“Wait! Where are you going?” called Zivko, who was still by the hearth and had overheard the village clerk’s words. “Will you desert my house like this?”
Day was coming. They tied the robbers still more securely. Brandy was brought in and Trino and Zivko kept embracing each other.
And Stana?
She was waiting like a child who cries for a plaything, and then at length gets it. Her cheeks were like ripe peaches, and laughingly she turned her eyes from time to time upon Zivko.
On the day of the Assumption of the Virgin, I saw in the market square, Trino and Zivko, Stana and her mother. Stana wore the headdress of married women.
I met there, too, the head man of the village. I remembered the adventure and said to him:
“Tell me—who is this Trino. What kind of a fellow is he?”
“An honest, hardworking fellow. He was not born here, and once he served in the army. But once when an Hungarian officer cursed his saint he ran a bayonet through him. And then he made his escape to Serbia.”
Twilight came on. The dancing grew merrier. Trino’s shoe strings and leggings were worn just like those of Zivko. He flung his legs and leaped about merrily in the dance. People crowded about, called, shrieked and drank. The dust was so thick one could not breathe. Roast meats were served, guns roared, glasses were broken, bag-pipes shrilled; the scent of food floated about. The gayly decorated Zivko boasted about his new brother: “No one born is strong enough to wrestle with him. There isn’t any other Trino—he is a genuine Serb!”