The Pobratim: A Slav Novel

Just then the light-hearted singer passed by the laurel-bushes, without perceiving the owl-like man half hidden behind them. Vranic, lifting up his head, saw the flushed face, the sparkling eyes, the red and parted lips of his enemy's son – the youth who, by his beauty and his criminal love, had been the cause of all the mischief. Had it not been for him, his brother would probably not have been murdered, and, what was far worse, become a voukoudlak. Instinctively he clasped the handle of his dagger, and the words he had heard a little while before rang once more in his ears, urging him to make good use of the knife now that an opportunity offered itself. Besides, would not his revenge be a far keener one in killing this young man, his father's only son, than in murdering Bellacic himself? This was realkarvarina, and his lost ear would be dearly paid for.

Uplifted by a strength which was not his own, urged on almost unconsciously, Vranic jumped up and ran after the merry youth.

Uros just at that moment had perceived Milenko at a distance, and, hurrying down to meet him, he, in his joy, had not heard the fiend spring like a tiger from behind the bush and rush at him with uplifted knife.

Milenko, seeing Vranic appear all at once, with a dagger in his hand, stopped, uplifted both his hands, and uttered a loud cry of terror, threat and anger.

Uros, for an instant, could not understand what was happening; but hearing someone running after him, and already close to his heels, he turned round, and to his horror he saw Josko Vranic scowling at him. The face, with its blinking eyes and all its nerves twitching frightfully, had a fierce and fiendish expression – it was, in fact, just as he had seen it in the glass on New Year's Eve, at the fatal stroke of twelve.

A moment of overpowering superstitious terror came over Uros; he knew that his last hour had arrived. In his distracted state, Uros had only time to lift up his arm in an attitude of self-defence, but Vranic was already upon him, plunging the sharp-pointed blade in his breast. The youth uttered a low, muffled groan, staggered, put his hands instinctively to the deep gash, as if to stop the blood from all rushing out; then he fell senseless on the ground.

Vranic plucked the poniard out of the wound mechanically; his arm fell heavily of its own weight. Then, struck with a sudden terror, not because he saw Milenko rushing up, but because he was bewildered at what he had so rashly done, he, after standing quite still for a moment, turned round and fled.

Milenko had already rushed to his friend's side; he was clasping him in his arms, lifting him up with the tender fondness of a mother nursing a sickly babe. Alas! all his loving care seemed vain; the point of the dagger must have entered within his heart, and death had been instantaneous.

Milenko did not lose his presence of mind for an instant; nor did he try to run after the murderer. He took off his broad sash which he wore as a belt, tore up his shirt, rolled a smooth stone in the rag, and with this pad (to stop up the blood) he bandaged up the wound as tightly as he possibly could. Then he took up his friend in his arms, and although Uros was a heavier weight than himself, still his life of a sailor had strengthened his muscles to such a degree that he carried his burden, if not with ease, at least, not with too great difficulty, down to the neighbouring convent.

It was well known in town that some of the holy men were versed in medicine, and especially that the secret of composing salves, and the knowledge of simples with which to heal deadly wounds, was transmitted by one friar on his death-bed to another. Still, when Milenko had laid down his friend upon a bed, the wisest of these wise men shook their heads gravely and declared the case to be a desperate one. The head surgeon said that, if life were not already extinct – as Milenko had believed – still the youth's recovery could only be brought about by a miracle, for he was already beyond all human help.

Milenko felt his legs giving way. A cold, damp draught seemed to blow on his face.

"He might," continued the old man, "last some hours; he might even linger on for some days."

"Anyhow," added another caloyer, "we have time to administer the Holy Sacrament and prepare him for heaven."

"Oh, yes! there is time for that," quoth the doctor, shrugging his shoulders; "but, before the wine and bread, I'll prepare the cathartic water with which to wash the wound, for while there is life a doctor must not give up hope."

"Then," said Milenko, falteringly, "I can leave him to your care, and run and fetch his mother; he'll not pass away till my return?"

"Not if you make every possible haste."

"You promise?"

