The unhappy Prince writhed in spasms of agony, he foamed at the mouth, he gnashed his teeth, and his bloodshot eyes protruded out of his head; an icy sweat, sad forerunner of death, broke out in drops upon his brow. After a torture of half an hour, he finally yielded up the ghost in the hands of his judges.
Such was the end of Alexandru Lapushneanu, who leaves a bloody page in the history of Moldavia.
A portrait of himself and his family may be seen to this day in the Monastery at Slatina, which he built, and where he is buried.
Zidra
By M. Beza
We were talking in the inn at Grabova and passing round the wine without troubling ourselves as to the lateness of the hour. In time we began to sing—as it is the custom to sing in these parts. One raises his voice, while the others subdue theirs, till all take up the chorus:
Your head lies in my pouch,
Zidra, mighty Zidra!
Only our friend, Mitu Dola, was silent; he was much moved and kept turning first to one side and then to the other.