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"There'll be bloodshed soon," said the Prince to his bride.

"Oh! now leave them all to me," said The Big One; "it's my turn now."

The lovers, followed by The Long One and The Man with the Flashing Eyes, entered the city by a postern, whilst The Big One squatted himself down at the principal gate and puffed himself out; then he opened his mouth as wide as the gate itself, so that it looked like a barbican. Thus he waited for the dauntless life-guards, who, in fact, came riding within his mouth as wildly as the noble six hundred had ridden within the jaws of death.

When the last one had disappeared, The Big One rose quietly, but at the same time with some difficulty, and tottered right through the town. It was an amusing sight to see his huge bloated paunch flap hither and thither at every step he made. Having reached the opposite gate, he again crouched down, opened his capacious mouth and spouted out all the life-guards, horses and all; and it was funny to see them ride off in a contrary direction, evidently hoping to overtake the fugitives soon, whilst the Prince, his bride and his suite were on the battlements, splitting with laughter at the trick played on their pursuers.

The old Queen was rejoiced to see her truant son come back so soon, and, moreover, not looking at all as seedy as he usually did after his little escapades. Still, she could not help showing her dissatisfaction about two things. The first was that Mathias had pawned her parting gift; the second that the Princess had come without a veil.

This last circumstance was, however, easily explained; and then Her Most Gracious Majesty allowed the light of her countenance to shine on her future daughter-in-law.

The Long One was forthwith sent back to the old King, asking him, by means of a parchment letter, to come and assist at his daughter's wedding. His Majesty, hearing who Mathias really was, hastened to accept the invitation. He donned his crown, took a few valuables with him in a carpet-bag, fuming and fretting all the time at having to start – like a tailless fox – without his body-guard. Just as he was setting out, The Long One, stretching his neck a few miles above the watch tower and looking round, saw the horsemen riding back full speed towards the castle. The old King hearing this news, shook his head, very much puzzled, for he could not understand how the horsemen, who had ridden out by one gate, could be coming back by the other. The Long One explained to the King (what they never would have been able to explain themselves) that they had simply ridden round the world and come back the other side. His Majesty, who would otherwise have had all his guards put to death, forgave them right graciously, and to show Mathias that he bore him no ill-will, he presented him, as a wedding gift, with a valuable shawl he had just got second-hand at a pawnbroker's. That gift quite mollified the old Queen, and forthwith, as by enchantment, all the clouds looming on the political horizon disappeared, and the nuptials of Mathias and the Princess took place with unusual splendour.

The Princess gave up her freaks of disappearing in the middle of the night, Mathias never played patience with his own cards any more, and both set their people an example of conjugal virtue.

High posts at Court were created for the Prince's three friends, and they, indeed, often showed themselves remarkably useful. For instance, if a Prime Minister ever showed himself obstreperous, The Long One would stretch out his arm, catch him by the collar of his coat, and put him for a few days on some dark cloud under which the thunder was rumbling. If a meddling editor ever wrote an article against the prevailing state of things, The Man with the Flashing Eyes cast a look at his papers, and the fire brigade had a great ado to put out the conflagration that ensued. If the people, dissatisfied with peace and plenty, met in the parks to sing the Marseillaise, The Big One had only to open his mouth and they at once all went off as quietly as Sunday-school children, and all fell to singing the National Anthem. Anarchy, therefore, was unknown in a land so well governed, and flowing with milk and honey.

CHAPTER XI
MANSLAUGHTER

The Spera in Dio having reached Gravosa, it discharged the timber it had taken for Ragusa, and loaded a valuable cargo of tobacco from Trebigne in its stead. The ship was now lying at anchor, ready to set sail with the fresh morning breeze.

It was in the evening. The captain was in hopes to start on the morrow; for at night it is a difficult task to steer a ship through that maze of sunken rocks and jagged reefs met with all along the entrance of the Val d'Ombla.

The pobratim had been talking together for some time. Uros had tried to persuade his friend to go and marry Ivanka before the mistake under which her father was labouring had been cleared up; but the more the plan was discussed, the less was Milenko convinced of its feasibility.

