“And I—‘You don’t dare to, you big blunderer—’ When Radojka Milicie called him a German, he wanted to beat her, and then he began to cry, when the teacher began to explain that he wasn’t a German but a good Serbian. He cursed the village people when they called him a German. And how he looks. Don’t know how to cross his trouser straps like us—goes around like a cripple. And his mother is a German, even if she wears a done-up braid. That don’t prove anything. And I know, too, that Germans worship holy St. Martin! He does. Don’t that prove it? More than that he cuts grain with a scythe! That’s the truth. And I know all about the way you flirted with him the day all the peasants helped Stoyevic! I tell you not to look at Trino again. I’ll curse his German mother tomorrow again—and then you’ll see. He’s a coward. He does not dare do a thing!”
Some one knocked softly and the two jumped up. Three men entered. I could only see one. He was young, handsome, and wore silver buckles on his coat. The face was blackened with powder, weapons were stuck in his belt, in his hand he carried a pistol.
“Good evening,” he said harshly.
The girl was afraid but Zivko replied:
“Bad luck to you if it is God’s will.”
I saw no more for the three men had closed the door behind them, they came nearer and leaned against the very crack through which I was looking. I heard noise—then groans—and the suppressed cry of Stana:—“Robbers!”
I was terrified. I procured my revolver and went back to the door again. Just at this moment I heard at my window—“Pst pst!” and I turned.
“Sir, give me Zivko’s pistol from the wall there, quickly! Do not hesitate. I am Trino Trifunov. Quick—there are robbers here! Quick, quick!”
The danger was urgent. I understood and concluded that this man must be Trino, the German, Stana’s weapon. I did not delay but handed him the pistol. Would a robber ask me to lend him a pistol?
Now it was my turn. I saw that my revolver was in condition. And while I did it I trembled like an aspen leaf. For the first time in my life I realized that I did not carry this weapon about with me in vain; but I confess I was a good deal more afraid of my own revolver than of the robbers. How could I kill a human being! On the contrary—I would sooner have died myself.