CHAPTER VIII

MURDER

A few days afterwards Milena heard a low whistle outside, just as if someone were calling her; the whistling was repeated again and again. She went to the open door, and she saw Vranic at a distance, apparently on the watch for her. As soon as he saw her, he beckoned to her to come out. She stepped on the threshold, and he came up to her.

"Good news, eh?" said he.

"What news?"

"Has Radonic not opened his mouth to you?"

"He has hardly said a single word all these days."

"Impossible!"

"May I be struck blind if he has!"

"Strange."

"Well, but what is it all about?"

"He told me it was a great secret; still, I did not believe him."

"But what is this great secret?"

"He is going off to Montenegro for a day or two, as he has to buy a cargo of _castradina_. Of course, he'll stay a week; and as soon as he comes back, he'll start at once on a long voyage."

"I don't believe it!"

"Yes, he is; and it's all my own doing. Now you can't say that I don't love you, Milena, can you?"

She did not give him any answer.

"You don't seem glad. Once you'd have been delighted to have a reprieve from his ill-treatment."

"Yes, but now he's only moody. He hasn't beaten me for some days."

"I told you he was as manageable as putty. Like all bullies, you can shave him without a razor, if you only know how to go about it."

"Yes; only beware. Such men never keep shape--at least, not for any length of time."

"He'll keep shape till he goes, for that's to-morrow; then----" and he winked at her as he said this.

"Come, Vranic, be kind for once in your life."

"Has anybody ever been kind to me?"

"'Do good, and don't repent having done it; do evil, and expect evil,' says the proverb."

"I never do anything for nothing; so to-morrow night I'll come for my reward."

"Leave me alone, Vranic; if not for my sake, do it for your own good. Fancy, if Radonic were to return. Surely you wouldn't shave him quite as easily as you think."

"I'll take the risk upon myself. I have lulled all his suspicions, so that he has now implicit trust in you. Besides, I'll first see him well out of the town with my own eyes; Vranic is not a seer for nothing," and he winked knowingly with his blinking eyes.

"You don't know Radonic: if you are a fox, he is no goose. He is capable of coming back just to see what I am doing."

"I think I know him a little better than you do, and a longer time. We have been friends from childhood; in fact, all but _pobratim_."

"That's the reason why you are ready to deceive him, then?"

"What business had he to marry you? What would I not do for your love, Milena? Why, I'd give my soul to Satan, if he wanted it."

"I'm afraid it's no longer yours to give away. But come, Vranic, if you really are as fond of me as you pretend to be, have some pity on me, be kind; think how wretched my whole life has hitherto been, leave me alone, forget me."

"Ask me anything else but that. How can I forget you? How can I cease loving you, when I live only for you? I only see through your eyes."

"Then I'll ask Radonic to take me to Montenegro with him, and I'll remain with my family."

"And I'll follow you there. You don't understand all the strength of my love for you."

Thereupon, forgetting his usual prudence, he stepped up to her, and passing his arm round her waist, he strained her to his breast, and wanted to kiss her. She wriggled and struggled, and tried to push him away.

"Unhand me," she said, alarmed; "unhand me at once, or I'll scream."

"Lot of good it'll do you. Come," he replied, "remember your promise. I've kept my part, try and keep yours with good grace or----"

"What?" she asked, alarmed.

"Or by the holy Virgin, it'll be so much the worse for you! I know----" he stopped, and then he added: "In fact, I know what I know. Remember, therefore, it is much better to have Vranic for your friend than for your foe."

"Mind, you think me a dove."

"I only know that women have long hair and little brains. Try and not be like most of them."

"Mind, I might for once have more brains than you; therefore, I entreat you, nay, I command you, not to try and see me to-morrow."

"As for that, I'll use my own discretion."

Saying these words, he went off, and left Milena alone. As soon as he had disappeared, she went in, and sank down on the hearth; there, leaning her elbows on her knees, she hid her face between her palms; then she began nursing her grief.

"They say I am happy," she muttered to herself, "because I am rich --though I have not a penny that I can call my own--because I can eat white bread every day. Yet would it not be better by far to be an animal and graze in the fields, than eat bread moistened with my own tears? Oh! why was I not born a man? Then, at least, I might have gone where I liked--done what I pleased.

"They think I am happy, because no one knows what my life has been; though, it is true, what is a woman's life amongst us?

"She toils in the field the whole of the live-long day, whilst her husband smokes his pipe. She is laden like a beast of burden; she is yoked to the plough with an ox or an ass, and when they go to pasture she trudges home with the harness, to nurse the children or attend to household work. Meanwhile, her master leisurely chats with his friends at the inns, or listens to the _guzlar_.

"What is her food? The husks that dogs cannot eat, the bones which have already been picked. If Turkish women have no souls, they, at least, are not treated like beasts during their lifetime.

"Oh! holy Virgin, why was I not born a man?"

That evening Radonic came home more sullen and peevish than usual; still, he was sober. He sat down to supper, and Milena waited upon him. As soon as he had pushed his plate away:

"Have you seen Vranic to-day?" he asked, gruffly.

"I have," answered the wife, meekly.