Uros at last, feeling rather sleepy, threw himself into his hammock, and soon afterwards closed his eyes. Milenko, instead, stood for some time with his arms resting on the main-yard, smoking and thinking, his eyes fixed on the moon, in its wane, now rising beyond the rocky coast, from which the cypresses uplifted their dark spires, and the flowering aloes reared their huge stalks.

The warm breeze blew towards him a smell of orange blossoms from the delightful Val d'Ombla, and the fragrancy of the Agnus castus, the Cretan sage, and other balmy herbs and shrubs from that little Garden of Eden – the Island of La Croma. Feeling that he could not go to sleep, even if he tried, and finding the earth so fair, bathed as it was now by the silvery light of the moon, he made up his mind to go on shore and have a stroll along the strand.

What made him leave the ship at that late hour, and go to roam on the deserted shore? Surely one of those secret impulses of fate, of which we are not masters.

He had walked listlessly for some time on the road leading to Ragusa, when he heard the loud, discordant sounds of two men, apparently drunk, wrangling with each other. The men went on, then stopped again, then once more resumed their walk; but, at every step they made, their voices grew louder, their tones angrier. Both spoke Slav; but, evidently, one of the two must have been a foreigner. Milenko followed them, simply for the sake of doing something. When he got nearer, he understood that the cause of the quarrel was not a woman, as he had believed at first, but a sum of money which the Slav had lent to the foreigner.

As they kept repeating the selfsame things over and over, Milenko got tired of their discussion and was about to turn back. Just then, however, the two men stopped again. The Slav called the stranger a thief, who in return apostrophised him as a dog of a Turk. From words they now proceeded to blows; but, drunk as they apparently were, they did not seem to hurt each other very much. Milenko hastened on to see the struggle, for there is a latent instinct, even in the most peaceable man's nature, that makes him enjoy seeing a fight.

By the time Milenko came in sight of the two men, they had begun to fight in real earnest; blows followed blows, kicks kicks; the Slav – or rather, Turk – roused by the stranger's taunts, seemed to be getting over his drunkenness. He was a tall, powerful man, and Milenko saw him grip his adversary by his neck. Then the two men grappled with each other, reeled in their struggle, then rolled down on the ground. He heard the thud of their fall. Milenko hastened to try and separate them. As he got nearer he could see them clearly, for the light of the moon fell upon them. The stronger man was holding his adversary pinned down, and was muttering the same curses over and over again; but he did not seem to be ill-using him very much.

"Leave me alone," muttered the other, "or, by my faith, it'll be so much the worse for you!"

"Your faith! you have no faith, you dog of a giaour!" growled the other.

"I have no faith, have I? Well, then, here, if I have no faith!"

Milenko, for a moment, saw a knife glitter in the moonlight, then it disappeared. He heard at the same time a loud groan. He ran up to help the man from being murdered, regardless of his own safety.

The powerful man was trying to snatch the knife from his adversary's hand, but, as he was unable to do so, he rose, holding his side, from which the blood was rushing.

"Now you'll have your money!" said the little man, with a hideous laugh, and he lifted up his hand and stabbed his adversary repeatedly.

Milenko pulled out his own knife as he reached the spot, but he only got in time to catch the dying man in his arms and to be covered with his blood.

The murderer simply looked at his adversary, and hearing him breathe his last, "He's done for," he added; then he turned on his heels and disappeared.

Poor Milenko was stunned for a moment, as he heard the expiring man's death-rattle.

What could he do to help him? Was life ebbing? had it ebbed all away? he asked himself. Was he dead, or only fainting? could he do nothing to recall him to life?

As he was lost in these thoughts he heard the heavy tramp of approaching feet, and before he could realise the predicament in which he had placed himself, the night-watch had come up to the spot and had arrested him as the murderer.

"Why do you arrest me?" said he. "I have only come here by chance to help this poor man."

"I daresay you have," said the sergeant, taking the blood-stained dagger from his hand.

"But I tell you I do not even know this poor man."

"Come, it's useless arguing with us; you'll have to do that with your judges. March on."

"But when I tell you that I only heard a scuffle and ran up – "

"Then where's the murderer?" asked one of the guards.

"He's just run off."

"What kind of a man was he?"

"I hardly saw him."

"And where do you come from?" asked the sergeant.

"From on board my boat, the Spera in Dio, now lying at Gravosa."

