That evening, when the good Christians went to church to hear the oft-repeated tidings of great joy, uttered by the vladika, or priest, in the sacramental words: Mir Bogig, Christos se rodè, or "The peace of God be with you, Christ is born"; and when, after midnight, they returned home, while huge logs were blazing on every hearth, they hardly knew again either the town or its neighbourhood, all wrapped up in a mantle of dazzling whiteness; the sight was a rather unusual one, for the inhabitants of Budua had seen snow but very seldom.
The whole Christmas Day was spent very pleasantly in going about from house to house, wishing everyone joy and happiness, or receiving friends at home and drinking bumpers to their health. It was, indeed, a merry, forgiving time, when the hearts of men were full of kindness and good-will, and peace reigned upon earth.
There were, indeed, some exceptions to the general rule of benevolence, for, now and then, some man, even upon that hallowed day, bore within his breast but a clay-cold heart, in which grudge, envy and malice still rankled, and the Christmas greetings, wheezed through thin lips, had but a chilling and hollow sound.
The very first person who came to Bellacic's house early on Christmas morning was Vranic, the spy. It was not out of love that he came. He had been sneaking about the house, casting long, prying glances from beneath the hood of his kabanica, or great-coat, trying to find out whether Milena were there, for he knew that she had not passed the night in her own house.
All at once, whilst he was sneaking about, he was met by several young men, bent on their Christmas rounds of visits; they took him along with them, and, though quite against himself, he was the first to put his foot in Bellacic's house upon that day.
According to the Slav custom, he was asked, after the usual greetings, to tap the yule log with his stick. He at once complied, with as much good grace as he could muster, uttering the well-known phrase:
"May you have as many horses, cows, and sheep as the badnjak has given you sparks."
Knowing that while he was saying these words every member of the family, and every guest gathered together around him, would hang upon his looks, trying to read in his face whether the forthcoming year would be a prosperous one, for the expression of the features, as well as the way in which these words are uttered, are reckoned to be sure omens, Vranic, therefore, tried to put on a pleasant look and a good-natured appearance, but this was so alien to his nature that he was by no means sure of success.
Uros and Milena had, however, stood aloof; they had understood that the prediction must be unfavourable, and, though they did not look up, they heard that the voice, which was meant to be soft and oily, was bitter, hard and grating.
A gloom had come over the house just then; it seemed as if that man of ill-omen had stepped in to damp everyone's joy.
Uros remained stock-still, and though his fingers instinctively grasped the handle of his knife, still he was too much of a Slav to harm a guest in his own house. As for Milenko, not having any reasons for being so forbearing, he was about to thrust the fiend out of his adopted parents' house, when Vranic, drawing back from the hearth, caught his foot on the fag end of a log, and, not to fall, stepped over it. This was the remainder of that log which Uros had himself put upon the fire, and, according to the traditional custom, it had been taken away from the hearth before it had been quite consumed, for it was to be kept, as the fire on New Year's Eve was to be kindled with it. Vranic hardly noticed what he had done, but everyone present looked stealthily at one another, and quietly crossed themselves. Vranic, they knew, had come with evil thoughts in his head, but now he had only brought harm upon himself, for it is well known that whoever steps over a badnjak is doomed to die within the year.
The seer went off soon after this, and then, when the other well-wishers came, the gloom that he had left behind him was dispelled, and the remainder of the Christmas Day was spent in mirth and jollity.
CHAPTER IV
NEW YEAR'S DAY
On the last day of the year the pobratim were sailing on the waters of the Adriatic not far from the island of Lissa, now famed in history for its naval wars. Soon the sun went down behind a huge mass of grey clouds, and night set in when the vessel was about to sail amidst that maze of inlets, straits, channels and friths, which characterise all that part of the Dalmatian coast. But, though the night was dark and wild, their schooner was strong and stout, and accustomed to weather such heavy seas.
A head-wind arose, which first began to shiver amidst the rigging like a human being sick of a fever; then it changed into a slight wailing sound, so that it seemed at times the voice of a suffering child tossing about in its cot unable to find rest. The wind increased, and the sound changed into a howl like the rage of untamed beasts; it was a horrible concert, where serpents hissed, wild cats mewed and lions roared in and out of time and tune; but not without a strange, weird, uncouth harmony. It was the voice of the storm. Great Adamastor, the genius of the foul weather, baffled at not being able to snap all the ropes asunder and break down the straining masts, was yelling with impotent rage. He was, withal, a cunning old man and knew more than one trick, for, after holding his breath for a while, he would whisper no louder than a mother does when her babe is asleep, and then again, he would begin to snicker slily in a low, snorting way, until, all at once, he broke loose into loud fits of fiendish, hoarse merriment.
Added to this head-wind, a heavy sea rolled its huge waves against the prow of the ship and dashed the spray of its breakers up its very sails; then the strong rain would come down in showers at every gust of wind. The elements seemed, indeed, bent upon overwhelming the poor craft groaning at this ill-treatment.
Eleven o'clock having just struck, Uros went below and Milenko got ready to take up his watch.
Poor Uros! he was not only weary and wet to the skin – for his hugekabanica, or overcoat, had been of little avail against the pelting rain – but, worse than that, for the first time in his life he felt home-sick and love-sick. He remembered the pleasant Christmas Eve, the last night but one which he had passed at home. Whilst the wind howled and the waves rolled high he recalled to mind the many incidents of that evening, which had been for him the happiest of his life, and there, in the darkness of the night, Milena's bright and laughing eyes were always twinkling before him. Her sweet looks, which he had drunk down like intoxicating wine, had maddened his brain.
