When he came back to life, the cold, grey light of the dawning day, pouring in through the half-closed shutters, gave the room a squalid, lurid look. His head was not exactly paining him, but it felt drained of all its contents, and as light as an empty skull, or an old poppy head in which the seeds are rattling. He looked around. There was nothing unusual in the room; everything was just as it had been upon the previous evening. Had his struggle with the ghost been but a dream? He tried to move, to rise, but all his limbs were as weary and sore as if he had really fought and been beaten. Nay, his whole body was as weak as if he had had some long illness and was only now convalescent. He recalled to mind all the details of the struggle, he looked at the places where he felt numb and sore, and everywhere he remarked livid stains which he had not seen before. He lifted himself up on his right elbow; to his horror and consternation, there were two or three spots of blood upon the white sheet.
He felt faint and sick at that sight; he understood everything. His had not been a dream; his gruesome visitor was a frightful ghost, a terrible vukodlaki, which had fought with him and sucked his blood. His brother had become a loathsome vampire; he was the first victim.
For a moment he remained bewildered, unable to think; then when he did manage to collect his wandering senses, the terrible reality of his misfortune almost drove him mad again.
The ghost, having tasted his blood, would not leave him till it had drained him to the very last drop. He was a lost man; no medical aid could be of any use; nourishing food, wine and tonics might prolong his agony a few days longer and no more. He was doomed to a sure death. Daily—as if in a decline—he saw himself wasting away, for the vampire would suck the very marrow of his bones.
His was a dreary life, indeed, and yet he clung to it with might and main. The days passed on wearily, and he tried to hope against hope itself; but he was so weak and dispirited that the slightest noise made him shiver and grow pale. An unexpected footstep, the opening or shutting of a door, slackened or accelerated the beating of his heart.
With fear and trembling he waited for night to come on, and when the sun went down—when darkness came over the earth—his terror grew apace. Still, where was he to go? He had not a single friend on the surface of the earth. He, therefore, drank several glasses of spirits, muttered his prayers and went to bed. No sooner had he fallen asleep than he fell again a prey to the vampire.
On the third night he determined not to go to bed, but to remain awake, and thus wait for the arrival of his gruesome guest. Still, at the last moment his courage failed him, so he went to an old man who lived hard by. He promised to make him a new waistcoat if he would only give him a rug to sleep on, and tell him a story until he got drowsy.
The old man complied willingly, above all as Vranic had brought a bukara of wine with him, so he at once began the story of
THE PRIEST AND HIS COOK.
In the village of Steino there lived an old priest who was exceedingly wealthy, but who was, withal, as miserly as he was rich. Although he had fields which stretched farther than the eye could reach, fat pastures, herds and flocks; although his cellars were filled with mellow wine, his barns were bursting with the grace of God; although abundance reigned in his house, still he was never known to have given a crust of bread to a beggar or a glass of wine to a weary old man.