"And where were you going to?"

"Nowhere."

"Oh! you were taking a little stroll at this time of the night?"

The men laughed.

"Come, we're only wasting time – "

"But – "

"Stop talking; you'll have enough of that at Ragusa."

"But I tell you I'm innocent of that man's death."

"You are always innocent till you are about to be hanged, and even then sometimes."

Milenko shuddered.

Thereupon the guards, taking out a piece of rope, began tying the young man's hands behind his back.

"Leave me free; I'll follow you. I've nothing on my conscience to frighten me."

Still, they would not listen to him, but led him away like a murderer. They walked on for a little more than half-an-hour on the dark road, and at last they arrived at Porta Pilla, one of the gates of Ragusa. They crossed the principal street, called the Stradone, and soon reached the Piazza dei Signori. The quiet town was quieter than ever at these early dawning hours. The heavy steps of the guards resounded on the large stone flags with which the town is paved, and re-echoed from the granite walls of the churches and palaces.

Poor Milenko was conducted to the guard-house, and when the sergeant stated how he had been found clasping the dead man, holding, moreover, the blood-stained dagger in his hand, he, without more ado, was thrust into the narrow cell of the prison.

Alone, in utter darkness, a terrible fear came over him. How could he ever prove that he had not murdered the unknown man with whose blood his clothes were soaked?

The assassin was surely far away now, and, even if he were not, he doubtless knew that another man had been caught in his stead, and he, therefore, would either keep quiet or stealthily leave the town. If he had at least caught a glimpse of the murderer's face, then he might recognise him again; but he had seen little more than two dark forms struggling together. Nothing else than that.

Then he asked himself if God – if the good Virgin – would allow them to condemn him to death innocently? He fell on his knees, crossed himself, and uttered many prayers; but, during the whole time, he saw his body hanging on the gallows, and, with that frightful sight before his eyes, his prayers did not comfort him much.

Then he began to fancy that he must have been guilty of some sin for which he was now being punished. Though he recalled to mind all his past life, though he magnified every little misdemeanour, still he could not find anything worthy of such a punishment. He had kept all the fasts; he had gone to church whenever he had been able to do so; he had lighted a sufficient number of candles to the saints to secure their protection. If, at times, he had been guilty of cursing, of calling the blessed Virgin Mary opprobrious names, he only had done so as a mere habit, as everybody else does, quite unintentionally. The priest – at confession – had always admonished him against this bad habit; but he had duly done penance for these trifling sins, and he had got the absolution.

He asked himself why he was so unlucky. He had not fallen in love with his neighbour's wife, nor asked for impossible things. Why could not life run on smoothly for him, as it did for everybody else? What devil had prompted him to leave his ship at a time when he might have been quietly asleep? Then the thought struck him that, after all, this was only a bewildering dream, from which he would awake and laugh at on the morrow.

He got up, walked about his narrow cell, feeling his way in the darkness. Alas! this was no dream.

Then he thought of his parents; he pictured to himself the grief they would feel at hearing of his misfortune. His mother's heart would surely burst should he be found guilty and be condemned to be hanged. And his father – would he, too, believe him to be a murderer?

He again sank on his knees, and uttered a prayer; not the usual litanies which he had been taught, but a Kyrie Eleison, a cry for help rising from the innermost depths of his breast.

The darkness of the prison was so oppressive that it seemed to him as if his prayer could never go through those massive stone walls; therefore, instead of being comforted, doubt and dread weighed heavily upon him. In that mood he recalled to his mind all the incidents of a gloomy story which had once been related to him about a little Venetian baker-boy, who, like himself, had been found guilty of manslaughter. This unfortunate youth had been imprisoned, cruelly tortured, and then put to death. When it was too late, the real murderer confessed his guilt; but then the poor boy was festering in his grave.

Still, he would not despair, for surely Uros must, on the morrow, hear of his dreadful plight, and then he would use every possible and impossible means to save him.

But what if the ship started on the morrow, leaving him behind, a stranger in an unknown town?

The tears which had been gathering in his eyes began to roll down his cheeks in big, burning drops, and now that they began to flow he could not stop them any more. He crouched in a corner, and, as the cold, grey gloaming light of early dawn crept through the grated window of his cell, his heavy eyelids closed themselves at last; sleep shed its soothing balm on his aching brain.

