"There! listen," said he, staring vacantly; "did you not hear?"
"No," said Bellacic; "what was it?"
"Only the heavy thud of a man falling like a corpse on the ground," and as he said these words he crossed himself devoutly and muttered to himself: "May the Lord forgive him, whoever he is." Thereupon everybody present crossed himself, saying: "Bog nas ovari."
Milena shuddered and grew deathly pale; though she was not gifted with second sight, she saw in her mind's eye something so dreadful that it almost made her faint with terror. Mara, seeing her ghastly pale, said:
"Come, give us this song, but let it be something brisk and merry, for the howling of the wind outside is like a funeral wail, and it is that lament which makes us all so moody to-night."
"You are right, gospodina; besides, one man more or less—provided he is no relation of ours—is really no great matter. How many thousands fell treacherously at Kossoro." Then, taking up his bow, he began to scrape the chord of his guzla, in a swift, jerking, sprightly way.
"What is it?" asked Bellacic.
And Stoyan replied, as he began to sing:
MARKO KRAGLIEVIC'S FALCON.
A falcon flies o'er Budua town;
It bears a gleaming golden crest,
Its wings are gilt, so is its breast;
Of clear bright yellow is each claw,
And with its sheen it lights the wold.