"He is in God's hands, my son."

With a heavy heart, and with the tears ever trickling down his cheeks, Milenko ran down the mountain, and all the way from the convent to the gates of Budua. He stopped to take breath before Bellacic's house, and then he went in, and, composing his face as well as he could, he gently broke the terrible news to the forlorn mother.

Mara was a most courageous woman. Far from fainting and requiring all attendance upon herself, she bethought herself at once of the difficulty in the way, for she knew that no women were admitted into a convent of monks. One person alone might help her. This was her uncle, a priest of high degree, and a most important personage in the town.

She hastened to his house, and, having explained matters to him, she implored him to start at once with her for the Convent of St. George and obtain for her the permission she required. The good man, although he hated walking, was not only very fond of his niece, but loved Uros as his own son, so he acceded at once to her request and set out with her, notwithstanding that it was nearly dinner-time, and not exactly an hour suited for a long up-hill walk. Milenko, having broken the news to Mara, hastened to his own house to inform his parents of the great misfortune. His father, snatching up a loaf of bread and a gourd of wine, started at once with him. He would go as far as the convent, enquire there how Uros was getting on, and then hasten on to Montenegro and inform Bellacic of what had taken place. When they all got to the convent they found that Uros was still alive and always unconscious.

Just when Milenko had got back to the convent he remembered that, in his hurry to go and return, he had forgotten one person, dearer to his friend, perhaps, even than father or mother; that person was Milena.

When the news of Radonic's death reached Budua, Milena made up her mind to return to her father's house. Still, she was rather weak to undertake the journey, and, moreover, she would not go there until Uros had come back.

On the morning on which Uros was expected she had gone to her own house, to put things in order previous to her departure, and Mara had promised to come and see her that afternoon, and take her home with her.

Time passed; Milena was sitting in her house alone, waiting for her friend. At every step she heard outside, her heart would begin to beat faster, and with unsteady steps she would go to the window, hoping to see Uros and his mother; but she was always disappointed. Her sufferings had told their tale upon her thin pale face, which, though it had lost all its freshness, had acquired a new and more ethereal kind of beauty. Her large and lustrous eyes – staring at vacancy – seemed to be gazing at some woful, soul-absorbing vision. The whole of that day she had been a prey to the most gloomy forebodings.

All at once a little urchin of about four or five summers stood on the doorstep.

"Gospa Milena," lisped the little child, "I've come to see you."

It had been a daring deed to wander all the way from home by himself, and he was rather frightened.

This child was the son of one of Mara's neighbours, whom Milena had of late made a pet of, and whom she had sometimes taken along with her when coming to her house.

Milena turned round and looked at the little child, that might well have been taken for an angel just alighted from heaven, for the slanting rays of the setting sun shining through his fair, dishevelled, curly locks seemed to form a kind of halo round his little head.

"Have you come all the way from home to see me?"

"Yes," said the child, staring at her to see whether she was cross.

"I've come for you to tell me a story."

Milena caught up the boy and covered him with kisses. She was about to ask him if he knew whether Uros had returned, but the question lingered for an instant on her lips; then she blushed, and feared to frame her thoughts in words. Anyhow, it was a very good excuse to shut up her house and take the little boy back home.

"Will you tell me a story?" persisted the urchin.

"Yes," said Milena, smiling, "for you must be tired and hungry, too."

She went into the orchard behind the house, and presently came back with a huge peach, which made the child's eyes glisten with pleasure.

"Now, come and sit down here, and when you've finished your peach I'll take you home."

Thereupon she sat down on her favourite seat, the doorstep, and the child nestled by her side.

"What story shall I tell you?"

"One you've already told me," replied the boy, for, like almost all children, he liked best the stories he already knew.

Milena then began the oft-repeated tale of

THE MAN WHO SERVED THE DEVIL

"Once a farmer's only son married a very young girl – "

"How old was she?" interrupted the child.

"She was sixteen."

"Last time you told me she was fifteen."

"So she was, but that was a year ago. They had a very grand wedding, to which all the people of the village were invited – "

"Not the village, the town," said the child.