Not long after Milenko had gone on shore, Uros woke suddenly from his sleep. He had dreamt that a short, dark-haired, swarthy, one-eyed man, with a face horribly pitted by small-pox, was murdering his friend; and yet it was not Milenko either, but some one very much like him.

He jumped up, groped his way to his mate's hammock and was very much astonished not to find him there. Having lost his sleep, he lit a cigarette and went to look down into the waters below. The sea on that side of the ship was as smooth and as dark as a black mirror. He had not been gazing long when, as usual, he began to see sparks, then fiery rods whirling about and chasing each other. The rods soon changed into snakes of all sizes and colours, especially greenish-blue and purple. They twirled and twisted into the most fantastic shapes; then they all sank down in the waters and disappeared. All this was nothing new; but, when they vanished, he was startled to behold, in their stead, the face of the pitted man he had just seen in his sleep stare at him viciously with his single eye. He drew back, frightened, and the face vanished. After an instant, he looked again; he saw nothing more, but the inky waters seemed thick with blood.

The next morning Milenko was looked for everywhere uselessly. Uros, who was the last person that had seen him, related how he had gone off to sleep and had left him leaning on the main-yard. At first, every one thought that he had gone on shore for something, and that he would be back presently; but time passed and Milenko did not make his appearance. The wind was favourable, the sails were spread, they had only to heave the anchor to start; everybody began to fear that some accident had happened to him to detain him on shore. Uros was continually haunted by his dream, especially by the face of the single-eyed man. He offered to go in search of his friend.

"Well," replied the captain, "I think I'll come with you; two'll find him quicker than one alone, for now we have no time to lose."

They went on shore and enquired at a coffee-house, but the sleepy waiters could not give them any information. They asked some boatmen lounging about the wharf, still with no better success. A porter from Ragusa finally said that he had heard of a murder committed that night on the road, but all the particulars were, as yet, unknown. Doubtless it was a skirmish between some smugglers and the watch.

Anyhow, when Uros heard of bloodshed, his heart sank within him, and the image of the swarthy man appeared before the eyes of his mind, and he fancied his friend weltering in a pool of dark blood.

"Had we not better go at once to Ragusa? we might hear something about him there?" said the captain to Uros.

"But do you think he can have been murdered?"

"Murdered? No; what a foolish idea! He had no money about him; he was dressed like a common sailor; he could not have been flirting with somebody's sweetheart. Why should he have been murdered?"

The two men hired a gig and drove off at once. When they reached Ragusa, they found the quiet town in a bustle on account of a murder that had taken place on the roadside. The old counts and marquises of the republic forgot their wonted dignity – forgot even their drawling way of speaking – and questioned the barber, the apothecary, or the watch at the town gate with unusual fluency.

A murder on the road to Gravosa! A most unheard-of thing. Soon people would be murdered within the very walls of the town! Such things had never happened in the good olden times!

"And who was the murdered man?" asked one.

"A stranger."

"And the murderer?"

"A stranger, too; a mere boy, they say."

"Oh! that explains matters," added a grave personage; "but if strangers will murder each other, why do they not stay at home and slaughter themselves?"

Such were the snatches of conversation Uros and the captain heard on alighting at Porta Pilla; and as they asked their way to the police station, everybody stared at them, and felt sure that in some way or other they were connected with the murder.

At the police station, the captain stated how his mate had disappeared from on board, and asked permission to see the murdered man. They were forthwith led to the mortuary-chapel, and they were glad to see that the corpse was a perfect stranger.

"What kind of a person is the young man you are looking for?" asked the guard who had accompanied them.

"Rather above the middle height, slim but muscular, with greyish-blue eyes, a straight nose, a square chin, curly hair, and a small dark moustache."

"And dressed like a sailor?"

"Yes."

"Exactly as you are?" said he to Uros.

"Yes; have you seen him?"

"Why, yes; he is the murderer."

Uros shuddered; the captain laughed.

"There must be some mistake," said the latter. "You have arrested the wrong person; such things do happen occasionally."

"He was arrested while struggling with the man he killed. He was not only all dripping with blood, but he still held his dagger in his hand."

