Part 5

While the unhappy Motzoc was being thus treated, Lapushneanu ordered that the table should be replaced, and the utensils collected; the heads of the murdered were then cut off, and the bodies thrown out of the window. After which, he took the heads and quietly and methodically set them in the middle of the table; he placed the less important boyars below, and the more important above, according to their family and rank, until he had made a pyramid of forty-seven heads, the top of which he crowned with the head of an important Logofat. Then after washing his hands, he went to a side door, withdrew the bolt and wooden bar which secured it, and entered the Princess's apartment.

From the beginning of this tragedy, the Princess Rucsanda, ignorant of what was taking place, had been anxious. She did not understand the cause of the noise she heard, for, according to the custom of the time, women could not leave their apartment, and the servants could not risk going amongst soldiers of whose discipline they knew nothing. One among them, bolder than the others, had gone out, had heard it said that an attack had been made upon the Voda, and had carried these tidings to her mistress.

The gentle Princess was terrified, fearing the fury of the mob, and when Alexandru entered he found her praying before the Icon, with her children by her side.

"Ah," she cried, "our Lady be praised that I see you again! I have been greatly frightened."

"Wherefore? Because I promised I would prepare you a remedy for fear? Come with me, Madam."

"But those cries, those shouts we heard?"

"Nothing. The servants began to wrangle, but they are quiet now."

So saying he took Rucsanda by the hand, and led her to the dining-hall. She gave a cry of horror at the terrible sight and fainted.

"A woman is always a woman," said Lapushneanu, smiling, "instead of rejoicing, she is horrified."

He lifted her in his arms, and took her back to her apartment. Then he returned again to the hall where he found the captain of mercenaries and the esquire awaiting him.

"You can throw these corpses over the wall to the dogs, but set their heads upon the wall," he said to the mercenary. "And you," he said, addressing the esquire, "are to lay hands upon Spancioc and Stroici."

But Stroici and Spancioc were already close to the Dniester.

Their pursuers only caught up with them when they had crossed the frontier.

"Tell him who sent you," Spancioc shouted back, "that he will not see us till he is about to die!"

Four years passed since this scene, during which time Alexandru Lapushneanu, faithful to the promise made to the Princess Rucsanda, did not execute a single boyar. But, because he was unable to stifle his overmastering desire to witness human suffering, he invented various forms of torture.

He had eyes put out, noses cut off, he mutilated and maimed any person he suspected; even his suspicions were imaginary, for no one ventured to make the slightest complaint. All the same he was not at ease, for he could not lay hands on Spancioc and Stroici, who remained at Kamenitza, waiting, abiding their time. Although he had two highly-placed sons-in-law with great influence at the Polish court, he was anxious lest these two boyars should solicit the aid of the Poles, who were only seeking a pretext to invade Moldavia; but these two Roumanians were too good patriots not to reflect that war and the arrival of foreign soldiers would be the ruin of their native land.

Lapushneanu wrote to them many times in succession that if they would only return he would pledge himself, by the most sacred oath, to do them no harm; but they knew the value of his oath. In order to observe them more closely, he moved to the town of Hotin which he fortified with care, but he became ill from spleen here. The disease made rapid strides, and the tyrant soon saw himself at the portal of the tomb.

In the delirium of his fever he seemed to see all the victims of his cruelty, terrifying and admonitory, threatening him and calling to the most just God for justice. In vain he tossed upon his bed of sickness, he could not find relief.

Summoning Teofan, the Metropolitan, the Bishops and boyars, he informed them that he felt the end of his life to be approaching; he humbled himself, and implored pardon for all the wrong he had done. Finally, he begged for consideration for his son, Bogdan, to whom he left the throne of the realm if they would assist him. Being of tender years, and surrounded by powerful enemies, he would be unable to protect either himself or his country unless the boyars preserved unity among themselves and affection and loyalty to the Ruler.

"As for myself," he proceeded to say, "if I recover from this sickness, I am determined to become a monk in the Monastery of Slatina, where I may repent for the rest of the days that it pleases God to leave me. Therefore, I beseech you, Fathers, when you see me at the point of death to shave me like a monk----"

He was not able to say much more. He was seized with convulsions, and a terrible coma like death itself stiffened his body, so that the Metropolitan and the Bishops, believing him to be expiring, canonized him, bestowing upon him the name of Paisie after that of Peter, which name he had borne previous to becoming Prince. After this they paid homage to the Princess Rucsanda as regent during the minority of her son, and proclaimed Bogdan king.

