These were the many exclamations of the astonished sailors.
"Thank Heaven, he is guilty of his own blood," replied Milenko, "for this is, after all, the justice of God."
In fact, as soon as Vranic saw that it was Milenko himself who was holding the rope that was tied round his waist, he pulled out the black dagger that he always carried about him, and freed himself; then he turned round and began to swim back towards the Ave Maria. At the same time, a big wave came rolling over him; it uplifted and dashed him against the sharp icicles hanging from the wrecked ship, and which looked so many chevaux de frise. He tried to catch hold, to cling to the frozen ropes, but they slipped from his grasp, and the retreating surges carried him off and he disappeared for ever.
The two vessels were parted once more, and Milenko, perceiving that it was useless to remain there any longer and try and save the three drunken sailors who had remained on board, thought it far more advisable to proceed on to Trieste and send them help from there.
When the Giustizia di Dio reached Trieste, the storm had abated, the wind had gone down, and the sea was almost calm. Help was at once sent to the shipwrecked vessel, but, alas! all that could be seen of the Ave Maria was the utmost tops of her masts.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE WEDDING
Milenko had been most lucky in his voyages, and had reaped a golden harvest. As steamers had not yet come into any practical use, and the Adriatic trade was still a most prosperous one, ship-owners and captains had a good time of it. In fact, his share of the profits was such as to enable him to buy the ship on his own account. Still, now that the karvarina business was settled and Uros' death was avenged, he did not care any more for a seafaring life; and, moreover, his heart was at Nona with the girl he loved.
The time he had been away had seemed to him everlastingly long, and, besides, he had been all these months without any news from his family. He was, therefore, overjoyed upon reaching Trieste to find a whole packet awaiting him.
The very first letter that caught his sight was one in a handwriting which, although familiar, he could not recognise. Could it be from Ivanka? Now that they were engaged, she, perhaps, had written to him; still, it hardly seemed probable. Perhaps it was from Giulianic, for, indeed, it was more of a man's than a woman's handwriting. Looking at it closer, he thought, with a sigh, that if poor Uros were alive, he would surely believe it came from him. At last he tore the letter open. It began: