Part 11

And Pan Strahinja--listen, my swine--the great Pan Strahinja roared. He roared like a bull. He roared until the swinging lamp of bronze began to tremble. He roared until his sword shook in its scabbard; roared until the guard awakened from their napping, and seized their spears; until the horses in the stalls began to whinny--The woman had been stolen. A moment of meditation.

There was no room for doubt. It was self evident. It was clear as daylight. It was the Turk who had stolen her. He had shown her to him in the evening just as he had shown him his horses, his weapons, and his dogs. Of course it was the Turk! The Turk--that little crooked legged, insignificant, dirty Turk! She was with the Turk! And Pan Strahinja--the great Pan Strahinja began to laugh like the spirits of a thousand mad men.

His men ran to the door of his tent.

“What is the matter, master?”

“Nothing. I was dreaming--_ha, ha, ha_--I just dreamed that you brought me the crown of the Serbs--you dogs. Didn’t you? Well--very good. Now go--_go_.”

Hardly are they out of sight when he whistles for his black slave. A few moments later a stallion stands saddled in front of the tent. He puts on his sword; it leaps from the belt toward him like a woman. And then comes his greyhound--Karaman--and leaps toward him. He swings into his gold-worked saddle, and away he rides, out upon the heights, in the sweet, star-clear night.

What a picture, my swine, what a picture! And what a thought! Pan Strahinja under the light of the moon, riding upon a stallion from whose mouth the white foam falls and clings in flecks to breast and shoulder--Pan Strahinja, riding away in the night after the pale, blond slave-child.

She had soft, strange movements she had learned from the animals of the wild. She had slender, graceful limbs and cool, sweet skin; skin cold to the touch like the skin of an Indian serpent--like the chill of the interior of sunless temples.

Ahead already stands the tent of the Turk. In a moment he has crossed the enclosure and his stallion waits by the door. Slowly he has slipped from the saddle.

He pushes the curtain back, and not like a stranger--calmly--as if he himself were master there. And then he looks upon the Turk--and the woman. All he can see of her is her long gold hair, falling from a divan to the floor. The rugs upon the floor of the tent are thick and soft. They do not hear him. Is it laughter that is shining in his eyes? Is it anger? No. It is merely the cool observation of the judge who weighs the battle.

“There is something beautiful--noble--about love,” Pan Strahinja was thinking. “I will have a picture of this scene made for myself sometime--_in gold_.”

Then Pan Strahinja lifted up his voice. He spoke just as if he were talking about the weather.

“Listen, my friend.”

“The devil!” shrieks the Turk.

“Listen, my friend. I might have killed you just now. But if I had your blood would have flowed down over this little serpent. The thought of that displeases me.”

That was well said, my swine. Don’t you think so? That’s the way distinguished people talk. What could the Turk say to that? Not a thing! So they were the only words spoken.

Now it was plain that the Turk must gird on his sword, then Pan Strahinja and the Turk walked out of the tent, out upon the hills, under the star-clear sky.

It was a procession worthy to look upon. Ahead walked Pan Strahinja and the Turk, side by side, just like friends. Next, with long, swinging strides came the stallion; behind the stallion the blond woman, hastily wrapped in a mantle of purple silk, and around them played the white greyhound with its giant leaps.

Do you suppose--you swine--that they went at each other like peasants? Is that what you think? Listen! They spoke as if races listened--nations--as if great armies stood behind them.

Thus spake Pan Strahinja, the naked sword in his left hand, while with his right hand he accompanied his princely words which were something like this:

“I am Pan Strahinja, the son of the great Pan Soundso, and the grandson of the exalted Pan Soundso, who lost his life in the glorious battle by the White Water. You know about that--And I took to me a woman for the pleasure of my nights. There she stands--a woman with the graceful body of the roebuck--and the nature of a serpent. What difference does it make? The Patriarch of Stamboul himself gave her to me--his friend--to me, the great Pan Strahinja. And one night a Turk came, and--”

This was the way he spoke.

Then the Turk began: And--that, we will leave to him--he spoke after the manner of heroes. You should have heard it, my swine, for I assure you it was not bad.

And now the fight began.

What a picture! Strength against cunning; the splendor of the lion against the cunning of the serpent. What a fight! The air trembled when the great swords swept through it. But neither hesitated. The fight became crueler and wilder. The Turk disables Pan Strahinja’s leg. Then the greyhound leaped to his throat. Pan Strahinja whistled him aside. The woman seized the mantle of Pan Strahinja, but the stallion struck at her with his hoofs. Ravens circled over their heads like black ships of a giant fleet. At length they roll down the hill together. There they lie. The eyes of the woman who stands gazing down upon them--the indifferent eyes--grow larger, grow rounder, with horror. The greyhound stands beside her ready for the plunge, like a trained leopard of the chase, and the stallion has the fire of battle in its blood.

The light of coming day can not penetrate the rocky cavern where they have rolled together, and where the great Pan Strahinja, with a hand of steel, is slowly choking the Turk to death. Ha!--my swine! He killed him with his own hand.

Then he freed himself, drew his golden dagger, and cut off the head and walked quickly, carrying it, to the high land.

He fastens the head to the saddle, lifts the woman up, swings himself to place and rides calmly away toward his tent.

A few months later the Patriarch of Stamboul visited the great Pan Strahinja, when he was setting out on his journey to Rome.

He saw hanging in the corner of his tent a skull.

“Whose is that?”

“A Turk.”

“How does he earn such honor?”

“Do you remember the woman whom you gave me for the pleasure of my nights? He wanted her.”

“And you--did you kill her?”

“Friend,” replied Pan Strahinja, “suppose someone stole your great ruby, and you found both the thief and the ruby, what would you do with the thief?”

“I would kill him.”

“And then would you throw the ruby away?”

“I’d be damned if I would!”

“--therefore--I--”

THE END

FOOTNOTES:

[1] VRCHLICKY (Yaroslav). “_Abisag._” See Underwood, Edna Worthley. (“Famous Stories From Foreign Countries.”)

[2] Golia--insane asylum in Jassy.

[3] ČECH (Svatopluk). “_The Exchange._” See Underwood, Edna Worthley. (“Famous Stories From Foreign Countries.”)

[4] Frantischek--a place on the right bank of the Moldau.

[5] The national hero of Serbia.

[6] _Indznir_--engineer.

[7] _Zadruga_--measuring and division of land.

[8] _Indznir_--engineer.

[9] Reaper--the stars forming the constellation of the Great Bear.

[10] This is a story of the late war.

[11] MIKSZÁTH (Koloman). “_The King’s Clothes._” See Underwood, Edna Worthley. (“Famous Stories From Foreign Countries.”)

[12] The writer of this story followed in the wake of the armies and wrote of the country he saw. This story was first published about three years ago.

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

The honest countenace=> The honest countenance {pg 22}

and dimissed him=> and dismissed him {pg 53}

is unhapy because=> is unhappy because {pg 84}

would be dangerout=> would be dangerous {pg 86}

his nehpew’s feet=> his nephew’s feet {pg 100}

semed to like me=> seemed to like me {pg 125}

the noise grows loud=> the noise grows louder {pg 152}

I recognized in the girl=> I recognized the girl {pg 183}

Somtimes a sob=> Sometimes a sob {pg 198}