"With all that, it's some mistake; for he didn't know this man," said the captain, pointing to the corpse stretched out before them. "If he did kill him, then it was done in self-defence."

"But where is he now?" asked Uros.

"Why, in prison, of course."

Uros shuddered again.

"We can see him, can't we?" said the captain.

"You must apply to the authorities."

The departure of the Spera in Dio had to be put off for some days. Uros went on board the ship, whilst the captain remained at Ragusa to look after his lost mate. There he soon found out that, in fact, it was Milenko who had been arrested; and after a good deal of trouble he succeeded in seeing him.

Although he did his best to comfort him and assure him that in a few days the real murderer would be found, he could not help thinking that the evidence was dead against him. Anyhow, he had him transferred to a better cell, and, by dint of backseesh, saw that his bodily comforts were duly attended to.

On the following day, the captain, Uros and the crew were examined; and all were of opinion that Milenko could not possibly ever have been acquainted with the unknown man, and, therefore, had no possible reason for taking away his life. The great difficulty, meanwhile, was to find out who the murdered man really was, from where he had come, whither he was going in the middle of the night.

After that, the captain went to a lawyer's; and having put the whole affair in his hands, found out that he could do nothing more for Milenko than he had already done; so he went and lit a candle for his sake, recommended him to the mercy of the Virgin and good St. Nicholas, and decided to start on the following morning, without any further and unprofitable delay. Had the young man been his own son, he would not have acted otherwise. Uros, however, decided to remain behind, and join the ship at Trieste after a few days.

On the morrow Uros, after having seen the Spera in Dio disappear, went to spend a few hours with his friend. A week passed in this way; then, not knowing in what way to help Milenko, he bethought himself to seek the aid of some old woman versed in occult lore, in whose wisdom he had much more faith than in the wordy learning of gossiping lawyers.

Having succeeded in hearing of such a one from the inn-keeper's wife, he went to her at once and explained what he wanted of her.

She looked at him steadily for a while; then she went to an old chest and took out a quaint little mirror of dark, burnished metal, and making him sit in a corner, bade him look steadily within it. As soon as he was seated, she took a piece of black cloth, like a pall, and stretched it around him, screening him from every eye. Having done this, she threw some powder on the fire, which, burning, filled the room with fragrant smoke, or rather, with white vapour, which had a heady smell of roses. After a few moments of silence, she took theguzla and played, as a kind of prelude, a pathetic, dirge-like melody; then she began to sing in a low, lamentable tone, Vuk Stefanovic Karadzic's song, entitled —