"Ah, you have!" and he uttered a fearful oath.

Milena crossed herself.

"And where have you seen him?"

"He came here at the door."

"May he have a fit to-night," he grunted. Then, after a puff at his pipe: "And what did he say?"

"That you intended starting to-morrow morning for Montenegro, to buy _castradina_, and----"

Radonic gave such a mighty thump on the table that the _bukara_ was upset. It rolled and fell to the ground before it could be caught. Milena hastened to pick it up, but the wine was spilt. The husband thereupon, not knowing how to vent his spite, gave a kick to the poor woman just as she stooped to pick it up. She slipped and fell sprawling to the ground, uttering a stifled groan. Then she got up, deathly pale, and went to sit down in a corner of the room, and began to cry unperceived.

"And what did you answer when he told you that I was starting?"

"I begged him to leave me in peace, and above all not to come to-morrow evening, if his life was dear to him."

"Ah! you begged him, did you? Well, if ever man was blessed with a foolish wife, I am."

A moment's silence followed, after which he added:

"What a fool a man is who gets married--above all, a sailor who takes as his wife a feather-brained creature, as you are. May God hurl a thunderbolt at me if I'd marry again were I but free."

Poor Milena did not reply, for she was inured to such taunts, Radonic being one of those men who pride themselves on speaking out their own minds. She kept crying quietly--not for the pain she felt, but because she dreaded the fatal consequences of the kick she had just received.

"Will you stop whimpering, or I'll come and give you something to cry for. It's really beyond all powers of endurance to hear a woman whine and a pig squeak; if there is a thing that drives me mad, it's that."

Thereupon Radonic began to puff at his pipe savagely, snarling and snorting as he smoked.

"And may I ask why you begged that double-faced, white-livered friend of yours not to come to-morrow evening?" he asked, after some minutes.

"Vranic was never a friend of mine," said Milena, proudly.

"Admitting he wasn't, still you haven't answered my question; but I suppose it doesn't suit you to answer, does it?"

"Why not? I begged him not to come because I was afraid some mischief might ensue, withal you promised me not to be rash."

"I promised you, did I? Anyhow, I find that you take a great interest in this friend of mine, far more than it becomes an honest woman." Then, with a scowl and a sneer: "If you _are_ honest."

Milena winced, and grew deathly pale. She did not give her husband any answer, so he, after grunting and grumbling and smoking for some time, got up and went to bed. She, however, remained where she was seated--or rather crouched--for she knew that she could not sleep.

How could she sleep?

First, she was not feeling well. The kick she had received in her side had produced a slight, dull, gnawing soreness; moreover, she felt--or at least she fancied she could feel--a gnawing pain; it was not much of a pain, only it seemed as if a watch were ticking there within her. She shuddered and felt sick, a cold sweat gathered on her brow, and she trembled from head to foot.

Some women in her state--she had heard--never got over the consequences of a blow; perhaps the kick might produce mortification, and then in a few days she would die. Yes, she felt as if she had received an inward incurable bruise. Well, after all, it was but right; she had deceived her husband; he had revenged himself. Now they were quits.

Still tears started to her eyes, and sobs rose to her throat.

Well, after all, she thought, what did it matter if she died? This wretched life would be over.

Only----

Only what?

Yes, she avowed it to herself; she longed to see Uros' fond face once more before dying. With her hand locked in his, her eyes gazing upon him, death would have almost been bliss.

With a repressed and painful yearning, her lover's name at last escaped her lips.

Radonic, who had been snoring as if he was about to suffocate, uttered a kind of snorting sound, then he started and woke with a fearful curse on his lips.

Milena, shuddering, uttered a half-stifled cry.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"Nothing, I was only dreaming. I thought that a young sailor, whom I once crippled with a kick, had gripped me by my neck, and was choking me."

"It must have been the _morina_" (the nightmare) "sitting on you," and Milena crossed herself.

"How is it you are not in bed?" he asked, scowling.

She did not speak for an instant.

He started up to look at her.

"Perhaps that villain is sneaking about the house, and you wish to warn him?"

"Your jealousy really drives you mad."

"Well, then, will you speak? Why are you not yet in bed?"

"I--I don't feel exactly well."

"Why, what's the matter?"

"The kick you gave me," she retorted, falteringly.

"Why, I hardly touched you! well, you are getting mighty delicate; you ought to have had the kick I gave that sailor lad, then you would have known the strength of my foot!"

"Yes, but----" She checked herself, and then added: "Women are delicate."

"Oh! so you are going to be a grand lady, and be delicate, are you? Who ever heard of a Montenegrin being delicate?" Then he added: "If you don't feel well, go to bed and try to sleep."

Thereupon he turned on the other side, and began to snore very soon afterwards.

Milena began to think of what had been and might have been.

She had sinned, foolishly, thoughtlessly; but since that fatal night she had never known a single moment's happiness. As time passed, the heinousness of her sin rose up before her, more dreadful, more appalling.

Still, was it the sin itself, or its dire consequences, that rendered her so moody, so timorous?

