The extreme ledge of the promontory is a great block of reddish-brown rock. It rises precipitously out of the dark green waves, which incessantly storm it with their foam-crested dragon-heads. Some spring-tide monster will often lash itself aloft to the very summit, frightening the seagulls and eagles that love to range themselves along the verge of the rock.
From this ledge rises a six-sided tower some hundred and fifty feet high. The lower part is built in Cyclopean fashion, of massive uncut blocks of rock. The upper portion is of red stones. These reach to the very summit of the tower, the battlements of which are to-day surmounted by the luxuriant green of juniper shrubs. And when the setting sun, bursting through a cloud, casts his rays upon the dead giant rising there in his solitude, while round about the low ashen clouds seem almost to touch his head; when the sea roars beneath and breaks in foam against his feet; when the reflected sunlight streams back, like the rays of a lighthouse, from some window the panes of which are haply still unshattered—then the glowing colossus seems a very Polyphemus, who with his one eye dares to defy the gods and wage eternal feud with men. That is the Tower of Dago.
But in perfect calm the scene is changed. Veiled in translucent mists, the tower rises aloft in grand repose beneath the hot, unclouded summer sky. Towards the summit it shows a great semi-circular gap like a mighty mouth petrified in the act of making an imprecation—a mouth gaping wide as if to salute the sea, or hail yonder craft that glides along the horizon. At ebb-tide, too, the great rock's hidden companions, the sunken reefs, begin to show themselves all around. Among them, half sunk in the sand, are seen the shattered remains of masts, rusty anchors and guns, all overgrown with seaweed and shell-fish. Here and there the eye perceives a human skull still encased in a helmet, a skeleton still protected by a shirt of mail, and innumerable remnants of stranded ships with their inscriptions and marks still readable. At one spot is seen the bottom of a vessel, whose copper plates, now hidden, now disclosed, by the restless motion of the waves, are green with verdigris. And everywhere the great sea-spiders and monster crabs—lords of the abyss—crawl and gloat unceasingly among the wreckage. Then the spectator, shuddering at this terrible arrangement of still life, is forced to ask himself, "Who could have been so mad as to build a tower like this on such an accursed spot, and who the madmen that could steer their vessels hither on these cruel rocks?"
And could there be any link of destiny connecting that forbidding edifice with the wreckage that lay around?
CHAPTER II
Back to the Sea
In the time of Catherine II. a baron of the Von Ungern family, in the province of Brandenburg, migrated to the court of St. Petersburg. He had some Slavonic blood in his veins, and shortly after settling in the Russian capital he married the daughter of a Muscovite nobleman. His wife's dowry brought him several extensive estates in Volhynia. In spite of their German name his two sons were perfect Russians. The elder, Feodor, was a naval officer. He was a thorough seaman, and the terror of every Swedish seaport and merchantman. Zeno, the younger brother, was also a seaman, but his tactical abilities were exercised only at court, and particularly among the ladies. The fame of the elder brother naturally lent brilliancy to Zeno's name also. Feodor, however, willingly left to him all the pleasures of court life and all its dazzling distinctions. Such things were not for him. The storm-tossed sea and its perilous combats were for Feodor his chiefest joy. Yet, when storm and fight alike were lulled to rest, he loved his quiet home—a little castle buried in an old forest, where his dear and beautiful wife dwelt with her little son. The boy, whose name was Alexander, was now four years old, and the father was not less proud of his domestic fortune than of his naval laurels.
Feodor had just accomplished one of his most heroic exploits against the Swedes. One stormy night he had suddenly surprised the convoy fleet at Karlskrona and burnt a large portion of it. He had captured several richly laden merchant-ships which tried hard to get out of range, plundered them of their most valuable contents, and then sent them to the bottom. He had also carried off the magnificent bell which had been taken by the Swedes from Hamburg city, and was then on its way to adorn the cathedral of Kalmar. Then he returned, unmolested, with booty and fame to Kronstadt.
Upon arriving there he considered it his first duty to deliver an account of his actions to the Admiral of the fleet. At that time the shore at Kronstadt was covered with a great number of small huts inhabited by the workmen in the port. As Captain Feodor leaped ashore from his boat, a girl, who had been watching the spot for some time, came out of one of the huts and approached him. The girl was young and pretty, and was dressed in the picturesque costume of the Volhynian women. She hurried up to the officer and seized his hand to kiss it. He recognised her immediately as his little son's nurse.