GOD'S JUSTICE

Upon a lonely mead two pine-trees grew,
  And 'twixt the two a lowly willow-tree;
  No pines were those upon the lonely mead,
  Where nightly winds e'er whistle words of woe.
  The one was Radislav – a warrior brave;
  Whilst Janko was the other stately tree.
  They were two brothers, fond of heart and true;
  The weeping willow-tree that rose between
  Had whilom been their sister Jelina.
  Both brothers loved the maid so fair and good,
  Fair as a snow-white lily fresh with dew,
  And good, I ween, as a white turtle-dove.
  Once Janko to his sister gave a gift;
  It was a dagger with a blade of gold.
  That day Marija, who was Janko's wife
  (A wanton woman with a wicked heart),
  Grew grey and green with envy and with grudge,
  And to Zorizza, Radislavo's wife,
  She said: "Pray tell me in what way must I
  Get these two men to hate that Jelina,
  Whom they love more, indeed, than you or me."
  "I know not," said Zorizza, who was good —
  Aye, good indeed, and sweet as home-made bread;
  "And if I knew, I should pray day and night
  For God to keep me from so foul a deed."
  Marija wended then her way alone,
  And as her head was full of fiendish thoughts,
  She saw upon the mead her husband's foal,
  The fleetest-footed filly of the place.
  Whilst with one hand she fondled the young foal,
  The other plunged a dagger in her breast;
  Then, taking God as witness, swore aloud
  That Jelina had done that deed of blood.
  With doleful voice the brother asked the girl
  What made her mar the foal he loved so well.
  Upon her soul the maiden took an oath
  That she nowise had done that noxious deed.
  A few days later, on a dreary night,
  Marija went and killed the falcon grey —
  The swiftest bird, well worth its weight in gold.
  Then creeping back to bed, with loud outcry
  She woke the house; she said that, in a dream,
  She saw her Janko's sister, as a witch,
  Kill that grey falcon Janko loved so well.
  Behold! at early morn the bird was dead.
  "This cruel deed shall rest upon thy head,"
  Said Janko to the girl, who stood amazed.
  E'en after this Marija found no peace,
  But hated Jelina far more than death,
  So evermore she pondered how she could
  Bring dire destruction down upon the maid.
  One night, with stealthy steps, she went and stole
  The golden-bladed knife from Jelka's room;
  And with the knife she stabbed her only babe.
  The foul deed done, she put the knife beneath
  The pillow white whereon lay Jelka's head.
  At early twilight, when the husband woke,
  He found his rosy babe stabbed through the breast,
  All livid pale within a pool of blood.
  Marija tore her hair and scratched her cheeks
  With feigned despair; she vowed to kill the witch
  Who wantonly had stabbed her precious babe.
  "But who has done this cruel, craven crime?
  Who killed my child?" cried Janko, mad with rage.
  "Go seek thy sister's knife, with golden blade;
  Forsooth, 'tis stained with blood." And Janko went,
  And found that Jelka still was fast asleep,
  But 'neath her pillow, peeping out, he saw —
  All stained with blood – the knife with golden blade.
  He grasped his sleeping sister by her throat,
  Accusing her of having killed his child.
  And she – now startled in her morning sleep —
  Midst sighs and sobs disowned the dreadful deed;
  Still, when she saw the knife all stained with gore,
  She grew all grey with fear and looked aghast,
  And guilty-like, before that gruesome sight.
  "An I have done this horrid, heinous deed,
  Then I deserve to die a dreadful death.
  If thou canst think that I have killed thy child,
  Then take and tie me to thy horses' tails,
  So that they tread me down beneath their hoofs."
  The maid was led within the lonely mead,
  Her limbs were bound unto the stallions' tails;
  They lashed the horses, that soon reared and ran
  Apart, and thus they tore her limbs in twain.
  But lo! where'er her blood fell down in drops,
  Sweet sage grew forth, and marjoram and thyme,
  And fragrant basil, sweetest of all herbs;
  But on the spot where dropped her mangled corse,
  A bruised and shapeless mass of bleeding flesh,
  A stately church arose from out the earth,
  Of dazzling marbles gemmed with precious stones —
  A wondrous chapel built by hallowed hands.
  Marija, then, upon that day fell ill,
  And nine long years she languished on her bed,
  A death in life, still far more dead than quick;
  And as she lay there 'twixt her skin and bones
  The coarse and rank weeds grew, and 'midst the weeds
  There nestled scorpions, snakes, and loathsome worms,
  Which crept and sucked the tears from out her eyes.
  In those last throes of death she wailed aloud,
  And bade for mercy's sake that they might take
  And lay her in that church which had sprung out
  Where Jelka's body dropped a mangled corpse.
  In fact, her only hope was to atone
  For all those dreadful deeds which she had done.
  But when they reached the threshold of the church,
  A low and hollow voice came from the shrine,
  And all who heard the sound were sore amazed.
  "Avaunt from here! Till God forgive thy crimes,
  This sacred ground is sure no place for thee."
  Appalled to death, unable yet to die,
  She begged them as a boon that they would tie
  Her to the horses' tails, for dying thus she hoped
  That God might then have mercy on her soul.
  They bound her wasted limbs to stallions' tails;
  Her bones were broke, her limbs were wrenched in twain,
  And where the sods sucked up her blood impure,
  The earth did yawn, and out of that wide gulf
  Dark waters slowly rose and spread around;
  Still, lifeless waters, like a lake of hell.
  Within the mere the murdered foal was seen,
  Just as we see a vision in a dream.
  The falcon grey then flew with fluttering wing,
  And panting, fell within that inky pool.
  Then from the eddy rose a tiny cot.
  Within that cot a rosy infant slept,
  And smiled as if it saw its mother's breast.
  But lo! its mother's claw-like hand arose
  Out of the stagnant waters of the lake,
  And plunged a dagger in the infant's breast.