She never asked herself such a question; she only knew that she now started, like a guilty thing, at the slightest noise, and she shivered if anybody spoke to her abruptly. At times she fancied everybody could read her guilt in her face.

She had been more than once tempted, of late, to tell her husband that, in some months, she would be a mother. Still, the words had ever stuck in her throat; she could never nerve herself enough to speak.

Though he might probably never have got to know the real truth, could she tell him that _he_ was the father of her child, or, at least, allow him to think so? No, she could never do that, for it was impossible to act that lie the whole of her life. Could she see her husband, returning from a long voyage, take in his arms and fondle the child that was not his, the child that he would strangle if he knew whose it was?

Although an infant is the real, nay, the only bond of married life, still, the child of sin is a spectre ever rising 'twixt husband and wife, estranging them from one another for ever.

Then she had better confess her guilt at once. And bring about three deaths? Aye, surely; Radonic was not a man to forgive. He had crippled a sailor lad for some trifle.

She must keep her secret a little longer--and then?

Thereupon she fell on her knees before the silver-clad image of the Virgin.

"Oh, holy Virgin, help me! for to whom can I turn for help but to thee? Help me, and I promise thee never to sin again, either by word or action, all my life." And she kissed the icon devoutly. "Oh, holy Virgin, help me! for thou canst do any miracle thou likest. Show mercy upon me, and draw me from this sorrowful plight. I shall work hard, and get thee, with my earnings, as huge a taper as money can buy.

"And thou, great St. George, who didst kill a dragon to save a maid, save me from Vranic; and every year, upon thy holy day, I shall burn incense and light a candle before thy picture, if thou wilt listen to my prayer."

After that, feeling somewhat comforted, she went to bed, and at last managed to fall asleep, notwithstanding the pain she felt in her side.

On the morrow Radonic went away as usual, and Milena was left alone. The day passed away slowly, gloomily. The weather was dull, sultry, oppressive. The sirocco that blew every now and then in fitful, silent gusts, was damp, stifling, heavy. A storm was brewing in the air overhead, and all around there was a lull, as if anxious Nature were waiting in sullen expectation for its outburst. The earth was fretful; the sky as peevish as a human being crossed in his designs. The hollow, rumbling noise in the clouds seemed the low grumbling of contained anger.

Everybody was more or less unsettled by the weather--Milena more than anyone else. As the day passed her nervousness increased, and solitude grew to be oppressive.

Her husband, before leaving the house, had told her to go and spend the evening at her kinswoman's, as a bee was to be held there; the women spun, and the men prepared stakes for the vines. Bellacic was fond of company, and he liked to have people with merry faces around him, helping him to while away the long evening hours; nor did he grudge a helping hand to others, whenever his neighbours had any kind of work for him to do.

"I'll come there and fetch you as soon as I've settled my business with Vranic," said Radonic, going off.

Milena, understanding that her husband wanted her out of the way, decided upon remaining at home, and, possibly, preventing further mischief.

The day had been dark and gloomy from morning; the clouds heaped overhead grew always blacker, and kept coming down lower and ever lower. Early in the afternoon the light began to wane. Her uneasiness increased at approaching night. With the gloaming her thoughts grew dreary and dismal. She was afraid to remain at home; she was loth to go away. Unable to work any longer, she went outside to sit on the doorstep and spin. Now, at last, the rain began, and lurid flashes were seen through the several heaps and masses of clouds.

The lightning showed to her excited imagination not only numberless witches, morine and goblins, chasing and racing after each other like withered leaves in a storm, but in that horrid landscape she perceived murderous battles, hurtling onslaughts, fearful frays and bloodshed, followed by spaces that looked like fields of fire and gory hills of trodden snow. It was too dreadful to look at, so she turned round to go in. She would light the lamp and kindle the fire. At a few steps from the threshold she heard, or, at least, she fancied she heard, someone whistle outside. She stopped to listen. Perhaps it was only the shrill sound of the wind through the leafless bushes; for the wind has at times the knack of whistling like a human being.

She again advanced a step or two towards the hearth; and as she did so, she stumbled on something. She uttered a low, muffled cry as she almost fell. On what had her foot caught? She bent down, and felt with her hand. It seemed like the corpse of a man stretched out at full length--a human creature wallowing in his own blood. A sickening sense of fear, a feeling of faintness, came over her. She hardly dared to move. Her teeth were chattering; all her limbs were trembling. Still, she managed to recover her self-possession, so as to grope and put her hand on the steel and flint. Still, such was her terror, that everything she touched assumed an uncouth, ungainly, weird shape. Having found the steel, she managed to strike a light. That faint glimmer dispelled her terror, and she asked herself how she could have been so foolish as to take a coat lying on the floor for a murdered man.

The thing that puzzled her was how that coat came to be lying there on the floor. It was her husband's old _kabanica_, and it must have been left on some stool.

As all these thoughts flitted through her mind, a loud crack was heard--a jarring sound amidst the hushed stillness of the house. Milena shuddered; a hand seemed to grip her throat. Her heart stopped for a moment; then it began to throb and beat as if it were going to burst. She gasped for breath.

What was that ominous noise? The hoop of a tub had broken!

