But, laughing softly once more, Colubra hissed into his ear, “Be not over vain, my soft-hearted poet. Not for thee alone did I give way to lying. For I found my lost lover again, yonder among the serpents, and a serpent he must remain. Yea—and I will remain even as my beloved is, until we can belong to one another.”
Since that day the Serpent-Isle has been green and lovely once again, and only once, but no one was there to see it. Ah, if one could but be a poet, and alive in the year 2000!
[III]
VÎRFUL CU DOR
There was once on a time a hora[2] at Sinaia, the like of which had never been seen before; for it was upon a great holiday, and the monks in the neighbouring cloister had distributed food to every one, heaping bowls of it, so that all the villagers had eaten their fill. The folk had gathered from far and near, from Isvor and Poeana Zapului, from Comarnic and Predeal, and from the other side of the mountains. The sun shone down so warm into the valley that the maidens took the kerchiefs from their heads, and the lads pushed their flower-bedecked hats from their brows, so hot had the dancing made them. The mothers stood round about upon the green, suckling their children; their shimmering veils showed afar off, as white and soft as spring blossoms.
What a stamping and shouting there were amid the merry dancers! The maidens seemed to hover in the air, as though their dainty feet, peeping out from the narrow petticoat, never touched the ground. Their shifts were gaily and richly embroidered, and glittered with gold, like the coins that hung on their necklets. The dance moved on, in circles both great and small; ceaselessly it moved, to the ceaseless music of the lute-players, like the pulsation of a vein, or an undulating wave. A little to one side, a handsome shepherd stood leaning upon his staff and watched the hora with his dark eyes, dark as blackberries. His form was slender, like a young pine-tree; his hair fell in black locks upon his shoulders from under his cap of white lambskin. His shirt was grey, fastened about the hips with a broad leather girdle, and he wore sandals upon his feet. Only for a moment had his eyes glanced uncertainly around; now they had discovered what they sought, and their sparkling gaze was fixed upon a maiden, who did not seem to notice him at all. The maiden was fair—fair as the most beautiful flower; nay, lovelier far than the gentian or the Alpine rose, more delicate than the edelweiss. In each of her eyes shone two points of light, one in the black pupil and the other in the brown circle surrounding it. Her teeth flashed white every time the coral lips parted; her hair was as black as the abyss from whose depths a gleam of water shoots up, and the wreath of flowers upon her head did not fade; it was as though she gave it freshness and life. Such a slender body she had, one might have thought a man could break it with a turn of his hand; and yet the people told tales of her wondrous strength. Yes, Irina was fair, very fair, and Jonel, the young shepherd, gazed upon her ceaselessly. At last he too drew near the circle and grasped her hand. The maidens looked at one another and laughed, and Irina grew crimson. Now of a sudden the lute-players stopped upon a shrill, high note, the lads each turned their partners round under their arms and once about, and then Jonel drew Irina’s hand downwards with a firm grasp. There was deep significance in this, but Irina only shrugged her shoulders and laughed.