"You are right," added Milena, correcting herself.

"For eight days they danced the Kolo every night, and had grand dinners and suppers."

"What had they for dinner?"

"They had roast lambs, castradina, chickens, geese – "

"And also sausages?"

"Yes; and ever so many other good things."

"But what had they for supper?"

"They had huge loaves of milk-bread and cakes with raisins – "

"Had they also peaches?" asked the boy, with his mouth full, whilst the juice of his own luscious peach was trickling down his chin.

"Yes; they had also grapes, melons and pomegranates; so when every guest had eaten till he could hardly stand, all squatted on the floor and sucked sticks of sugar-candy. When the eight days' feasting was over, the bridegroom weighed himself and, to his dismay, found that he was eight pounds lighter than on the eve of his marriage."

"Why?" asked the child, with widely-opened eyes.

"Because," answered Milena, with a slight smile and the faintest of blushes, "because, I suppose, he had danced too much."

"But if he ate till he couldn't stand?"

"Anyhow," continued Milena, "he was so frightened when he saw how much he had lost in weight that he made up his mind to run away and leave his wife at home."

"But why?" quoth the urchin.

"Because he thought that if he kept getting thin at that rate, nothing would soon be left of him. He, therefore, made a bundle of his clothes and went off in the middle of the night. He walked and walked, and after a few days, at early dawn, he got to a bleak and desolate country, where there was nothing but huge rocks, sharp flints, and sandy tracts of ground. Far off he saw a large castle, with high stone walls and big iron gates. Being very tired and not seeing either a tree or a bush as far as eye could reach, he went and knocked at one of the gates. An elderly gentleman, dressed in black, came to open, and asked him what he wanted.

"'I come,' said the bridegroom, 'to see if you are, perhaps, in want of a serving-man.'

"'You come in the nick of time,' said the old man, grinning. 'I'll take you as my cook; you'll not have much to do.'

"'But,' answered the young man, 'I'm not very clever as a cook.'

"'It doesn't matter; you'll only have to keep a pot boiling and be ever stirring what's in it.'

"He then led the young man into a kind of underground kitchen, where there was an immense pot hanging on a hook, and underneath a roaring fire was burning. Then the old gentleman gave the youth a ladle as big as a shovel, and bade him stir continually, and every now and then add more fuel to the fire.

"The youth stirred on and on for twenty-five years, and then he grew tired and stopped for a while. When he was about to begin again he heard a voice coming out of the cauldron, which said:

"'You've been mixing us up for a good long while; couldn't you let us have a little rest?'

"The cook – who was no more a youth, but an elderly man – got frightened. He left the kitchen and went to find his master.

"'Well,' said the elderly gentleman, who was not a day older than he had been twenty-five years before, 'what is it you want?'

"'I'm rather tired of always stirring that pot, and I'd like to go home.'

"'Quite right,' replied the master. 'I suppose you want your wages?'

"He then went to an iron box and took out two big sacks of gold coins.

"'You have served me faithfully, and I'll pay you accordingly. This money is yours.'

"The man took the money and thanked his master.

"'I'll give you, moreover, some advice, which is, perhaps, worth more than the money itself. Listen to my words, and remember them. Upon leaving me, always take the high road; on no account go through lanes and byways. Never put up for the night at little hostelries, but always stop at the largest inns. Whenever you are about to commit some rash act, defer your purpose till the morrow. Lastly, when people speak badly of the devil, tell them that he is less black than he is painted.'

"The man thanked his master and went off. He walked for some time on the highway, and then he met another traveller, who was walking in the same direction. After a few hours they came to a crossway.

"'Let us take this path, for we'll get to the next town two hours sooner,' said the traveller.

"The devil's cook was about to follow the stranger's advice, when he heard his master's words ringing in his ears: 'Always take the high road, and on no account go through lanes and byways.'

"He, therefore, told his fellow-traveller how he had pledged his word to his master to follow his advice. As neither could persuade the other, they parted company, promising each other to meet again at nightfall, at the neighbouring town.