To the uninitiated this might seem a trifle, but to those versed in occult lore it was a fearful omen. Someone was to die in that house, and this death was to happen soon, very soon; perhaps before daybreak.

She was so scared that she could not remain a moment longer in that house; so, wrapping herself up in her husband's old coat, she hastened out of the house. Just then Uros' last words sounded in her ears:

"If you are alone and in trouble, go to my mother; she will not only be a friend to you, but love you as a daughter for my sake."

Her husband that morning had sent her to Mara's; she could not remain alone any longer; it was _Kismet_ that she should go. Besides, Vranic might be coming now at any moment, and even if she swore to him that her husband had not started, he would not believe her; then she would only excite her husband to greater wrath if he came and found him alone with her. No, on the whole, it was better by far to obey her husband's behest; therefore, she started off. She ran quickly through the pouring rain, and never stopped till she was at Bellacic's door.

"Oh! Milena, is it you?" said Mara, her motherly eyes twinkling with a bright smile of welcome; "though, to tell you the real truth, I almost expected you."

"Why?"

"Because a big fly has been buzzing round me, telling me that some person who is fond of me would come and see me. Oracles are always true; besides," added she, with a smile and a sly look, "just guess of what I've been dreaming?"

"Of black grapes, that bring good luck, I suppose."

"No, of doves; so I'll surely get a letter from Uros to-morrow or the day after."

Milena looked down demurely; she blushed; then, to turn away the conversation, she added:

"To-day, for a wonder, Radonic has sent me to pass the evening with you; he'll come to fetch me later on--at least, he said he would."

"It is a wonder, indeed--why, what's come over him? He must have put on his coat inside out when he got up."

Milena thereupon told her friend why her husband did not want her at home.

"Anyhow, I'm very glad you've come, for I'm embroidering two waistcoats--one for Uros, the other for Milenko--and my poor eyes are getting rather weak, so you can help me a little with the fine stitching."

"Radonic told me that some of your neighbours are coming to make stakes."

"Are they? My husband did not say anything about it."

After some time, Markovic and his wife, and several other neighbours, made their appearance.

As every man came in, he greeted Milena, and, seeing her alone, asked her where Radonic was. She, like a true Montenegrin, warded off the question by answering with a shrug of her shoulders and in an off-hand way:

"May the devil take him, if I know where he is. I daresay he'll pop up by-and-bye."

Etiquette not only requires a wife to avoid speaking of her husband, but also to eschew him completely when present, just as more northern people ignore entirely the name of certain indispensable articles of clothing.

When all the guests were assembled, and such dainties as roasted Indian-corn, melon, pumpkin and sun-flower seeds were handed round, together with filberts and walnuts, then the bard (the honoured guest) was begged to sing them a song. The improvisatore, stroking his long moustache and twisting its ends upwards that they might not be too much in his way as he spoke, took down his _guzla_ and began to scrape it by way of prelude. This was not, as amongst us, a sign to begin whispered conversation in out of the way corners, or to strike an attitude of bored sentimentality, for everybody listened now with rapt attention.

THE FAITHLESS WIFE.

