“And when a year had gone by since their marriage he could endure this stillness no longer. He went to the wise old woman and told her this and asked her how to make his wife speak.
“The old woman thought, and said, ‘You will kill a sheep and take the bladder of the sheep and fill it with its blood. Secretly put the bladder into the cradle of the child. To-night speak sternly to your wife and command her to speak. If she does not answer, take your knife and say to her, ‘Speak, or I will kill the child.’ If then she does not speak, strike with your knife into the cradle and cut the bladder. When she sees the blood your wife will speak.’
“The man of Mali Sharit went with a heavy heart and a dark mind and did as the old woman had told him. He said to his wife, ‘Speak!’ and she was silent. He took out his knife and showed it to her, and she was silent. He laid his hand upon the cradle, he said he would kill the child, and she looked at him with terrible eyes and was silent. Then he struck, and the blood came red upon the blankets, and she spoke.
“She spoke with a sob and a scream. She lifted the cradle in her arms, and she said, ‘Had you been patient for three days longer, I could have made you king of the world.’ Then she wept, and her tears became a fountain, and the fountain became a mist, and the mist was gone. The man of Mali Sharit never saw his wife again, and as for the child, in three days he died. And I do not know what became of the man of Mali Sharit.”
In my disappointment I spoke too quickly, forgetting the excellence of Rexh as an interpreter. “It isn’t Albanian, after all; it’s Greek,” I said. “I remember now that I read it years ago.”
“Yes, so do I,” said Alex, and her words crossed those of Rexh, who had picked up mine and was turning them into Albanian.
“Po,” said the old man, with irony. “It is a Greek song—it is as Greek as Lec i Madhe.”
I had thanked the old man with an insult, for even the Ghegs keep smoldering in their hearts the knowledge that the Greeks hold Janina, and the memory of the burned villages and slaughtered Albanians of Epirus is only six years old. In an unguarded instant I had made for myself one of those recollections that burn in sleepless night hours. I called myself a fool, while I heard my voice trying to bury the irremediable mistake by hurried words. “What is Lec i Madhe?”
Frances and Alex were busy in a scrap bag of mythology, and Rexh replied. “I don’t know what you call him in English, Mrs. Lane. Lec i Madhe was our king of very long years ago, who went down from the mountains and took all the cities of the world. He was the son of our twentieth king, and he was a very great fighter. I think surely you must know him by some name in English. We call him Lec i Madhe; it means, the Great Lec. Because we had other kings before him called Lec.”
“Lec i Madhe?” cried Frances, headlong at the word. “Alexander the Great! What are they saying about him?”