Immediately after they sent envoys to all the boyars within the country and to the exiles, and to the captains of the army.

The twilight was approaching when Stroici and Spancioc arrived.

Dismounting at an inn, they approached the castle with haste. The town was silent and dreary like some gigantic tomb. Only the murmuring waters of the Dniester were audible as they continually washed the slopes of the grey bare banks, and the monotonous cry of the sentries who examined each other by the evening light along the length of their lances. Pursuing their way into the palace, they experienced no small surprise at meeting no one; at last a lacquey showed them the sick man's room. As they were about to enter they heard a loud noise, and paused to listen.

Lapushneanu was rousing from his lethargy. Upon opening his eyes he saw two monks standing, the one at his head, and the other at his feet, motionless, like two statues of bronze; he glanced at himself, and found himself clothed in the habit of a monk; round his head was a cowl. He tried to raise his hand, but was prevented by the strings of a rosary. It seemed to him as though he dreamed, and he closed his eyes again; but opening them once more after a little while he saw the same things, the rosary, the cowl, the monks.

"How are you feeling now, Brother Paisie?" one of the monks asked him, seeing that he was not sleeping.

This name brought back to his mind all that had taken place. His blood began to boil and half raising himself he cried:

"What are these? Ah, you are making fun of me! Avaunt, foul creatures! Go, or I will murder you all!"

He sought a weapon with his hand, but finding nothing but the cowl he flung it with his hand at the head of one of the monks.

At the sound of his shouting, the Princess, with her son, the Metropolitan, the boyars and servants, all entered the room.

Meanwhile the other two boyars arrived and stood by the door listening.

"Ah, you wanted to turn me into a monk," cried Lapushneanu in a raucous and terrible voice. "You thought to get rid of me? But you can dismiss that idea! God or the devil will make me well again, and----"

"Unhappy man, do not blaspheme," said the Metropolitan, cutting him short. "Do not forget you are in the hour of death! Reflect, sinful man, that you are a monk, you are no longer Ruler! Reflect that such ravings and yells are frightening this innocent woman, and this child in whom rests the hope of Moldavia."

"Infernal hypocrite!" added the sick man, endeavouring to rise from his bed. "Hold your tongue; it was I who made you Metropolitan, and I unfrock you. You tried to make me a priest but I will put that right. There are many I will make into priests. But as for that bitch, I will cut her into four pieces with her pup so that they may never again listen to the advice of hypocrites or to my enemies. He lies who says I am a monk. I am no monk--I am Ruler. I am Alexandru Voda! Help! Help! Where are my soldiers? Fetch them! Fetch them all! I will command them. Kill all these people. Let none escape. Ah! I am choking! Water! Water! Water!" And he fell back exhausted, gasping with excitement and fury.

The Princess and the Metropolitan retired. At the door they came face to face with Stroici and Spancioc.

"Madam," said Spancioc, seizing Rucsanda's hand, "that man must die at all costs. See this powder, pour it into his drink."

"Poison," she cried with a shudder.

"Poison!" pursued Spancioc. "Unless this man dies at once, the lives of your Highness and your son are in danger. The father has lived long enough and done enough. Let the father die that the son may live."

A servant came out of the room.

"What is it?" asked the Princess.

"The sick man has roused and asks for water and his son. He bade me not to return without him."

"Oh, they wish to kill him," groaned the wretched mother, pressing her son passionately to her breast.

"There is not time for hesitation, Madam," added Spancioc. "Think of the wife of Voda Shtefanitza and choose between father and son."

"What say you, Father?" said the poor woman, turning towards the Metropolitan, with her eyes full of tears.

"This man is cruel and fierce, my daughter; may the Lord God give you counsel. As for me, I go to prepare for our departure with our new Ruler; for our late Prince, may God pardon him, and also forgive you."

With these words the holy Teofan departed.

Rucsanda took a silver cup full of water, which was handed to her by the servant, and then, amid the entreaties and arguments of the boyars, poured the poison into it. The boyars pushed her into the sick man's room.