When Gjuro was about to start for war, And leave his wife alone within his hall, He fondly said: "Dear Jeljena, farewell, My faithful wife; I now hie to the camp, From whence I hope to come back soon; so for Thine own sweet sake and mine be true to me." In haste the wanton woman answered back: "Go, my loved lord, and God watch over thee." He had but gone beyond the gate, when she Took up a jug and went across the field To fetch fresh water from the fountain there; And having got unto the grassy glen, she saw A handsome youth, who had adorned his cap With flowers freshly culled from terebinth. And unto him the sprightly wife thus spoke: "Good day to thee, brave Petar; tell me, pray, Where hast thou bought those blossoms fresh and fair?" And he: "God grant thee health, O Gjuro's wife; They were not got for gold, they are a gift." Then Jelka hastened back to her own house, And to her room she called her trusted maid. "Now list," said she. "Go quick beyond the field And try to meet young Petar Latkovin; With terebinth you'll see his cap adorned. Say unto him: 'Fair youth, to thee I bear The greetings of good Gjuro's wife, and she Doth kindly beg that thou wilt sup with her, And spend the night in dalliance and delight-- And give her one fair flower from thy cap. The castle hath nine gates; the postern door Will ope for thee, now Gjuro is far off." The handmaid forthwith to the fountain sped, And found the youth. "Good day, my lord," said she. "Great Gjuro's winsome wife her greetings sends; She begs that thou will sup with her this night, And grant her those sweet sprays of terebinth. Nine gates our manor has; the small side door Will be left ope for thee, my handsome youth, As Gjuro is away." Then Petar thanked And longed that night might come. At dusk, with joy He to the castle sped. He put his steed In Gjuro's stall, and then his sword he hung Just in the place where Gjuro hung his own, And set his cap where Gjuro placed his casque. In mirth they supped, and sleep soon closed their eyes; But, lo! when midnight came, the wife did hear Her husband's voice that called: "My Jelka dear, Come, my loved wife, and open quick thy doors." Distracted with great fear, she from her bed Sprang down, scarce knowing what to do; but soon She hid the youth, then let her husband in. With feigning love she to his arms would fly, But he arrested her with frowning mien. "Why didst thou not call quick thy maiden up To come and ope at once these doors of thine?" "Sweet lord, believe a fond and faithful wife: Last night this maid of mine went off in pain To bed; she suffers from the ague, my lord; So I was loth, indeed, to call her up." "If this be true, you were quite right," quoth he; "Yet I do fear that all thy words are lies." "May God now strike me dumb, if all I spake Be aught than truth," said Jeljena at once. But frowning, Gjuro stood with folded arms: "Whose is that horse within my stall? and whose That cap adorned with flowers gay? And there I see a stranger's sword upon the wall." "Now listen to thy loving wife, my lord. Last night a warrior came within thy walls, And wanted wine, in pledge whereof he left His prancing steed, his sword, and that smart cap," Said Yelka, smiling sweetly to her lord. And he with lowering looks, then said: "'Tis well, Provided thou canst swear thou speakest true." "The Lord may strike me blind," she then replied. "Why is thy hair dishevelled, and thy cheeks Of such a pallid hue? now, tell me why?" And she: "Believe thine honest wife. Last night As I did walk beneath our orchard trees, The apple boughs dishevelled thus my hair, And then I breathed the orange blossom scent, Until their fragrance almost made me faint." Now Gjuro's face was fearful to behold, Still as he frowned he only said: "'Tis well, But on the holy Cross now take an oath." "My lord, upon the holy Cross I swear." "Now give me up the key of mine own room." Then Jeljena grew ghastly pale with fear, Still she replied in husky tones: "Last night As I came from your room the key did break Within the lock, so now the door is shut." But he cried out in wrath: "Give me my key, Or from thy shoulders I shall smite thy head!" She stood aghast and speechless with affright, So with his foot he burst at once the door. There in the room he found young Latkovin. "Now, answer quick: Didst thou come here by strength, Or by her will?" The youth a while stood mute, Not knowing what to say. But looking up: "Were it by mine own strength," he then replied, "Beyond the hills she now would be with me; If I am here, 'tis by her own free will." Then standing straight, with stern and stately mien, Unto the youth he said, in scornful tones: "Hence, get thee gone!" Now, when they were alone, He glanced askance upon his guilty wife With loathsomeness and hatred in his eyes: "Now, tell me of what death thou'lt rather die-- By having all thy bones crushed in a mill? Or being trodden down 'neath horses' hoofs? Or flaring as a torch to light a feast?" She, for a trice, nor spake, nor moved, nor breathed, But stood as if amazed and lost in thought; Then, waking up as from some frightful dream: "I am no corn to be crushed in a mill, Or stubble grass for steeds to tread upon; If I must die, then, like unto a torch, Let me burn brightly in thy banquet hall." In freezing tones the husband spake and said: "Be it, then, as you list," and thereupon He made her wear a long white waxen gown. Then, in his hall, he bound her to a pyre, And underneath he piled up glowing coals, So that the flame soon rose and reached her knees. With tearful eyes and a heartrending cry: "Oh! Gjuro mine, take pity on my youth; Look at my feet, as white as winter snow; Think of the times they tripped about this hall In mazy dance; let not my feet be scorched." To all her prayers he turned a ruthless ear, And only heaped more wood on the pile. The lambent flames now leapt up to her hands, And she in anguish and in dreadful dole Cried out: "Oh! show some mercy on my youth; Just see my hands--so soft, so small, so smooth-- Let not these scathful flames now scorch my hands. Have pity on these dainty hands of mine, That often lifted up thy babe to thee." Her words awoke no pity in his heart, That seemed to have become as cold as clay; He only heaped up coals upon the pile, Like some fell demon who had fled from hell. The forked lurid tongues rose up on high, Like slender fiery snakes that sting the flesh, And, leaping up, they reached her snowy breast. "Oh! Gjuro," she cried out, "for pity's sake Have mercy on my youth; torment me not. Though I was false to thee, let me not die. See how these fearful flames deflower these breasts-- The fountain that hath fed thine infant's life-- See, they are oozing o'er with drops of milk." But Gjuro's eyes were blind, his ears were deaf; A viper now was coiled around his heart, That urged him to heap up the pile with wood. The rising flames began to blind her eyes; Still, ere the fearful smoke had choked her breath, She cast on Gjuro one long loving glance, And craved, in anguish, mercy on her youth: "Have pity on my burning eyes, and let Me look once more upon my little child." To all her cries his cruel soul was shut; He only fanned and fed the fatal flame, Until the faithless wife was burnt to death.

A moment of deep silence followed; the men twisted their moustaches silently, the women stealthily wiped away their tears with the back of their hands.

"Gjuro was a brute!" at last broke out a youth, impetuously.

Nobody answered at once; then an elderly man said, slowly:

"Perhaps he was, but you are not a husband yet, Tripko; you are only in love. Adultery, amongst us, is no trifle, as it is in Venice, for instance; we Slavs never forgive."

