The Pobratim Part 36

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, b.l.o.o.d.y, 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.

CHAPTER IX

THE HAYDUK

On the morning of the murder Vranic accompanied Radonic out of the town. He had told Milena he would do so. On reaching the gate fronting the open country and the dark mountains, Radonic stopped, and wished his friend Good-bye. The seer insisted upon walking a little way out of town with him.

"No, thank you; go back. The weather is threatening, and we'll soon have rain."

"Well, what does it matter? If you don't melt, no more shall I," and he laughed at his would-be witticism.

"The roads are bad, and you are no great walker."

Vranic, however, insisted.

Thus they went on together, through vineyards and olive-groves, until they got in sight of the white-walled convent. There Radonic tried once more to get rid of his friend. At last they reached the foot of the rocky mountain, usually fragrant with sage and thyme. Having got to the flinty, winding path leading to the fort of Kosmac:

"Now," said Radonic, "you must positively come no farther."

The road was uneven and very steep. Vranic yielded.

"Go back, and take care of Milena."

"Well, I do not say it as a boast, but you could not leave her in better hands."

"She is young, and, like all women--well, she has long hair and short brains. Look after her."

"Vranic has his eyes open, and will keep good watch."

"I know I can rely on you. Have we not always been friends, we two?

That is why, whenever I left my home, I did so with a light heart."

"Your honour is as dear to me as if it were my own."

"It is only in times of need that we really appreciate the advantage of having a friend. The proverb is right: 'Let thy trusted friend be as a brother to you'; and a friend to whom we can entrust our wife, is even more than a brother. I therefore hope to be able to repay you soon for your kindness."

"Don't mention it. It has been a pleasure for me to be of use to you; for, as honey attracts flies, a handsome young woman collects men around her. So there must always be someone to ward off indiscreet admirers. Moreover, as you know, they say I am a seer, and they are afraid of me."

At last they kissed and parted; the one walking quickly townwards, almost light-hearted, especially after the load of his friend's company, the other trudging heavily upwards.

After a few steps, Radonic climbed a high rock, and sat down to watch Vranic retracing his steps townwards. When he had seen him disappear, he at last rose and quietly followed him for a while. A quarter of an hour afterwards he was knocking at the gate of the white-walled convent. The monks, who are always fond of any break in their monotonous life, received him almost with deference--a sea captain, who had been all over the world, was always a welcome guest. After taking snuff with all of them, and chatting about politics, the crops and the scandal of the town, Radonic asked to be confessed; then he gave alms, was absolved of his peccadilloes, and finally took the Eucharist--a spoonful of bread soaked in wine--although he prided himself on being something of a sceptic. Still, he felt comforted thereby; he had blotted out all past sins and could now begin a new score. Religion, they say, in all its forms always tends to make man happy--aye, and better!

In this merry frame of mind he sat down to dinner with the jolly brotherhood, and after a copious but plain meal, he, according to the custom of this holy house, retired to one of the cells appointed to strangers, to have a nap. No sooner was he alone than he undid his bundle, took out a razor and shaved off all the hair of his cheeks and chin, leaving only a long pair of thick moustaches, which he curled upwards according to the fierce fashion of the Kotor. This done, he took off his soiled, ugly, badly-fitting European clothes and put on the dress of the country--one of the finest and manliest devised by man; so that, although not good-looking, he was handsome to what he had just been.

The monks, on seeing him come out, did not recognise him, and could not understand from whence he had sprung. Then they were more than astonished when they found out the reason for this transformation, for he told them that it was to surprise his wife, or rather, the moths attracted by her sparkling eyes.

"I thought I should never put on again the clothes of my youth, but fate, it appears, has decreed otherwise."

"Man is made of dust, and to dust he returneth. Sooner or later we have to become again what we once were. You know the story of the mouse, don't you?"

"No; or at least I don't think I do."

"Then listen, and I'll tell it you."

A great many years ago, in the times of Christ and His disciples, there lived somewhere in Asia a very good man, who had left off worshipping idols and had become a Christian.

Finding soon afterwards that it was impossible for him to dwell any more with his own people--who scoffed at his new creed, rated him for wishing to be better than they were, mocked him when he prayed, and played all kinds of tricks on him when he fasted--he sold his birthright and divided all his money amongst the poor, the blind and the cripples of his native town. Then he bade farewell to all his friends and relations, and with the Holy Scriptures in one hand, and a staff in the other, he went out of the town gate and walked into the wilderness.

He wandered for many days until he arrived on top of a steep, treeless, wind-blown hill, and, almost on the summit, he found a small cave, the ground of which was strewn with fine white sand, as soft to the feet as a velvet carpet. On one side of this grotto there was a fountain of icy cold water, and on the other, hewn in the rock as if by the hand of man, a kind of long niche, which looked as if it had been made on purpose for a bed. The Christian, who had decided to become a hermit, saw in this cave a sign of G.o.d's will and favour; therefore, he stopped there. For some time he lived on the roots of plants, berries and wild fruit, that grew at the foot of the hill; then he cultivated a patch of ground, and so he pa.s.sed his time, praying, reading his holy Book, meditating over it, or tilling his bit of glebe.

Years and years pa.s.sed--who knows how many?--and he had become an old man, with a long white beard reaching down to his knees, a brown, sun-burnt skin, and a face furrowed with wrinkles. Since the day he had left his country, he had never again seen a man, a woman or a child, nor, indeed, any other animal, except a few birds that flew over his head, or some small snakes that glided amongst the stones.

So one evening, after he had said his lengthy prayers and committed his soul to G.o.d, he went to lie down on his couch of leaves and moss; but he could not sleep. He, for the first time, felt lonely, and, as it were, home-sick. He knew he would never behold again the face of any man, so he almost wished he had, at least, some tiny living creature to cherish. Sleep at last closed his eyes. In the morning, on awaking, he saw a little mouse frisking in the sand of his cave.

The old hermit looked astonished at the pretty little thing, and he durst not move, but remained as quiet as a mouse, for fear the mouse would run away.

The animal, however, caught sight of him, and stood stock-still on its hind legs, looking at him. Thus they both remained for some seconds, staring at each other. Then the hermit understood at last that G.o.d, in His goodness, had heard his wish, and had sent him this little mouse to comfort him, and be a companion to him in his old age. And so it was.

Days, months, years pa.s.sed, and the mouse never left the hermit, not even for a single instant; and the G.o.dly man grew always fonder of this friendly little beast. He played with it, patted it, and called it pet names; and at night, when he crept into his niche to sleep, he took the mouse with him.