Fathers of the Church."
"I see," quoth Radonic, although he did not see quite clearly.
Then the Moon replied:
"You are mistaken, old man; I am not the mightiest of God's creation. The Sun, whose light I reflect, is the greatest of the Omnipotent's works; ask the Sun to be a husband to thy daughter."
The hermit sank on his knees and uttered lengthy prayers, till the light of the Moon grew pale and vanished, and the sky got to be of a saffron tint; soon afterwards, the first rays of the Sun flooded the desert, and transmuted the sandy plain into one mass of glittering gold. When the old man saw the effulgent disc of the Sun, he stretched out his arms and apostrophised this planet as he had done the Moon. Then he rubbed his hands and thought:
"Well, if I only get the Sun for my son-in-law I'm a lucky man."
But the Morning Sun told the hermit that he was mistaken:
"I'm not the mightiest of the Creator's works," quoth the Sun. "You see yon cloudlet yonder. Well, soon that little weasel will get to be as big as a camel, then as a whale, then it'll spread all over the sky and will hide my face from the earth I love so well. That Cloud is mightier than I am."
Then the hermit waited on top of the hill until he saw the Cloud expand itself in the most fantastic shapes, and when it had covered up the face of the Morning Sun, the hermit stretched out his hands and offered to it his daughter in marriage. The Cloud, however, answered just as the Moon and the Sun had done, and it proposed the Simoon as a suitor to his daughter.
"Wait a bit," said the Cloud, "and you will see the might of the Simoon, that, howling, rises and not only drives us whithersoever he will, but scatters us in the four corners of the Earth."
No sooner had the Cloud done speaking than the Wind arose, lifting up clouds of dust from the earth. It seemed to cast the sand upwards in the face of the sky, and against the clouds; and the waters above dropped down in big tears, or fled from the wrath of the Wind.
Then the hermit stretched his hands towards the Simoon, and begged him, as the mightiest of the Creator's works, to marry his daughter.
But the Wind, howling, told him to turn his eyes towards a high mountain, the snowy summit of which was faintly seen far off in the distance. "That Mountain," said he, "is mightier by far than myself."
The hermit then went into the cavern and told his daughter that, as it was impossible to find a suitor for her in the desert, he was going on a journey, from which he would only return on the morrow.
"And will you bring me a husband when you come back?" she asked, merrily.
"I trust so, with God's grace," quoth the Hermit, "and one well worthy of you, my beloved daughter."
Then the hermit girded his loins, took up his staff, and journeyed in the direction of the setting sun. Having reached the foot of the Mountain when the gloaming tinged its flanks in blood, he stretched out his arms up to the summit of the Mount and begged it to marry his daughter.
"Alas," answered the Mountain, mournfully, "you are much mistaken. I am by no means the mightiest of God's works. A Rat that has burrowed a big hole at my feet is mightier by far than I am, for he nibbles and bites me and burrows in my bowels, and I can do nothing against it. Ask the Rat to marry thy daughter, for he is mightier by far than I am."
The hermit, after much ado, found out the Rat's hole, and likewise the Rat, who—like himself—was a hermit.
"Oh, mightiest of God's mighty works! I have one daughter, passing fair, highly accomplished, and well versed in sacred lore; wilt thou—unless thou art already married—take this rare maiden as thy lawful wedded wife?"
"Hitherto, I have never contemplated marriage," retorted the Rat, "for 'sufficient to the day are the evils thereof'; still, where is your daughter?"
"She is at home, in the wilderness."
"Well, you can't expect me to marry a cat in a bag, can you?" he answered, squeaking snappishly.
"Oh, certainly not!" replied the anchorite, humbly; "still, that she is fair, you have my word on it; and I was a judge of beauty in past times"—thereupon he stopped, and humbly crossed himself—"that she is wise—well, she is my daughter."
"Pooh!" said the Rat; "every father thinks his child the fairest one on earth; you know the story of the owl, don't you?"
"I do," retorted the hermit, hastily.
"Then you wouldn't like me to tell it you, would you?"
"No, not I."
"Well, then, what about your daughter?"
"I'll take you to see her, if you like."
"Is it far?"
"A good day's walk."
"H'm, I don't think it's worth while going so far. Could you not bring her here for me to see her?"
"Oh! it's against etiquette. But if you like, I'll carry you to her."
"All right, it's a bargain."
At nightfall they set out on their journey, and they got to the cave early on the following day.