"I don't say he ought to have forgiven; in his place I might have strangled her, but as for burning a woman alive, as a torch, I find it heinous!"

Milena, who had fancied herself in Jeljena's place, could not refrain her sobs any longer; moreover, it seemed to her as if her guilt had been found out, and she wished the earth would open and swallow her alive.

"Oh, my poor Milena!" said Mara, soothingly, "you are too tender-hearted; it is only a _pisma_, after all." Then, turning to her neighbour, she added: "She has not been well for some days, and then----" she lowered her voice to a whisper.

"I am sorry," said the bard, "that I upset you in this way but----"

"Oh! it is nothing, only I fancied I could see the poor woman burning; it was so dreadful!"

"Here," said Bellacic, "have a glass of _slivovitz_; it'll set you all right. Moreover, listen; I'll tell you a much finer story, only pay great attention, for I'm not very clever at story-telling. Are you all ears?"

"Yes," said Milena, smiling.

"Well, once upon a time, there was a man who had three dogs: the first was called Catch-it-quick; the second, Bring-it-back; and the third, I-know-better. Now, one morning this man got up very early to go out hunting, so he called Catch-it-quick, Bring-it-back, and --and--how stupid I am! now I've forgotten the name of the other dog. Well, I said I wasn't good in telling stories; what was it?"

"I-know-better," interrupted Milena.

"No doubt you do, my dear, so perhaps you'll continue the story yourself, as you know better."

Everybody laughed, and the gloom that had come over the company after the bard's story was now dispelled.

"Radonic is late; I'm afraid, Milena, if you went back home, you'd have to prepare a stake for him," said Markovic. Then, turning to the bard: "Come, Stoyan, give us another _pisma_."

"Yes, but something merry," interrupted Tripko; "tell us some verses about the great _Kraglievic_."

The bard, contrary to his wont, was sipping his glass of _slivovitz_ very slowly; he now finished it and said:

"I'll try, though, to tell you the truth, I'm rather out of sorts this evening; I really don't know why. There is an echo, as if of a crime, in the slightest noise, a smell of blood in every gust of wind. Do you not hear anything? Well, perhaps, I am mistaken."

Everyone looked at one another wistfully, for they all knew that old Stoyan was something of a prophet.

"There! listen," said he, staring vacantly; "did you not hear?"

"No," said Bellacic; "what was it?"

"Only the heavy thud of a man falling like a corpse on the ground," and as he said these words he crossed himself devoutly and muttered to himself: "May the Lord forgive him, whoever he is." Thereupon everybody present crossed himself, saying: "_Bog nas ovari._"

Milena shuddered and grew deathly pale; though she was not gifted with second sight, she saw in her mind's eye something so dreadful that it almost made her faint with terror. Mara, seeing her ghastly pale, said:

"Come, give us this song, but let it be something brisk and merry, for the howling of the wind outside is like a funeral wail, and it is that lament which makes us all so moody to-night."

"You are right, _gospodina_; besides, one man more or less--provided he is no relation of ours--is really no great matter. How many thousands fell treacherously at Kossoro." Then, taking up his bow, he began to scrape the chord of his _guzla_, in a swift, jerking, sprightly way.

"What is it?" asked Bellacic.

And Stoyan replied, as he began to sing:

MARKO KRAGLIEVIC'S FALCON.

A falcon flies o'er Budua town; It bears a gleaming golden crest, Its wings are gilt, so is its breast; Of clear bright yellow is each claw, And with its sheen it lights the wold.

Then all the maids of Budua town Ask this fair sparkling bird of prey Why it is yellow and not grey? Who gilded it without a flaw? Who gave it that bright crest of gold?

And to the maids of Budua town That falcon shy did thus reply: Listen, ye maids, and know that I Belong to Mark the warrior brave, Who is as fair as he is bold.

His sisters dwell in Budua town The first, the fairest of the two, Painted my claws a yellow hue, And gilt my wings; great Marko gave To me this sparkling crest of gold.

He finished, and then, as it was getting late, everyone began to wish Bellacic and Mara good-night and to go off. Several of the guests offered to see Milena home, but the _domacica_ insisted that her kinswoman should remain and spend the night with her, and Milena consented full willingly, for she dreaded going back home.

When all the guests had gone, Mara took Milena in bed with her; but she, poor thing, could not find rest, for the words of the bard kept ever ringing in her ears. Then she saw again the great-coat lying on the floor, looking like a corpse; and, in the howling wind, she thought she heard a voice calling for help. Who was it? Radonic or Vranic?

It was only the wind howling outside through the trees, creeping slily along the whitewashed walls of the houses, stealthily trying to find some small cranny wherein to creep, then shrieking with a shrill cry of exultation when it had come to an open window, or when, discovering some huge keyhole, it could whistle undisturbed.

