Thereupon, the old man fell on his knees, for he felt himself rebuked; he prayed long and earnestly that his daughter might once more be changed into a mouse. And, lo and behold! his prayer was granted; nay, before he had got up from his knees and looked around, the girl had dwindled into her former shape, evidently well pleased with the change.
Anyhow, the anchorite was comforted in his loneliness, for he had always meant well towards her; moreover, he felt sure that if the newly-married couple ever had children, the little mice would be so well brought up, that they would scrupulously refrain from eating lard on fast days.
Then the hermit, tired with his journey, went and lay down on his bed of moss, dropped off to sleep, and never woke again on earth.
At dusk, Radonic took leave of the learned and hospitable kaludgeri, and went back to town. He reached the gate when the shadows of the night had already fallen upon the earth. Although he fancied that everyone he met stared at him, still many of his acquaintances passed close by him without recognising him.
At last he crossed the whole of the town and got to his house. The door being slightly ajar, he thought Milena must be at home. He glided in on tiptoe, his opanke hardly making the slightest noise on the stone floor. There was no fire on the hearth, no light to be seen anywhere. Milena was not in the front room, nor in any of the others. Where could she have gone, and left the front door open? Surely she would be back in a few moments? He crouched in a corner and waited, but Milena did not make her appearance.
As it was quite dark, he groped to the cupboard, found the loaf, cut himself a slice, then managed to lay his hand on the cheese. As he ate, he almost felt like a burglar in his own house. The darkness really unnerved him, and yet he was inured to watch in the night on board his ship; now, however, the hand of Time seemed to have stopped.
The bread was more than tough, the cheese was dry; so he could hardly manage to gulp the morsels down. Unable to find the bukara, he went into the cellar and took a long draught of heady wine.
Returning upstairs, he again crouched in a corner. Milena had not come back; evidently, she had gone to Mara's, as he had told her to. Sitting there in the darkness, watching and waiting, with the purpose of blood on his mind, time hung wearily upon him. The wine had somewhat cheered him, but now drowsiness overpowered him. To keep himself from falling asleep, he tried to think. Though he was not gifted with a glowing imagination, still his mind was full of fancies, and one vision succeeded another in his overheated brain. His past life now began to flit before his eyes like scenes in a peep-show. A succession of ghosts arose from amidst the darkness and threatened him. One amongst them made him shudder. It was that of a beautiful young woman of eighteen summers standing on the seashore, waiting for a sail.
Many years ago, when he was only a simple sailor, he had been wrecked on the coasts of Sicily. A poor widow had given him shelter, and in return for her kindness, what had he done? This woman had three daughters; the eldest was a beautiful girl of eighteen, the other two were mere children. For months these poor creatures toiled for him and fed him. Then he married the girl under a false name with the papers belonging to one of the drowned sailors. Although he had married her against his will—for she was a Catholic and did not belong to the Orthodox faith—still he intended doing what was right—bring her to his country, and re-marry her according to the rites of his own Church. But time passed; so he confessed, gave alms to the convent, obtained the absolution, and was almost at peace with himself. Probably, she had come to the conclusion that he had been swallowed up by the hungry waves, and she had married a man of her own country; so his child had a father. Still, since his marriage, the vision of that woman often haunted him.
Anyhow, he added bitterly to himself, although a Catholic, she had loved him. Milena, a true believer, had never cared for him. And now he remembered the first time he had seen Milena; how smitten he had been by her beauty, how her large eyes had flashed upon him with a dark and haughty look. She had disliked him from the first, but what had he cared when he had got her father into his hands? for when the proud Montenegrin owed him a sum which he could not pay at once, he had asked him for the hand of his daughter.