"What is he doing?" asked Spancioc of Stroici, who pushed open the door again and looked in.

"He asks for his son--he says he wishes him to come to him--he asks for a drink--the Princess trembles--she gives him the cup--he will not take it!"

Spancioc starts and draws his dagger from his belt.

"But yes, he takes it, he drinks. May it do your Highness good!"

Rucsanda emerged shaking and livid, and supporting herself against the wall.

"You must render account before God," she said, sighing, "for you have caused me to commit this sin."

The Metropolitan arrived.

"Let us go," he said to the Princess.

"But who will tend to this wretched man?"

"We will," replied the boyars.

"Oh, Father, what have you made me do!" said the Princess to the Metropolitan, and she went sobbing with him.

The two boyars went into the sick man. The poison had not yet begun to do its work. Lapushneanu lay stretched out, his face uppermost, calm but very weak. When the two boyars entered, he looked at them for some time, but not recognizing them he asked who they were, and what they had to say.

"I am Stroici," replied one.

"And I am Spancioc," added the other, "and our wish is to see you before you die as we promised you."

"Oh, my enemies!" sighed Alexandru.

"I am Spancioc," continued that person, "Spancioc whom you would fain have beheaded when you murdered the forty-seven boyars, and who escaped from your clutches! Spancioc, whose property you have destroyed leaving his wife and children to beg for alms at the doors of Christian houses."

"Ah, I feel as though a fire burnt me!" cried the sick man, grasping his stomach with both hands.

"To-day we free ourselves, for you must die. The poison works."

"Oh, you have poisoned me, infamous creatures! Oh, what a fire! Where is the Princess? Where is my son?"

"They have gone away and left you to us."

"They have gone away and left me! Have left me to you! Oh, kill me and let me escape from suffering. Oh, stab me, you are still young, have pity, free me from the agony that rends me, stab me!" he said, and turned towards Stroici.

"I will not desecrate my noble dagger with the blood of such a worthless tyrant as you."

The pains increased. The poisoned man writhed in convulsions.

"Oh," he cried, "my very soul burns me! Oh, give me water--give me something to drink."

"Look," said Spancioc, taking the silver cup from the table, "the dregs of the poison are left. Drink and quench your thirst!"

"Nay, nay, I will not," said the sick man, setting his teeth.

Then Stroici seized him and held him tight while Spancioc, drawing a knife from its sheath, unclenched his teeth with its point and poured down his throat the poison which had remained at the bottom of the cup.

Lapushneanu, roaring like a bull which sees the hand and axe which is about to strike him, tried to turn his face towards the wall.

"What, you do not want to see us?" said the boyars. "No, but it is meet that you should see in us your punishment; learn to die, you who have only known how to kill." And seizing him both together, they held him inflexibly, staring at him with devilish delight and reviling him.

The unhappy Prince writhed in spasms of agony, he foamed at the mouth, he gnashed his teeth, and his bloodshot eyes protruded out of his head; an icy sweat, sad forerunner of death, broke out in drops upon his brow. After a torture of half an hour, he finally yielded up the ghost in the hands of his judges.

Such was the end of Alexandru Lapushneanu, who leaves a bloody page in the history of Moldavia.

A portrait of himself and his family may be seen to this day in the Monastery at Slatina, which he built, and where he is buried.

ZIDRA

By M. BEZA

We were talking in the inn at Grabova and passing round the wine without troubling ourselves as to the lateness of the hour. In time we began to sing--as it is the custom to sing in these parts. One raises his voice, while the others subdue theirs, till all take up the chorus:

Your head lies in my pouch, Zidra, mighty Zidra!

Only our friend, Mitu Dola, was silent; he was much moved and kept turning first to one side and then to the other.

"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.

"Sometimes there was a pleasant silence over everything. The wood slept, the country, too, was asleep. Then, in the light of the little icon-lamp, could be heard the gentle hum of the spinning-wheel, murmuring like a golden beetle in a fairy-tale, lulling me till I slept.

"During one of these nights--the wheel stopped and I heard my mother saying: 'Tuesday at Custur, Wednesday at Lehova, Thursday--Thursday----' She knew where my father usually stayed and was calculating.