The young girl, seeing the hermit, ran down the hill to meet him.
"Well, father," said she, with glistening eyes, flushed cheeks, parted lips, and panting breast, "and my husband, where is my husband?"
"Here," said the anchorite; and he took the Rat out of his wallet. "Here he is; allow me to introduce to you a husband mightier than the Moon, more powerful than the Sun, stronger than the Clouds, more valiant than the Simoon, greater than the high Mountain; in fact, a husband well worthy of you, my daughter."
The eyes of the young girl opened wider and wider in mute astonishment.
"He's a fine specimen of his kind, isn't he?"
"I daresay he is," said she, surveying him with the eye of a connoisseur; "and cooked in honey, he'd be a dainty bit."
"And he's a hermit, into the bargain."
"But," added the girl, ruefully, "if you intended me to marry a rat, was it not quite useless to have turned me into a woman?"
The hermit stroked his beard, pensively, for a while, and was apparently lost in deep meditation.
"My daughter," replied he, after a lengthy pause, "your words are Gospel; I have never thought of all this till now; you see clearly that 'the ways of Providence are not our ways.'"
Thereupon, the old man fell on his knees, for he felt himself rebuked; he prayed long and earnestly that his daughter might once more be changed into a mouse. And, lo and behold! his prayer was granted; nay, before he had got up from his knees and looked around, the girl had dwindled into her former shape, evidently well pleased with the change.
Anyhow, the anchorite was comforted in his loneliness, for he had always meant well towards her; moreover, he felt sure that if the newly-married couple ever had children, the little mice would be so well brought up, that they would scrupulously refrain from eating lard on fast days.
Then the hermit, tired with his journey, went and lay down on his bed of moss, dropped off to sleep, and never woke again on earth.
At dusk, Radonic took leave of the learned and hospitable kaludgeri, and went back to town. He reached the gate when the shadows of the night had already fallen upon the earth. Although he fancied that everyone he met stared at him, still many of his acquaintances passed close by him without recognising him.
At last he crossed the whole of the town and got to his house. The door being slightly ajar, he thought Milena must be at home. He glided in on tiptoe, his opanke hardly making the slightest noise on the stone floor. There was no fire on the hearth, no light to be seen anywhere. Milena was not in the front room, nor in any of the others. Where could she have gone, and left the front door open? Surely she would be back in a few moments? He crouched in a corner and waited, but Milena did not make her appearance.
As it was quite dark, he groped to the cupboard, found the loaf, cut himself a slice, then managed to lay his hand on the cheese. As he ate, he almost felt like a burglar in his own house. The darkness really unnerved him, and yet he was inured to watch in the night on board his ship; now, however, the hand of Time seemed to have stopped.
The bread was more than tough, the cheese was dry; so he could hardly manage to gulp the morsels down. Unable to find the bukara, he went into the cellar and took a long draught of heady wine.
Returning upstairs, he again crouched in a corner. Milena had not come back; evidently, she had gone to Mara's, as he had told her to. Sitting there in the darkness, watching and waiting, with the purpose of blood on his mind, time hung wearily upon him. The wine had somewhat cheered him, but now drowsiness overpowered him. To keep himself from falling asleep, he tried to think. Though he was not gifted with a glowing imagination, still his mind was full of fancies, and one vision succeeded another in his overheated brain. His past life now began to flit before his eyes like scenes in a peep-show. A succession of ghosts arose from amidst the darkness and threatened him. One amongst them made him shudder. It was that of a beautiful young woman of eighteen summers standing on the seashore, waiting for a sail.
Many years ago, when he was only a simple sailor, he had been wrecked on the coasts of Sicily. A poor widow had given him shelter, and in return for her kindness, what had he done? This woman had three daughters; the eldest was a beautiful girl of eighteen, the other two were mere children. For months these poor creatures toiled for him and fed him. Then he married the girl under a false name with the papers belonging to one of the drowned sailors. Although he had married her against his will—for she was a Catholic and did not belong to the Orthodox faith—still he intended doing what was right—bring her to his country, and re-marry her according to the rites of his own Church. But time passed; so he confessed, gave alms to the convent, obtained the absolution, and was almost at peace with himself. Probably, she had come to the conclusion that he had been swallowed up by the hungry waves, and she had married a man of her own country; so his child had a father. Still, since his marriage, the vision of that woman often haunted him.