"As soon as the devil's cook reached the inn where he was to spend the night, he asked for his new friend, and, on the morrow, he was grieved to hear that a wayfarer, answering to the traveller's description, had been murdered the day before, when crossing the lonely byway leading to the town.

"The devil's cook set out once more on his way, and he was soon overtaken by a party of merry pedlars, all journeying towards his native town, where, a few days afterwards, there was to be a fair held in honour of a patron saint. He made friends with all of them, especially as he bought silk kerchiefs, dresses and trinkets, as presents for his wife. They trudged along the high road, avoiding all short cuts, lanes and byways. In the evening they came to a large village, where they were to pass the night.

"'Let us stop here,' said one of the party, pointing to a tavern by the roadside; 'I know the landlord; the cooking is very good, nowhere can you get a better glass of wine; and besides, it is much cheaper than at the large inn farther down.'

"The devil's cook was already on the threshold, when he again remembered his master's words:

"'Never put up at little hostelries, but always stop at the larger inns.'

"He, therefore, parted from his company, and went off by himself to the next inn.

"He had his supper by himself, and then, being very tired, he went off to bed. In the middle of the night he was awakened by a very loud noise and a great bustle. He got out of bed, and, going to the window, he saw the sky all red, and the village seemed to be in flames. He went downstairs, and he was told that the little tavern by the roadside was burning. It appears that the travellers who had stopped there had all got drunk. Somehow or other they had set fire to the house, and, in their sleep, had all got burnt.

"The devil's cook was again grateful to his master for his good advice, and on the morrow he once more set out on his way alone.

"In the evening he at last reached his native town. He was surprised at the many changes that had taken place since he had left it twenty-five years before. On the square, just in front of his own house, a large inn had been built; therefore, instead of going at once to his wife's, he went to pass the night at the inn, and see what was taking place at home.

"From the windows of the inn he saw all his house illuminated, and people coming in and going out as if some wedding or other grand feast were taking place. Then, in one of the rooms of the first floor he saw his wife – now a buxom matron – together with two handsome youths in priest's attire. To his horror and dismay, he saw her hugging and fondling the young men, who were covering her with kisses. At this sight he got into such a rage that he took out his pistol."

"No," said the child, interrupting, "he took up his gun, which was in a corner of the room."

"Quite right," answered Milena; "he took up his gun, aimed at his wife, and was about to shoot, when he fancied he heard his master's voice saying:

"'Whenever you are about to commit some rash act, put off your purpose till the morrow.'

"He, therefore, thought he would postpone his revenge till the next day, and he went downstairs to have his supper.

"'Who lives opposite,' he asked of the landlord, 'in that house where they seem to be having such grand doings?'

"'A very virtuous woman,' quoth the host, 'whose husband disappeared in a strange, mysterious way on the eighth day of the wedding feast, and has never been heard of since.'

"'And she never married again?'

"'No, of course not.'

"'But who are those two handsome priests that are with her?'

"'Those are her two boys, twins born shortly after the marriage. The house is illuminated as to-morrow the two young men are to be consecrated priests, and their mother is giving a feast in their honour.'

"On the morrow the husband went home, made himself known, presented each of his two sons with a sack of gold coins, gave his wife all the beautiful presents he had bought for her; then he went to church and assisted at the ceremony of the consecration. After that he gave all his old friends a splendid feast, which lasted eight days; and he told them how, for twenty-five years, he had served the devil, who was by no means as black as he is painted."

"I wonder," said the child, "if he got thin again after the feast."

"I don't know," replied Milena, "for the story stops there."

"No, it doesn't, for my papa said that many people tried to go and offer themselves as cooks to the devil, but that they had never been heard of since then."

"And now I'll take you home. Perhaps we'll meet gospa Mara on our way."

"No, we'll not meet her," said the child, abruptly.

"Why? Because Uros has come home?"

"But Uros hasn't come home."

"How do you know?"

