"Give us a song, Vuk; it is years since I heard the sound of your voice," said Radonic.
The bard complied willingly; he went up to a guzla hanging on the wall, and took it down. He then sat on a stool, placed his instrument between his legs, and began to scrape its single gut-string with the monochord bow; this prelude served to give an intonation to his voice, and scan the verses he was about to sing. He thought a while, and then—his face brightening up—he commenced the ballad of "Marko Kraglievic and Janko of Sebinje."
We Slavs are so fond of music and poetry, that we will remain for hours listening to one of our bards, forgetting even hunger in our delight. No sooner was the shrill sound of Vuk's voice heard than every noise was hushed, hardly a man lifted his glass up to his mouth. Even the passers-by walked softly or lingered about the door to catch some snatches of the poet's song.
The ballad, however, was a short one, and as soon as the bard had finished, the strong Dalmatian wine went round again, and at every cup the company waxed merrier, more tender-hearted, more gushing; a few even grew sentimental and lachrymose.
Wine, however, brought out all the harshness of Radonic's character, and the more he drank the more brutal he grew; at such moments it seemed as if all the world was his crew, and that he had a right to bully even his betters, and say disagreeable things to everybody; his excuse was that he couldn't help it—it was stronger than himself.
"Bogme!" he exclaimed, turning to one of his friends; "I should have liked to see your wife, Tripko, with Marko Kraglievic. Ah, poor Tripko!"
"Why my wife more than yours?"
"Oh, my wife knows of what wood my stick is made; you only tickle yours!"
Tripko shrugged his shoulders, and added:
"Every woman is not as sharp as Janko of Sebinje's wife, but most of them are as honest."