Anyhow, he added bitterly to himself, although a Catholic, she had loved him. Milena, a true believer, had never cared for him. And now he remembered the first time he had seen Milena; how smitten he had been by her beauty, how her large eyes had flashed upon him with a dark and haughty look. She had disliked him from the first, but what had he cared when he had got her father into his hands? for when the proud Montenegrin owed him a sum which he could not pay at once, he had asked him for the hand of his daughter.
Instead of trying to win her love, he had ill-treated her from the very beginning; then, seeing that nothing could daunt her, he had often feared lest he should find his house empty on returning home.
All at once the thought struck him that now she had run away with Vranic. She had, perhaps, confided the whole truth to him, and they had escaped together. He ground his teeth with rage at that thought.
No, such a thing could not be, for she hated Vranic.
"Aye, it is true she hates him, but does she not hate me as much?" he said to himself; "fool that I was not to have thought of this before. Vranic is not handsome; no one can abide him. Still, he clings to women in a way that it is almost impossible to get rid of him. Anyhow, if they have gone away together, I swear by the blessed Virgin, by St. Nicholas, and by St. Cyril and Method that I shall overtake them; nay," said he, with a fearful oath, "even if they have taken refuge in God's own stomach, I shall go and drag them out and take vengeance on them, as a true Slav that I am. Still, in the meantime, they have, perhaps, fooled me, and I am here waiting for them." And, in his rage, he struck his head against the wall.
"Trust a woman!" thought Radonic; "they are as skittish as cats, slippery as eels, as false as sleeping waters. Why, my own mother cheated me of many a penny, only for the pleasure of hoarding them, and then leaving them to me after her death. Trust a woman as far as you can see her, but no farther," and then he added: "Yes, and trust thy friend, which is like going to pat a rabid dog.—What o'clock is it?" he asked himself.
He was always accustomed to tell the time of the day to a minute, without needing a watch, but now he had lost his reckoning.
It was about six o'clock when he came back home; was it nine or ten now?
He durst not strike a light, for fear of being seen from without and spoiling his little game. He waited a little more.
The threatening shadows of the past gathered once more around him.
All at once he heard some words whispered audibly. It was the curse of the boy he had crippled for life. He shuddered with fear. In his auto-suggestion he, for a moment, actually fancied he had heard those words. Then he shrugged his shoulders, and tried to think of pleasanter subjects.
A curse is but a few idle words; still, since that time, not a decent seaman had ever sailed with him.
He could not bear the oppressive darkness any longer; peopled as it was with shadows, it weighed upon him. He went into the inner room, lit a match, looked at his watch.
It was not yet nine o'clock. Time that evening was creeping on at a sluggish pace.
"Surely," he soliloquised, "if Vranic is coming he cannot delay much longer." After a few seconds he put out the light and returned to the front room.
Soon afterwards, he heard a bell strike slowly nine o'clock in the distance; then all was silence. The house was perfectly still and quiet, and yet, every now and then, in the room in which he was sitting, he could hear slight, unexplainable noises, like the soft trailing of garments, or the shuffling of naked feet upon the stone floor; stools sometimes would creak, just as if someone had sat upon them; then small objects seemed stealthily handled by invisible fingers.
He tried to think of his business, always an engrossing subject, not to be overcome by his superstitious fears. He had been a shrewd man, he had mortgaged his house for its full value to Vranic himself to buy the mythical cargo. Now that all his wealth was in bank-notes, or in bright and big Maria Theresa dollars, he was free to go whithersoever he chose.
Still, it was vexing to think that if he killed that viper of a Vranic, as he was in duty bound to do, he would have to flee from his native town, and escape to the mountains, at least till affairs were settled. It was a pity, for now the insurance society would make a rich man of him, so he might have remained comfortably smoking his pipe at home, and enjoying the fruits of many years' hard labour.
A quarter-past nine!
He began to wonder whether Milena—not seeing him come to fetch her —would return home. Surely more than one young man would offer to see her to her house. This thought made him gnash his teeth with rage.
When once the venom of jealousy has found its way within the heart of man, it rankles there, and, little by little, poisons his whole blood.
And again he thought: "That affair of Uros and Milenko has never been quite clear; Vranic was false, there was no doubt about it; still, it was not he who had invented the whole story. Had he not been the laughing-stock of all his friends?"
Half-past nine!
How very slowly the hours passed! If he could only do something to while away the time—pace up and down the room, as he used to do on board, and smoke a cigarette; but that was out of the question.
