The Pobratim Part 69

Just then he fancied he heard a distant chuckle and looked round. He could see n.o.body. It was only his imagination. Almost at the same time he heard a voice whisper softly in his ear:

"Use this dagger against my enemies better than you did against me, and then, perhaps, you might be free."

Was it his brother ordering him what he was to do? Instead of stopping at the convent, should he go on to Montenegro, waylay Bellacic and murder him?

He had been walking, or rather, crawling quietly on, for about two hours; the sun was high up in the sky, the day was hot, the road dusty, and, worn out by sleeplessness, by worry and, above all, by the great loss of blood, he was now overcome by weariness and weakness. The monastery was at last in sight; still, he felt as if he could hardly crawl any further on; so, undecided as he was, he sat down at the side of some laurel-bushes to rest and make up his mind as to what he was to do.

He had not been sitting there a quarter of an hour, blinking at the sun, like an owl, when he heard s.n.a.t.c.hes of an unknown song, wafted from afar. It was not one of the plaintive lays of his own country, but a lively, blithe Italian canzonet, with trills that sounded like the merry warbling of a lark. The singing stopped--it began again, then stopped once more; after that he heard a light, brisk step coming towards him. A man who could sing and walk in such a way must surely be happy, he thought. Then, without knowing who the man was, he hated him for being happy. Why should some people have all the sweetness, and others all the gall of life? he asked himself. Is not this world a fool's paradise for him and a dungeon for me? In my wretchedness he seems to taunt me with his mirth. Well, if ever I become a vampire, the first blood I'll suck is that man's; and I'll drain the very last drop, for it must be warm and sweet.

Just then the light-hearted singer pa.s.sed 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 real _karvarina_, 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 gla.s.s on New Year's Eve, at the fatal stroke of twelve.

A moment of overpowering superst.i.tious 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 att.i.tude of self-defence, but Vranic was already upon him, plunging the sharp-pointed blade in his breast. The youth uttered a low, m.u.f.fled 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 pa.s.s away till my return?"

"Not if you make every possible haste."

"You promise?"

"He is in G.o.d'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, s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 pa.s.sed; 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 l.u.s.trous 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.