But his sister swore both high and loudly,
“’Twas not I, upon my life, my brother;
On my life and thine, I did not do it!”
And the brother still believed his sister.
When the youthful bride of Paul discover’d
This, she slunk at evening,—evening’s meal-time,
Stole the golden knife, and with it murder’d,
Murder’d her poor infant in the cradle!
And when morning’s dawning brought the morning,
She aroused her husband by her screaming
Shrieking woe; she tore her cheeks, exclaiming:
“Evil is the love thou bear’st thy sister,
And thy gifts to her are worse than wasted;
She has stabb’d our infant in the cradle!
Will thine incredulity now doubt me?
Lo! the knife is in thy sister’s girdle.”
Up sprang Paul, like one possess’d by madness;
To the upper floor he hasten’d wildly;
There his sister on her mats was sleeping,
And the golden knife beneath her pillow.
Swift he seized the golden knife,—and drew it—
Drew it, panting, from its silver scabbard;—
It was damp with blood—’twas red and gory!
When the noble Paul saw this, he seized her,—
Seized her by her own white hand, and cursed her:
“Let the curse of God be on thee, sister!
Thou didst murder, too, my favourite courser;
Thou didst murder, too, my noble falcon;
But thou should’st have spared the helpless baby.”
Higher yet his sister swore, and louder—
“’Twas not I, upon my life, my brother;
On my life, and on thy life, I swear it!
But if thou wilt disregard my swearing,
Take me to the open fields—the desert;
Bind thy sister to the tails of horses;
Let four horses tear my limbs asunder.”
But the brother trusted not his sister:
Furiously he seized her white hand—bore her
To the distant fields—the open desert:
To the tails of four fierce steeds he bound her,
And he drove them forth across the desert;—
But, where’er a drop of blood fell from her,
There a flower sprung up,—a fragrant flow’ret;
Where her body fell when dead and mangled,
There a church arose from out the desert.
Little time was spent, ere fatal sickness
Fell upon Paul’s youthful wife;—the sickness
Nine long years lay on her,—heavy sickness!
’Midst her bones the matted dog-grass sprouted,
And amidst it nestled angry serpents,
Which, though hidden, drank her eyelight’s brightness.
Then she mourn’d her misery—mourn’d despairing;
Thus she spoke unto her lord and husband:
“O convey me, Paul, my lord and husband!
To thy sister’s church convey me swiftly;
For that church, perchance, may heal and save me.”
So, when Paul had heard his wife’s petition,
To his sister’s church he swiftly bore her.
Hardly had they reach’d the church’s portal,
When a most mysterious voice address’d them:
“Come not here, young woman! come not hither!
For this church can neither heal nor save thee.”
Bitter was her anguish when she heard it;
And her lord the woman thus entreated:
“In the name of God! my lord! my husband!
Never, never bear me to our dwelling.
Bind me to the wild steeds’ tails, and drive them;
Drive them to the immeasurable desert;
Let them tear my wretched limbs asunder.”
Paul then listened to his wife’s entreaties:
To the tails of four wild steeds he bound her;
Drove them forth across the mighty desert.
Wheresoe’er a drop of blood fell from her,
There sprang up the rankest thorns and nettles.
Where her body fell, when dead, the waters
Rush’d and form’d a lake both still and stagnant.
O’er the lake there swam a small black courser:
By his side a golden cradle floated:
On the cradle sat a young grey falcon:
In the cradle, slumbering, lay an infant:
On its throat the white hand of its mother:
And that hand a golden knife was holding.
THE BROTHERS.
Two young boys a happy mother nurtured;
Nurtured them through years of dearth and sorrow;
Ever toiling at her restless spindle.
Sweetest names she gave her hopeful children;
One was named Predrāg, [15a]—Nenād [15b] the other.
When Predrag could spring upon his courser,
Rein his courser, and his weapon brandish,
Lo! he left his home and aged mother,
To the mountain fled, and join’d the bandits:
And Nenad alone was left to cheer her.
Of his brother’s fate he nothing guess’d at;
But, as soon as he could mount his courser,
Rein his courser, and his weapon brandish,
He too left his home, and aged mother,
To the mountains fled, and join’d the bandits.
Three long years he dwelt among the bandits:
He was full of wisdom and discretion;
And in every fray him fortune favour’d:
He became the leader of the bandits.
Full three years he bore him as their leader;
Then did mother-longings move his spirit,
And he thus address’d his fellow-robbers: