Uros shuddered again.
"We can see him, can't we?" said the captain.
"You must apply to the authorities."
The departure of the Spera in Dio had to be put off for some days. Uros went on board the ship, whilst the captain remained at Ragusa to look after his lost mate. There he soon found out that, in fact, it was Milenko who had been arrested; and after a good deal of trouble he succeeded in seeing him.
Although he did his best to comfort him and assure him that in a few days the real murderer would be found, he could not help thinking that the evidence was dead against him. Anyhow, he had him transferred to a better cell, and, by dint of backseesh, saw that his bodily comforts were duly attended to.
On the following day, the captain, Uros and the crew were examined; and all were of opinion that Milenko could not possibly ever have been acquainted with the unknown man, and, therefore, had no possible reason for taking away his life. The great difficulty, meanwhile, was to find out who the murdered man really was, from where he had come, whither he was going in the middle of the night.
After that, the captain went to a lawyer's; and having put the whole affair in his hands, found out that he could do nothing more for Milenko than he had already done; so he went and lit a candle for his sake, recommended him to the mercy of the Virgin and good St. Nicholas, and decided to start on the following morning, without any further and unprofitable delay. Had the young man been his own son, he would not have acted otherwise. Uros, however, decided to remain behind, and join the ship at Trieste after a few days.
On the morrow Uros, after having seen the Spera in Dio disappear, went to spend a few hours with his friend. A week passed in this way; then, not knowing in what way to help Milenko, he bethought himself to seek the aid of some old woman versed in occult lore, in whose wisdom he had much more faith than in the wordy learning of gossiping lawyers.
Having succeeded in hearing of such a one from the inn-keeper's wife, he went to her at once and explained what he wanted of her.
She looked at him steadily for a while; then she went to an old chest and took out a quaint little mirror of dark, burnished metal, and making him sit in a corner, bade him look steadily within it. As soon as he was seated, she took a piece of black cloth, like a pall, and stretched it around him, screening him from every eye. Having done this, she threw some powder on the fire, which, burning, filled the room with fragrant smoke, or rather, with white vapour, which had a heady smell of roses. After a few moments of silence, she took the guzla and played, as a kind of prelude, a pathetic, dirge-like melody; then she began to sing in a low, lamentable tone, Vuk Stefanovic Karadzic's song, entitled—