"I know, because Capitan Milenko came this morning and told gospaMara that Josko Vranic had killed Uros, and so she went off at once to the Convent of St. George, where – "

Milena heard no more. A deadly faintness came over her; she loosened the grasp of the door she had clutched, her legs sank under her, and she fell lifeless on the ground.

The urchin looked at her astonished. He, for a moment, gave up sucking his peach-stone; then he turned on his heels and scampered home to inform his mother about what had happened.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE CONVENT OF ST. GEORGE

When Mara reached the convent, it was with the greatest difficulty, and only through the persuasive influence of her uncle, Danko Kvekvic, that she was allowed to see her son. Uros, moreover, had to be transported from the cell into which he had been carried, into a room near the church – a sort of border-land between the sanctuary and the convent. Even there she was only allowed to remain till nightfall.

"Tell me," said Mara, to the ministering monk (a man more than six feet in height, and who, in his black robes, seemed a real giant), "tell me, do you think he might pass away during the night while I am not with him?"

"No, I don't think so. He is young and strong; he is one of our sturdy race – a Iugo Slav, not a Greek, or an effete Turk eaten away by vice and debauchery. He'll linger on."

"Still, there is no hope?"

"Who can tell? I never said there was none. For me, as long as there is a faint spark of life, there is always hope."

"Still, you have administered the sacrament to him?"

"You wouldn't have him die like a dog, would you?" answered the priest, combing out his long white beard with his fingers.

"No, certainly not."

"Besides, we all take the sacrament when we are in bodily health. Your son came to himself for a few moments, and we seized the opportunity to administer to him the Holy Communion and pray with him; it does no harm to the body, whilst it sets the troubled mind at ease."

Danko Kvekvic, Mara and Milenko crossed themselves devoutly.

"It cannot be denied," continued the monk, "that our patient lies there with both his feet in the grave. Still, God is omnipotent. I have seen many a brave man fall on the battlefield – "

"You have been in war?" asked Milenko, astonished.

"Bearing the Cross and tending the wounded."

"Still, it is said that at times you wielded the gun with remarkable dexterity," interrupted Danko Kvekvic, with a keen smile.

"Do people say so? Well, what if they do? I am sure no harm is meant by it; for, if my memory does not deceive me, the very same thing was said about a priest who is no monk of our order, Danko Kvekvic, and who, for all that, is said to be a holy man."

"Well, well, we all try to serve our God and our country as well as we can; and no doubt we have done our best to save our flag from being trampled in the dust, or a fellow-countryman's life when in danger. But I interrupted you; tell me what you have seen on the battlefield."

"Nothing, except blood spilt; but I was going to say that I've seen many a man linger within the jaws of death for days together, and then be snatched from danger when his state became desperate."

"By your skill, father," said Mara, "for we are all aware that you know the secrets of plants, and that you have effected wonderful cures by means of simples."

"Aye, aye! perhaps I have been more successful than the learned doctors of Dunaj" (Vienna) "or Benetke" (Venice); "still, shall I tell you the secret of my cures?"

Mara opened her eyes in wonder. "I thought it was only a death-bed secret transmitted from one dying monk to his successor," said she.

"We are not wizards," said the old man, with a pleasant smile; "we make no mystery of the herbs we seek on the mountains, and even the youngest lay-brother is taught to concoct an elixir or make a salve for wounds."

"But the secret you spoke of?" said Mara.

"It is the pure life-giving air of our mountains, the sobriety of our life, our healthy work in the open fields or on the wide sea. Our sons have in their veins their mothers' blood, for every Serb or Montenegrin woman is a heroine, a brave juna-kinja, who has often suckled her babe with blood instead of milk. These are the secrets with which we heal dying men."

Then, turning to Milenko, he added:

"You, too, must be a brave young man, and wise even beyond your years. You have the courage of reason, for you do not lose your head in moments of great danger. We have already heard how you saved several precious lives from the waves, and now, if your friend does recover – and, with God's help, let us hope he will – it is to you, far more than to anyone else, that he will owe his life. A practised surgeon could surely not have bandaged the wound and stopped the hemorrhage better than you did. Your father should have sent you to study medicine in one of the great towns."