“Oh, that song!” he gasped when we stopped. Then suddenly to me: “Do you know who Zidra was? And do you know who killed Zidra?”
He took up his mug, drank from it several times, and then, with a brain clouded by distant memories and the strong wine, he began to tell me the story:
“It must be some thirty years ago. Zidra was then a haiduk in the Smolcu mountains. What a man! There was a heavy price upon his head. His very name, passed from mouth to mouth, brought a wave of fear. And we children would gather together in the evening under the eaves of the fountains, by the church doors, and talk of Zidra. This much we knew: at one time he had lived amongst us and then had unexpectedly disappeared from the village; on account of some murder everybody said. After a long time he appeared again, robbing a long way this side of Smolcu: ‘Zidra is at Seven-Hills; Zidra is in the Vigla Forest.’
“Whispering thus secretly, we would glance over our shoulders. We would shiver as though we could feel a cold breath from the dark thicket whence Zidra might appear. I pictured him just like my father, probably because my father, too, was a striking figure. In a coat with long flowing sleeves, his cap on one side, and his belt loaded with pistols, my father—like all tax-gatherers at that period—was on the road a great deal of his time, so that my mother and I remained alone for weeks on end.
“We had a house just on the outskirts of the village surrounded by a beech wood, the shadows of which hung darkly above our heads. How it would begin to moan at night! The rustling of the leaves, the prolonged roar of the rocking trees was like some great waterfall. From our soft bed, clasped in my mother’s arms, I listened to the fierce din. From time to time it ceased; then, through the silence, came the sound of whistling, of shots, of the trampling of horses and of men.
“I sighed with terror. ‘Mother, supposing robbers should attack us.’ ‘Hush! It is unlucky to speak of such things.’ ‘You know, mother, Zidra is in Vigla Forest.’ When I first mentioned this name my mother trembled and started back, but quickly coming forward she said hastily and with unusual anxiety: ‘Who told you this?’ ‘Cousin Gushu, mother. Gushu’s father, mother, saw a host of vultures over Vigla Forest circling round.’
“My mother repeated in a puzzled way: ‘Vultures circling round——’ Then, after thinking a moment, she said to herself: ‘That is it; that is where he halted and had his food—the vultures are attracted by the smell.’
“My father, arriving a few days later, said the same thing, while he added that some shepherds had also seen Zidra. My mother was delicate, her features bore the melancholy expression of some hidden sorrow. She looked wan and remained staring into space. ‘Eh? What?’ said my father sternly. ‘Why should I be afraid of Zidra?’
“He closed the conversation. But into our house there crept an unexplained disquietude—something intangible, blowing like an icy breath that made my mother shudder. How could I understand then? Time alone has given me the explanation of it all. And to-day when I think of the spot where this dark mystery unfolded itself old scenes and things emerge from oblivion and stand vividly before me. I see the yard of our house with the door opening into the wood, the staircase leading into the bedroom; here is the hearth and along the walls are the great wooden cupboards. Sitting upon the corner-seat by the fire my mother spun at her wheel—often she would start to spin but seemed as though she could not. She would constantly stop, her thoughts were elsewhere. And if I asked her anything, she would nod her head without listening to me. Only when, amid the loud rustle of the trees, I would mention Zidra she would turn quickly, her eyes wide open, and say with a shiver: ‘Zidra?’ ‘Yes, mother.’
“And when night fell she would try the doors one after the other. She would walk up and down, a pine-torch in her hand, passing through visions of horror, and with her went the smoking flame which rose and fell as it struggled with the shadows, moving upon the ceilings and floors and on the walls of the room where the sofa was, where it lit up for a second the hanging weapons: an old musket, two scimitars, some pistols.