A few days afterwards, the captain bade the young men good-bye, and started for Fiume, whilst they, having their cargo ready, set sail for Odessa. The weather was fine, the wind was fair; therefore, the first voyage during which they were in sole command of the ship was a most prosperous, though a rather rough one. For during four days they had shipped several seas, so that they had the water up to their waists, and, with all that, no water to drink; but these are the incidents appertaining to a seafaring life, which sailors forget as soon as they set foot on shore.
CHAPTER XIV
THE "KARVARINA"
Radonic had never been much of a favourite amongst his fellow countrymen, for he was of an unsociable, surly, overbearing disposition; still, from the day he had killed Vranic public opinion began to change in his behalf. A man gifted with an evil eye is a baleful being, whom everyone dreads meeting—a real curse in a town, for a number of the daily accidents and trivial misfortunes were ascribed to the malign influence of his visual organs. It was, therefore, but natural that Radonic should, tacitly, be looked upon as a kind of deliverer. Besides this unavowed feeling of relief at having been rid of the jettatore, no one could feel any pity for Vranic; for even the more indifferent could only shrug their shoulders, and mutter to themselves, "Serve him right," for he had only met with the fate he had deserved.
As for Radonic, he daily grew in the general esteem. There is something manly in the life of a highwayman who, with his gun, stops a whole caravan, or asks for bread, his dagger in his hand. It is a reversion to the old type of prehistoric man. But, more than a highwayman, Radonic was a heyduk, fighting against the Turks, and putting his life in jeopardy at every step he made.
For a man of Radonic's frame of mind, there was something enticing in the life he was leading; struggles and storms seemed congenial to his nature. On board his ship he would only cast away his sullenness when danger was approaching, and hum a tune in the midst of the tempest; in fact, he only seemed to breathe at ease when a stiff gale was blowing.
He arrived at Cettinje on the eve of an expedition against the Turks, just when every man that could bear a gun was welcome, especially when he made no claim to a share of the booty. Having reached the confines of Montenegro, amidst those dark rocks, in that eyrie of the brave, having the sky for his roof and his gun for a pillow, life for the first time seemed to him worth living. He did not fear death —nay, he almost courted it. He felt no boding cares for the morrow; the present moment was more than enough for him. Though he lacked entirely all the softness of disposition that renders social life agreeable, he had in him some of the qualities of a hero, or, at least, of a great military chief—boldness, hardihood and valour. During the whole of his lifetime he had always tried to make himself feared, never loved. He cared neither for the people's admiration nor for their disdain; he only required implicit obedience to orders given. With such a daring, unflinching character, he soon acquired a name that spread terror whenever it was uttered; and in a skirmish that took place a week after his arrival at Cettinje, he killed a Turkish chieftain, cut off his head, and sent it, by a prisoner he had taken, to the Pasha of the neighbouring province, informing this official that he would, if God granted him life, soon treat him in the same way. A high sum was at once set upon his head, but it was an easier thing to offer the prize than to obtain it.
Radonic would have been happy enough now, had he not been married, or, at least, if he had been wedded to a woman who loved him, and who would have welcomed him home after a day's, or a week's, hard fighting—who would have mourned for him had he never come back; but, alas! he knew that Milena hated him. Roaming in the lonely forests, climbing on the trackless mountains, lurking amidst the dark rocks and crags, his heart yearned for the wife he had ill-treated.
A month, and even more, had elapsed since Vranic had been murdered. Zwillievic, his father-in-law, had been in Budua, and he had then come back to Cettinje; but, far from bringing Milena with him, he had left his wife there to take care of this daughter of his, who, in the state in which she was, had never recovered from the terrible shock she had received on that morning when she stumbled upon Vranic's corpse.
All kinds of doubts again assailed him, and jealousy, that had always been festering in his breast, burst out afresh, fiercer than ever; it preyed again upon him, embittered his life. After all, was it not possible that Milena was only shamming simply not to come to Cettinje? Perhaps, he thought, one of the many young men who had tried to flirt with her, was now at Budua making love to her.