At last, just as Milena began to get drowsy, and her heavy eyelids were almost closed, she again saw the _kabanica_, which had--some hours ago--been lying on the floor, rise and twist itself into the most grotesque and fantastic attitudes, then--almost hidden under the hood--Vranic's face making mouths at her. She opened her eyes widely, and although consciousness had now returned, and she knew that the great-coat had been left in the other room, still she saw it plainly dancing and capering like a monkey. She shivered and shuddered; she closed her eyes not to see it; still, it became ever more distinct. Then she buried her face in the pillow, and covered up her head in the sheet; then by degrees a feeling of drowsiness came over her, and just as she was going off to sleep the _kabanica_, which was standing erect, fell all at once to the ground with a mighty thud that almost shook the whole house, and even seemed to precipitate her down some bottomless hole. In her terror she clutched at Mara, who was fast asleep, and woke her.

"What's the matter?" asked the elderly woman.

"I heard a loud voice; didn't you hear it?"

"No, I had just dropped off to sleep."

Thereupon both the women listened, but the house was perfectly quiet.

"What kind of a noise was it?"

"Like a man falling heavily on the ground."

"You must have been dreaming; Stoyan's words frightened you, that's all, unless the cat or the dog knocked something down. You know, at night every noise sounds strange, uncouth, whilst in the day-time we'd never notice them. Now, the best thing you can do is to try and go off to sleep."

Alas! why are we not like the bird that puts its head under its wing and banishes at once the outer world from its view. Every endeavour she made to bring about oblivion seemed, on the contrary, to stimulate her to wakefulness, and thereby frustrate her efforts. Sleepiness only brought on mental irritation, instead of soft, drowsy rest. The most gloomy thoughts came into her mind. Why had her husband not come to fetch her? Perhaps Vranic, seeing himself discovered, had stabbed him to death. Then she thought that, in this case, all her trouble would be at an end. Thereupon she crossed herself devoutly, and uttered a prayer that her husband might not be murdered, even if he had been cruel to her. Still, she was quite sure that, if Radonic ever discovered her guilt, he would surely murder her--burn her, perhaps, like Gjuro had done.

Thereupon she heard the elderly man's slow and grave voice ringing in her ears:

"Slavs never forgive. Adultery amongst us is no trifle, as it is in Venice."

She shuddered with terror. Every single word as it had been uttered had sunk deep into her breast, like drops of burning wax falling from Jeljena's gown. Each one was like the stab of a sharp knife cutting her to the quick.

Then again she fancied that Stoyan had sung that _pisma_ only to taunt her.

She had once heard the _pop_ read in the Bible about an adulteress in Jerusolim who was to be stoned to death.

Had not every word that evening been a stone thrust at her? What was she to do? What was to become of her? Once entangled in the net of sin, every effort we make to get out of it seems to make us flounder deeper in its fatal meshes.

All these thoughts tortured and harassed her, burning tears were ever trickling down her cheeks, her weary head was aching as she tossed about, unable to go off to sleep, unable to find rest; nay, a creepiness had come over all her limbs, as if a million ants were going up and down her legs.

How glad she was at last to see through the curtainless window the first glimmer of dawn dispel the darkness of the night--the long, dreary, unending night.

"You have had a bad night," said Mara. "I heard you turning and tossing about, but I thought it better not to speak to you. I suppose it was the bed. I'm like you, I always lose my sleep in a new bed."

"Oh, no!" said Milena. "I was anxious."

"About your husband? Perhaps he got drunk and went off to sleep."

As soon as Milena was dressed she wanted to go off, but Mara would not allow her.

"First, your husband said he'd come and fetch you, so you must stay with us till he comes; then, remember you promised to help me with my embroidery, so I can't let you go."

"No, I'm too anxious about Radonic. You know, he's so hasty."

"Yes, he's a brute, I know."

"Besides, I can't get the bard's words out of my head."

"In fact, poor thing, you are looking quite ill. Anyhow, I'll not allow you to go alone, so you must wait till I've put the house in order, and then I'll go with you."

As soon as breakfast was over, and Bellacic was out of the house, Mara got ready. She little knew that, though Milena was anxious to find out the dreadful truth of that night's mystery, she was in her heart very loth to return home.

Just as Mara was near the door, she, like all women, forgot something and had to go in, for--what she called--a minute. Milena stepped out alone. First, as she pushed the door open, the hinges gave a most unpleasant grating sound. She shivered, for this was a very bad omen. Then a cat mewed. Milena crossed herself. And, as if all this were not enough, round the corner came an old lame hag whom she knew. The old woman stopped.

"What, _gospa_! is it you? and where are you going so early in the morning?"

Milena shuddered, and her teeth chattered in such a way that she could hardly answer her. It was very bad to meet an old woman in the morning; worse still, a lame old woman; worst of all, to be asked where you are going.

The best thing on such a day would be to go back in-doors, and do nothing at all; for everything undertaken would go all wrong.

The old woman's curiosity having been satisfied, she hobbled away, and soon disappeared, leaving Milena more dejected and forlorn even than she had been before.

Mara came out, and found her ghastly pale; she tried to laugh the matter over, though she, too, felt that it was really no laughing matter. Weary and worn, poor Milena dragged herself homewards, but her knees seemed as if they were broken, and her limbs almost refused to carry her.

Soon they came in sight of the house; all the windows and the doors were shut--evidently Radonic was not at home.

"I wonder where he is," said Milena to her friend.