Hush! was there not a noise somewhere? It must have been outside; and still it seemed to him as if it were in the house itself. Was it a mouse, or some stray cat that had come in unperceived? No; it was a continuous noise, like the trailing of some huge snake on the dry grass.
A quarter to ten!
Silence once more. Now, almost all the town is fast asleep. He would wait a little longer, and then? Well, if Vranic did not come soon, he would not come at all, so it would be useless waiting. He wrapped himself up in his great-coat, for the night was chilly, and had it not been for the thought that Milena had fled with Vranic, sleepiness would have overcome him.
He thoughtlessly began making a cigarette, out of mere habit, just to do something. It was provoking not to smoke just when a few puffs would be such a comfort.
Now he again hears the chimes at a distance; the deep-toned bell rings the four quarters slowly; the vibrations of one stroke have hardly passed away when the quiet air is startled by another stroke. How much louder and graver those musical notes sound in the hushed stillness of the night!
Ten o'clock!
Some towns—Venice, for instance—were all life and bustle at that hour of the night; the streets and squares all thronged with masks and merry revellers; the theatres, coffee-houses, dancing-rooms, were blazing with light, teeming with life, echoing with music and merriment. Budua is, instead, as dark, as lonesome, and as silent as a city of the dead. The whole town is now fast asleep.
"It is useless to wait any longer," mutters Radonic to himself; "nobody is coming."
The thought that his wife had fled with Vranic has almost become a certainty. Jealousy is torturing him. He feels like gripping his throat and choking himself, or dashing his head to pieces against the stone wall. If his house had been in town, near the others, Vranic might have waited till after ten o'clock; but, situated where it was, no prying neighbours were to be feared. Something had, perhaps, detained him. Still, what can detain a man when he has such an object in view?
Muttering an oath between his teeth, Radonic stood up.
"Hush! What was that?" He listened.
Nothing, or only one of the many unexplainable noises heard in the stillness of the night.
Perhaps, after all, Vranic had been on the watch the whole day, and then he had seen him return. Perhaps—though he had never believed in his friend's gift of second sight—Vranic was indeed a seer, and could read within the minds of men. Perhaps, having still some doubts, he would only come on the morrow. Anyhow, he would go to bed and abide his time. He stretched his anchylosed limbs and yawned.
Now he was certain he heard a noise outside.
He stood still. It was like the sound of steps at a distance. He listened again. This time he was not mistaken, though, indeed, it was a very low sound. Stealthy steps on the shingle. He went on tiptoe to the door. The sound of the steps was more distinct at every pace. Moreover, every now and then, a stone would turn, or creak, or strike against another, and thus betray the muffled sound of the person who walked.
Radonic listened breathlessly.
Perhaps, after all, it was only Milena coming back home. He peeped out, but he could not see anything. Was his hearing quicker than his sight?
He strained his eyes and then he saw a dark shadow moving among the bushes, but even then he could only distinguish it because his eyes were rendered keener by following the direction pointed out by his ears.
Was it Vranic, he asked himself.
Aye, surely; who else could it be but Vranic?
Still, what was he afraid of? No human eye could see him, no ear detect his steps.
Are we not all afraid of the crime we are about to commit? There is in felony a ghastly shadow that either precedes or follows us. It frightens even the most fearless man.
Slowly the shadow emerged from within the darkness of the bushes and came up towards the house. It was Vranic's figure, his shuffling gait.
Radonic's breast was like unto a glowing furnace, the blood within his heart was bubbling like molten metal within a crucible.
In a moment, that man—who was coming to seduce his wife and dishonour him—would be within his clutches.
Then he would break every bone within his body. He seemed to hear the shivering they made as he shattered them into splinters, and he shuddered.
For a moment, the atrocity of the crime he was about to commit, daunted him.
Still, almost at the same time, he asked himself whether he were going to turn coward at the last moment.
Was he not doing an act of equity? How heinously had not this fiend dealt by him! He had put him up against his wife, until, baited, she was almost driven to adultery. No, the justice of God and man would absolve him; if not—well, he had rather be hanged, and put his soul in jeopardy, than forego his vengeance. He was a Slav.
All these thoughts flitted through his brain in an instant, like flashes of lightning following one another on a stormy night.
Radonic watched the approaching shadow, from the cranny of the door ajar, with a beating heart.
