"Your return takes away from me twice as many years as those you have been absent, and I shall be young again now—as young almost as Kabilovitsch," added he, with a kindly glance at the old veteran, whose battered dignity had given place to an almost childish delight.
The scene within the tent was interrupted by a noise without. A crowd of soldiers had gathered, and were gazing from a respectful distance at a strange-looking man: "A man of heaviness and eaten up with cares." He was clad in the coarsest garments; his beard untrimmed; hatless; a rope about his neck. As Scanderbeg came out of the tent, the man threw himself at his feet, and cried, as he bowed his head upon the ground:
"Strike, Sire! I have sold my country. I have returned to die under the sword of my true chief, rather than live with the blessing of his enemies. The curse on my soul is greater than I could bear, with all the splendid rewards of my treason. Take out the curse with my blood! Strike, Sire! Strike!"
He was Moses Goleme. Castriot stood with folded arms and looked upon the prostrate man. His lips trembled, and then were swollen, as was noted of them when his soul was fired with the battle rage. Then every muscle of his face quivered as if touched by some sharp pain. Then came a look of sorrow and pity. His broad bosom heaved with the deep-drawn breath as he spoke.
"Moses Goleme, rise! Your place is at no man's feet. For twenty years you watched by Albania, while I forgot my fatherland. Your name has been the rallying cry of the patriot; your words the wisdom of our council; your arm my strength. Brave man! take Castriot's sword, and wear it again until your own heart tells you that your honor has been redeemed. Rise!"
Untying the rope from the miserable man's neck, he flung it far off, and cried,—
"So, away with whatever disgraces the noble Goleme! My curse on him who taunts thee for the past! Let that be as a hideous dream to be forgotten. For well I know, brave comrade, that thy heart slept when thou wast away. But it wakes again. Thou art thy true self once more!"
The broken-hearted man replied, scarcely raising his eyes as he spoke:
"My hands are not worthy to touch the sword of Castriot. Let me cleanse them with patriot service. Tell me, Sire, some desperate adventure, where, since thou wilt not slay me, I may give my wretched life for my country."
"No, Moses, you shall keep your life for Albania. I know well the strength of your temptation. My service is too much for any man. Were it not that I am sustained by some strange invisible spirit, I too would have yielded long ago. But enough! The old command awaits thee, Moses."