After a fortnight of a dull, overcast sky, it began to drizzle; everything smelt of mildew; the mouldy turf oozed with moisture, the rotting trees dripped with dampness. The world was decaying. If at times a ray of sunlight pierced the grey clouds, its pale yellow, languid light brought with it neither warmth nor comfort. Evidently the sun was pining away, dying; our bereaved planet was moaning for the loss of his life-giving light.
During all this time the dull sirocco never ceased to blow, either in a low, unending wail, or in louder and more fitful blasts. Usually, as soon as one gust had passed away, a stronger one came rolling down the mountain side, increasing in sound as it drew nearer; then passing, it died away in the distance.
These booming blasts made every mother think of her sailor boy, tossed far away on the raging mountain waves; wives lighted candles to St. Nicholas, for the safety of their husbands; whilst the girls thought of their lovers by day, and at night they dreamt continually of flowers, babies, stagnant waters, white grapes, lice and other such omens of ill-luck.
For poor, forlorn Milena, those days were like the murky morning hours that follow a night of revelry. She was dull, down-hearted, dispirited; nor had she, indeed, anything to cheer her up. In her utter solitude, she spun from the moment she got up to the moment she went to bed; interrupting herself only to eat a crust of bread and some olives, or else to mope listlessly. At times, however, her loneliness, and the utter stillness of her house, oppressed her in such a way that it almost drove her to distraction.
She mused continually over all the events of her life during the last months, after her merry girlhood had come to an end by that hateful and hasty marriage of hers; she recalled to mind that time of misery with her old miserly mother-in-law, who even counted the grains of parched Indian-corn she ate. Still, soon after this old dame's death, came that fated St. John's Eve. It was the first ray of sunlight in the gloom of her married life. It was also the first time she had seen Uros.
She had not fallen in love with him that evening; she had only liked him because he was good-looking and his ways were so winning. Everybody was fond of him, he was so winsome.
Little by little, after that, his presence began to haunt her, his face was always before her eyes. When she woke in the morning, his name was on her lips. Still, that was not love; she even fancied she only liked to teaze him because she was a married woman, a matron, whilst he was but a boy; moreover, he was so shy.
When Radonic came home, she woke to the stern reality of life; she at last found out that she hated her husband and loved Uros, who, though a boy, was, withal, older than herself. That was the time when Radonic's rage being roused by Vranic, he had almost killed Milenko. Then, lastly, shuddering and appalled, she remembered that night when Uros came to sing his farewell song.
She stopped spinning now; the corners of her pretty, childish mouth were drawn down; she hid her face between her hands, whilst the tears trickled slowly through her fingers.
Why had she been so foolishly weak? Now the thought of that night drove her mad. Could she but blot away the past months and begin life anew!