Before Vranic came to the doorstep, he stopped. He looked round on one side, then on the other; after that he cast a glance all around. He bent his head forward to try and pierce the darkness that surrounded him. Was he seeing ghosts? Then he seemed to be listening. At last, convinced that he was alone, he again walked on. Now he was by the door, almost on the sill, within reach of Radonic's grasp. He stopped again.
Radonic clasped his knife; he might have flung the door open, and despatched him with a single blow. No, that would have been stupid. It was better by far to let him come in, like a mouse into a trap, and there be caught with his own bait. Yes, he would make the most of his revenge, spit upon him, torture him.
Slowly and noiselessly he glided back into a corner behind the door. Some everlasting seconds passed. He waited breathlessly, for his heart was beating so loud that he could only gasp.
Had Vranic repented at the last instant? Had he gone back? Was he still standing on the doorstep, waiting and watching? At last he moved—he came up to the door—he slowly pushed it open; then again he stopped. The darkness within was blacker than the darkness without.
"Sst, pst!" he hissed, like a snake. Then he waited.
He came a step onward; then, in an undertone: "Milena, Milena, where are you?"
Again he waited.
"Milena," he whispered; and again, louder: "Milena, are you here?"
He stretched forth his hands, and groped his way in. Radonic could just distinguish him.
"Milena, my love, it is I, Vranic."
Those few words were like a sharp stab to Radonic. He made a superhuman effort not to move; for he wanted to see what the rascal would do next.
"Perhaps she has fallen asleep, or else has gone to bed," he muttered to himself.
He again advanced a few steps, always feeling his way. Evidently, he was going towards the next room; for he knew the house well. All at once, he stumbled against a stool. He was frightened; he thought someone had clutched him by the legs. He recovered, and shut the door behind him. It was a fatal step; for otherwise he might, perhaps, have managed to escape.
How easy it would now have been for Radonic to pounce upon him and dash his brains out; but he wanted to follow the drama out to its end, and now the last scene was at hand.
Vranic, having shut the door, remained quiet for some time. He fumbled in his pockets, took out his steel and flint, then struck a light. At the first spark he might have seen Radonic crouching a few steps from him, but he was too busy lighting the bit of candle he had brought with him. When his taper shed its faint glimmer, then he looked round, and, to his horror, he saw the figure of a man, with glistening eyes, and a dagger in his hand, standing not far from him. At first he did not recognise his friend, with shaven beard and in his new attire; still, he did not require more than a second glance to know who it was.
Terror at once overpowered him; he uttered a low, stifled cry. Retreat was now out of the question; he therefore tried to master his emotion.
"Oh! Radonic, is it you? How you frightened me! I did not recognise you. But how is it that you have come back? and this change in——"
"How is it that you are in my house at this hour of the night?" said he, laying his hands on him.
"I—I," quoth Vranic, gasping, "I came to see if everything was quiet, as I promised, and seeing your door open——"
"That is why you call Milena your love."
"Did I? You are mistaken, Radonic—though perhaps I did; but then it was only to see if she were expecting someone; you know women are light——"
"You liar, you villain, you devil!" And Radonic, clutching him by his shoulders, shook him.
"Believe me! I swear by my soul! I swear by the holy Virgin, whose medals—blessed by the Church—I wear round my neck. May I be struck down dead if what I say is not true!"
"Liar, forswearer, wretch!" hissed out Radonic, as he spat in
Vranic's face.
"I never meant to wrong you," replied Vranic, blubbering. "I came here as a friend—I told you I would; may all the saints together blind me if what I say be not true."
But the husband, ever more exasperated, clutched his false friend by the throat, and as he spouted out all his wrath, he kept gripping him tighter and ever tighter. In his passion his convulsively clenched fingers were like the claws of a bird of prey.
Vranic now struggled in vain; the candle, which had been blown out, had fallen from his fingers; he tried to speak, he gasped for breath, he was choking.
Radonic's grasp now was as that of an iron vice, and the more the false friend struggled to get free, the stronger he squeezed.
Vranic at last emitted a stifled, raucous, gurgling sound; then his arms lost their strength, and when, a moment afterwards, the furious husband relinquished his hold, his antagonist fell on the floor with a mighty thud.
The bells of the church were chiming in the distance.
Radonic, shivering, shuddering, stood stock-still in the darkness that surrounded him; he only heaved a noiseless sigh—the deep breath of a man who has accomplished an arduous task.
Vranic did not get up; he did not move. Was he dead?
"Dead!" whispered Radonic to himself.