"Probably he has gone to our house to look for you. If you had only waited a little! Now he'll say that we wanted to get rid of you."

At last they were at the door.

"And now," said Mara, "probably the house is locked, and you'll have to come back with me." Then, all at once interrupting herself: "Oh! how my left ear is ringing, someone is speaking about me; can you guess who it is, Milena? Yes, I think I can hear my son's voice," and the fond mother's handsome face beamed with pleasure.

She had hardly uttered these words, when they heard someone call out:

"Gospa Mara! gospa Mara!"

Then turning round, they saw a youth running up to them.

"What! is it you, Todor Teodorovic? and when did you come back?" quoth Mara.

"We came back last evening."

"Perhaps you met the _Spera in Dio_ on your voyage?"

"Yes, we met the brig at Zara, but as she had somewhat suffered from the storm, she was obliged to go to Nona for repairs, as all the building yards of Zara were busy."

Thereupon, he began to expatiate very learnedly about the nature of the damage the ship had suffered, but Mara interrupted him--

"And how was Uros? did you see him?"

"Oh, yes! he was quite well."

Then he began to tell Mara all about the lives Uros and Milenko had saved, and how gallantly they had endangered their own. "But," added he, "our captain has a letter for you, _gospa_."

"There, I told you I'd have a letter to-day; I had dreamt of doves, and when I see doves or horses in my sleep, I always get some news the day afterwards," said Mara, turning to her friend, but Milena had disappeared.

Todor Teodorovic having found a willing listener, an occurrence which happened but very seldom with him, began to tell Mara all about the repairs the _Spera in Dio_ would have to undergo, and also how long they would stay at Nona, their approximate cost, and so forth, and Mara listened because anything that related to her son was interesting to her.

Milena had stood for a few moments on the doorstep, but when she heard that Uros was quite well, she slipped unperceived into the house. She felt so oppressed as she went in that she almost fancied she was going to meet her death.

Was it for the last time she went into that house? Would she ever come out of it again?

Her hand was on the latch, she pressed it down; it yielded, the door opened. Perhaps Radonic had come home late, drunk, and he was there now sleeping himself sober. If this were the case, she would have a bad day of it; he was always so fretful and peevish on the day that followed a drinking bout.

How dark the room was; all the shutters were tightly shut, and dazzled as she was by the broad daylight, she could not see the slightest thing in that dark room.

Her heart was beating so loud that she fancied it was going to burst; she panted for breath, she shrank within herself, appalled as she was by that overpowering darkness. She dreaded to stretch out her hand and grope about, for it seemed to her as if she would be seized by some invisible foe, lying there in wait for her.

Just then, as she was staring in front of her, with widely-opened eyes, the _kabanica_, as she had seen it the evening before, rose slowly, gravely, silently, from the floor, and stood upright before her.

That gloomy ghost of a garment detached itself from the surrounding darkness and glided up to her, bending forward with outstretched arms. No face was to be seen, for the head was quite concealed by the hood. And yet she fancied Vranic's livid face must be there, near her.

She almost crouched down, oppressed by that ghostly garment; she shrank back with terror, and yet she knew that the phantom in front of her only existed in her morbid imagination.

To nerve herself to courage, she turned round to cast a glance at Uros' mother, and convince herself that she was still there, within reach at a few steps; then, with averted head, she went in.

She turned round; the phantom of the _kabanica_ had disappeared. She was by the hearth. What was she to do now? First, open the shutters and have some light. She turned towards the right.

All at once she stumbled on the very spot where, the evening before, she had caught and entangled her foot in the great-coat. A man was lying there now, apparently dead. She uttered a piercing cry as she fell on a cold, lifeless body. Then, as she fell, she fainted.

Mara and Todor, hearing the cry, rushed into the house. They opened the shutters, and then they saw Milena lying on the floor, all of a heap, upon an outstretched body. They lifted her up and laid her on the bed; then they went to examine the man, who was extended at full length by the hearth, wrapped up in his huge great-coat.

"There is no blood about him," said Todor; "he, therefore, must be drunk, and asleep."

Still, when they touched his limbs, they found that they were stiff and stark, anchylosed by the rigid sleep of death.

Mara pushed back the hood of the _kabanica_, and then she saw a sight which she never forgot the whole of her life.

She saw Vranic's face staring at her in the most horrible contortions of overpowering pain. His distorted mouth was widely open, like a huge black hole; out of it, his slimy, bloody, dark tongue protruded--dreadful to behold. His nostrils were fiercely dilated. Still, worst of all, his eyes, with their ugly cast, started --squinting, glazed and bloodshot--out of their sockets. The hair of his face and of his head was bristling frightfully; his ghastly complexion was blotched with livid spots. It was, indeed, a gruesome sight, especially seen so unexpectedly.

All around his neck he bore the traces of strangulation, for Radonic, who had promised not to use a knife, had been true to his word.

Mara, shuddering, made the sign of the Cross. She pulled the hood of the coat over the corpse's face, and then went to nurse Milena; whilst Todor Teodorovic, who had, at last, found a topic of conversation worth being listened to, went out to call for help.