"Strange!" quoth Milenko, as he walked away, not to be questioned as to his vision.
One evening, when the moon had gone below the horizon looking like a reaping-hook steeped in blood, and nothing could be seen all around but the broad expanse of the dark waters, reflecting the tiny stars twinkling in the sky above, Milenko saw, all at once, the white walls of St. George's Convent. The doors, usually shut, were now opened. Uros appeared on the threshold. There he received the blessing of the old monk who had tended him during his illness, and whose hands he now kissed with even more affection and thankfulness than devotion; then, hugged and kissed by all the other caloyers, who had got to be as fond of him as of a son or a brother, he bade them all farewell. Then, leaning on Milena's arm, and followed by his father and mother, he wended his way down the mountain and towards the town. Uros was still thin and pale, but all traces of suffering had disappeared from his face. Though he and Milena were man and wife—having been married in extremis—still they were lovers, and his weakness was a plausible pretext to lean lovingly on her arm, and stop every now and then to look lovingly within her lustrous eyes, and thus give vent to the passion that lay heavy on his heart; and once, when his parents had disappeared behind a corner, he stopped, put his arm round her waist, then their lips met in a long, silent kiss, which brought the blood up to their cheeks. Then the picture faded, and the waters were again as black as night; only, his ears whistled, and he almost fancied he could hear Uros' voice in a distance speaking of him.
Of course, Milenko knew that all this was but a delusion, a dream, a hallucination of his fancy, and he tried to think of his friend lying stiff and stark within his coffin; still, his imagination was unruly, and showed him Uros at home alive and happy.
These visions about his friend were all the same; thus, nearly three weeks after he had left Budua, one evening, when sad and gloomy, he was thinking of Uros' funeral, to which he now regretted not to have remained and assisted, he saw, within the depths of the dark blue sea, Bellacic's house adorned as for a great festivity. Not only was a banquet prepared; guzlars played on their instruments, and guests arrived in holiday attire, but Uros, who had almost regained his former good looks, was, in his dress of the Kotor, as handsome as a Macic. Milena, as beautiful as when, in bridal attire, she had come from Montenegro, was standing by his side. Soon Danilo Kvekvic came, wearing a rich stole. The guests lighted the tapers they were holding; wreaths were placed on Milena's and Uros' heads. This was the wedding ceremony that would have taken place had Uros recovered from his wound, and of which Milenko had certainly not been thinking.
Milenko at last reached Trieste, where he found a letter waiting for him. The news it contained would have made his heart beat rapidly with joy had Uros only been with him. Now, reading this letter, he only heaved a deep sigh. It was almost a sigh of forlorn hope. Fate but too often, whilst granting us a most coveted boon, seems to feel a malicious pleasure either in disappointing us entirely, or, at least, in blunting the edge of our joy. This letter was from Giulianic, who, having redeemed his pledge from his friend Bellacic, was now but too glad to have him for his son-in-law. Moreover, he urged him to come over to Nona.
Nothing, indeed, prevented Milenko from consigning the ship to the captain, who was waiting for him at Trieste, and selling his share of the brig. Still, he could not think of doing so, or engaging himself, or settling any time for his marriage before Uros' death had been avenged. He, therefore, wrote at once to Giulianic, thanking him for his kindness to him, stating, nevertheless, the reasons which obliged him to postpone his marriage until the vows of the karvarina had been fulfilled.
At Trieste, Milenko found out that the Diana, the ship on which Vranic was embarked, was a Genoese brig, usually sailing to and from the Adriatic and the Levant ports; occasionally, she would come as far as Trieste or Venice, usually laden with boxes of oranges and lemons, and sail back with a cargo of timber. It would have been easy enough to have him apprehended by one of the Austrian consuls in the ports where the Diana might be bound to, but the vengeance of the karva tajstvo is not done by deputy nor confided to the police.
At the shipbroker's to which the Spera in Dio was consigned, Milenko also found a letter from the captain, his partner in the ship, saying that, far from coming to take charge of the ship, he was inclined to sell his share; and Milenko, who was very anxious to be free and to sail for those ports where he might easier come across the Diana, bought the other half, and soon afterwards, having managed to get a cargo of timber for Pozzuoli, he set sail without delay, hoping to be in time to catch Vranic in Naples.
Not far from the rocky island of Melada, which the Dalmatians say is the Melita of the Scriptures, the Spera in Dio met with very stormy weather and baffling winds. Thereabouts one rough and cloudy night, when not only Milenko but almost all the men were on deck, they all at once saw a ship looming in the darkness at a short distance from them. The captain had either forgotten to hoist a light, or else had let it go out. When they perceived that dark shadow, only a little darker than the surrounding night, they did their utmost to steer out of her way. The other ship likewise seemed to try and tack about, but driven as she was by a strong head-wind, it was quite impossible to make her change her direction and avoid a collision.
A few moments after the dark phantom was seen a loud crash was heard; it was the groan of a monster falling with a thud upon his adversary, felling him with his ponderous mass. The unknown ship had unexpectedly come and butted against the Spera in Dio amidships, like a huge battering-ram, breaking the beams, shivering the planks, cutting the harmless ship nearly in two, and allowing the waters to pour in through the huge cleft.