Just then the body, prostrate at his feet, uttered a low, hoarse, hollow sound. Was it the soul escaping from the body?
He looked down, he looked round; black clouds seemed to be whirling all around him like wreaths of smoke. He durst not move from where he stood for fear of stumbling against the corpse.
At last he took out his steel and began to strike a light, but in his trepidation, he struck his fingers far oftener than his flint. At last he managed to light a lantern on the table close by, and then came to look at the man stretched on the floor.
Oh, what a terrible sight he saw! He had till now seen murdered men and drowned men, but never had he witnessed such a terrifying sight before; it was so horrible that, like Gorgon's hideous head, it fascinated him.
After a few minutes' dumb contemplation, Radonic heaved again a deep sigh, and whispered to himself: "It is a pity I did not leave him time to utter a prayer, to confess his sins, to kiss the holy Cross or the image of the saints. After all, I did not mean to kill the soul and body together." Then, prompted by religious superstitions, or by a Christian feeling—for he was of the Orthodox faith—he went to a fount of holy water, dipped in it a withered olive twig, and came to sprinkle the corpse, and made several signs of the holy Cross; then he knelt down and muttered devoutly several prayers for the rest of the soul of the man whom he had just murdered; then he sprinkled and crossed him again.
Had he opened the gates of paradise to the soul that had taken its flight? Evidently he felt much comforted after having performed his religious duties; so, rolling a cigarette, and lighting it at the lantern, he went to sit on the doorstep outside and smoke. That cigarette finished, he made another, and then another. At last, after having puffed and mused for about an hour, he again went into the house and made a bundle of all the things he wanted to take away with him. Everything being ready, and feeling hungry, he went to the cupboard, cut himself a huge slice of bread and a piece of cheese, which he ate as slowly as if he were keeping watch on board; then he took a long draught of wine, and, as midnight was striking, he left the house.
"I wonder," he thought, "where Milena is; anyhow, it is much better she is away, for, had she been in the house, she might have given me no end of useless trouble. Women are so fussy, so unpractical at times."
Thereupon he lighted his pipe.
"Still," he soliloquised, "I should have liked to see her before starting, to bid her good-bye. Who knows when I'll see her again, if I ever do see her? And how I hope this affair will be settled soon, and satisfactorily, too; he has no very near relations, and those he has will be, in their hearts, most grateful to me."
He trudged on wearily. When he passed Mara's house, he stopped, sighed, and muttered to himself:
"Good-bye! Milena. I loved you in my own churlish way; I loved you, and if I've been unkind to you, it was all Vranic's fault, for he drove me on to madness. Anyhow, he has paid for it, and dearly, too; so may his soul rest in peace!"
"And now," thought he, "it is useless fooling about; it is better to be off and free in Montenegro before the murder is discovered and the Austrian police are after me, for there is no trifling with this new-fangled government that will not allow people to arrange their little private affairs—it even belies our own proverb: 'Every one is free in his own house.'"
As he left the town, he bethought himself of what he was to do. First he would see his father-in-law, and ask him to go down to town and fetch his daughter, for it was useless to leave Milena alone in Budua; life would not be pleasant there till the business of the karvarina was settled. Then, as Montenegro was always at war with Turkey, he supposed that he would, as almost all hayduk, have to take to fighting as an occupation, though, thank God, he said to himself, not as a means of subsistence.
It was, however, only at dawn that he managed to get out of the town gate, together with some peasants going to their early work, and so he crossed the frontier long before Vranic's murder was known in town.
On the morrow, when Milena fainted on the murdered man's corpse, she was taken up and placed on her bed; she was sprinkled with water and vinegar; she was chafed and fanned; a burning quill was placed under her nose, but, as none of these little remedies could recall her to life, medical help had to be sent for. Even when she came back to her senses, another fainting-fit soon followed, so that she was almost the whole day in a comatose state.
Meanwhile (Tripko having summoned help), the house was filled with people, who all bustled about, talked very loud, asked and answered their own questions. Those gifted with more imagination explained to the others all the incidents of the murder. Last of all came the guards. Then they, with much ado and self-importance, managed to clear the house.
Though Mara would have liked to take Milena back home with her, still the doctors declared that it was impossible to remove her from her bed, where for many weeks she lay unconscious and between life and death, for a strong brain-fever followed the fainting-fits. Her father and mother (who had come to take her away) tended her, and love and care succeeded where medical science had failed.