"Becoming confused she began again from the beginning: 'Tuesday at Custur, Wednesday at Lehova, Thursday--Thursday on the road.' And she rose. She went to the lamp to pour in oil that it might burn till the daylight. In the meantime a noise came from the yard and was repeated more loudly. 'Mother, some one is knocking!' 'Who could be knocking?' she murmured.

"After a moment of indecision she went downstairs. Unintelligible words followed--a man's voice, the door was shaken. My mother began to speak gently, inaudibly. Soon everything was silent again. By my side I could hear my mother's breath, coming short and with difficulty, but her tongue remained tied. When she recovered herself she said suddenly: 'Can I? How can I open? I am married. I cannot.' 'To whom, mother--to whom must you open?' She took me tremblingly in her arms, squeezed me to her, and pressed her burning cheek against mine. 'You are too little. You do not understand, my treasure!'

"And, after a while, talking more to herself, while the tears flowed slowly down her cheeks: 'At the fountain in Plaiu--it is long ago. We pledged our word--at dusk--God saw us; and in the end he made off one day, and I waited for him--years and years I waited. Now what does he want? I am married. What does he expect? Why did he come?'

"Thus much I remember. I fell asleep close to my mother. The next day she might just have got up after a long illness so white was she in the face, with fear shining in her eyes. When my father saw her he raised the thick bushy eyebrows which gave such a harsh appearance to his hairy face. 'There is something wrong, something has happened.'

"Could she deny it? They went into the room where the sofa stood, and soon after my father broke out with: 'From henceforth either I or he!' And he stormed about, taking long heavy strides while the weapons clattered on the wall. He swore, and added with a wild burst of laughter: 'Ha, ha! And the head and two hundred ducats!'

"From now on he no longer took the road; he remained on guard. Spies began to move about. Fierce-looking men knocked at the door. My father went out, exchanged some rapid words with them, among which could be continually heard the name of Zidra, and they disappeared. But what were those cries, those sharp whistles through the night? Often, too, across the hillocks came the sound of stones--stones striking one against the other, and my father replied in the same way. And the knocking sounds rose sonorous, ringing through the darkness as though some strange birds were rattling their beaks. I heard it in my sleep and shuddered. 'Have no fear,' whispered my mother, 'it is nothing, my dear one. Your father is talking--with some sentries.'

"A few weeks passed thus, until one midnight there appeared in the further room four men in black cloaks, carrying guns; they seemed to have sprung out of the ground. They shook hands and without a moment's pause began moving about in the ruddy, uncertain light of the pine-torch. In the silence outside--a silence caused by the fog which deadened all sound--their words could be overheard. As my father slung his scimitar over his shoulder, one of them said in a loud clear voice: 'At Sticótur, in the monastery.' 'Since when?' 'Since dinner-time to-day--he is eating and drinking.' 'The man is caught,' said another. 'He can't escape this time.'

"They went out quickly; they were lost in the black darkness which began to vibrate with the rising of the wind. The bushes rattled and bent beneath the rain--storms of rain beat and splashed against the window-panes, a sea of sound, storm after storm."

Here, as far as I can remember, Mitu Dola brought the story to a close. I asked:

"How did it end?"

"Didn't you hear the song? My father took the head and put it in his pouch. As he said, 'and the head and two hundred ducats.'"

GARDANA

By M. BEZA

Mitu Tega returned to the house much annoyed. As he entered his wife asked him:

"Well, has he not turned up yet?"

"No, not to-day either."

"This is what happens when you rely on an unknown man, a stranger. Suppose he never comes. God forbid that he should go off with the whole herd!"

Tega did not reply. He sat motionless in the silent veranda, which gradually grew dark with shadows of the evening mist, and pondered. Of course such things did happen; he might have taken the goats and gone off, in which case let him find him who can! Where could one look for him? Whither could one follow him?

And as he meditated thus he seemed to see the shepherd before his eyes; he called to mind the first day he had seen him; a terrible man, like a wild man from the woods, with a great moustache lost in a hard, black beard, which left only his eyes and cheek-bones visible. He came into him, and without looking him in the face, said:

"I have heard--some people told me that you want a man to tend the bucks. Take me, I am a shepherd."

Tega gave him one look, he was just the kind of man he wanted. He asked him:

"Where do you come from?"