Hitherto Uros had been passionately fond of the sea, and his great ambition was to be one day the master of a ship. Now that his dream seemed about to be realised even beyond his wildest ambition – for the brig was really a fine ship – his heart was far behind on shore, and the sea had lost its charm. That night especially he wished he could have been back by his own fireside watching the remainder of the yule-logs as they burnt away into cinders.
When Uros came down, the captain brought out a bottle of some rare old genuine cognac, which on some former voyage he himself had got at Bordeaux. Punch was made, Milenko was called down and toasts were drunk to the health of the absent ones, songs were sung about the pleasantness of a life upon the wide, wide sea; but the voice of the waves seemed to jeer them, and then the captain fell a-thinking that he was growing of an age when it was far more agreeable to remain amidst his little brood at home. As for poor Uros, he thought of the woman who lived in a lonely cottage, and he wondered whether harm might not befal her, now that he was no more there to watch over her. He thought that, after all, it was useless to go roaming about the world when he might remain at home tilling his father's fields. Milenko alone was of a cheerful mood; perhaps it was because he thought less of himself and more of those around him.
Milenko came and went up and down like a squirrel, keeping his watch and trying to cheer his friend. Still, each time he went up and looked about, he found that the wind was stronger and the waves rolled higher. Meanwhile the captain, roused to a sense of duty, tried to enliven the passing hours by telling old tales, comical adventures, and strange sea legends.
Soon the storm increased apace, and Milenko had to remain on deck; but Uros, being tired and sleepy, was about to betake himself to rest. Midnight had just struck, and the hands of the clock were on twelve, a last cup was drained, and the three seamen having thus seen the old year out and the new year in, separated and each one went his own way. The clock withal was rather fast, and it was only some moments after they had separated from one another that the old year breathed its last.
Before going to rest, Uros, who had slightly bruised his forehead just where Vranic had cut him with the stone, went to his chest and took out of it a small round tin looking-glass and opened it. He wished to see what kind of a scratch it had left, and if the scar were healing. He had scarcely cast his eyes upon it when, to his great surprise, lo, and behold! far from seeing his own face in the glass, Vranic's likeness was there, staring upon him with his usual leer!
Uros was startled at this sight; then, for a while he stood as if transfixed, gloating on the image within the glass, unable to turn away his eyes from it. Then, appalled as he was, he almost dropped the looking-glass he was holding.
All at once remembering that it was midnight – the moment when the old year passes into oblivion and the new one rises from chaos – his hand fell, and he stood for a while, pale, shuddering, and staring upon vacancy. But – recalled to himself – he endeavoured to retrace the long string of thoughts that had flitted through his brain, since he had left the captain and Milenko up to the moment that he had looked upon the glass, and Vranic was not amongst them. His brain had been rather muddled by sleepiness and brandy, and he had hardly been thinking about anything.
Having lifted up the glass to the height of his face, he for a moment held his head averted, for he had really not the courage to look upon it.
After a while he shrugged his shoulders, muttering to himself: "I have always been thinking of Milena, and of the last days I passed at home, so that now this man's face – such as I had seen it on Christmas morning – has been impressively recalled to my mind. It must be this and nothing more."
Still, the moment when he tried again to look upon the glass, a vague terror came over him, and all his courage passed away; it was just as if he were looking upon some unhallowed thing, as if he were indulging in witchcraft. But curiosity prevailed once more, and as he did so, a trepidation came all over his limbs. This time he was surely not mistaken; it was no vision of his overheated fancy, seen with his mind's eye; sleepiness and the effect of the brandy had quite passed away, and still the glass – instead of reflecting his own features – was the living portrait of the man he hated. There he was, with his low forehead, his livid complexion, his pale greyish-green eyes, his high cheekbones and his flat nose.
He was almost impelled to dash down the glass and break it into pieces, but still he durst not do it; a superstitious fear stopped him; it was, as we all know, so very unlucky to break a looking-glass by accident, but to break it of his own free will must be far worse.
He now kept his eyes riveted upon the tiny mirror, and then he saw Vranic's face slightly fade and then vanish away; then the glass for a few seconds grew dim as if a damp breath had passed upon it; then the dimness disappeared little by little, the glass again grew clear and reflected his own pale face, with his eyes wildly opened, glistening with a wild, feverish look. Now, he was not mistaken; Vranic was not to see another year!
Uros had often heard it said that, if a young unmarried man looks by chance in a looking-glass at the stroke of twelve, just when the old year is dying out, he will perhaps see, either the woman he is to marry in the course of the year, Death, or a man of his acquaintance doomed to die within the year. He had never tried it, because it is a thing that has to be done by chance, and even then the mirror does not always foretell the future. Now, the thing happened so naturally, in such an unforeseen, unpremeditated way, that there was no possibility of a doubt. Vranic, then, was doomed to die.
A week before, his death had been predicted the moment when he stumbled and slipped over the stump of the yule-log – aye, it was his own log – now again his enemy's death was foretold to him.
As he stood there with his glass in his hand, a thought struck him, and in answer to this, he lifted his eyes upwards and begged his patron saint to keep his hands clean, and not to make him the instrument of his enemy's death.
"He is a villain," muttered he to himself, "and he fully deserves a thousand deaths; but let him not die by my hand. If he dies of a violent death, let me not be his executioner."
Uros stood there for some time as if bewildered and very much like a man who had seen a ghost, afraid to look round lest he should see Vranic's face gloating upon him; then shuddering, he ran upstairs to tell his adoptive brother all that had happened, and the strange vision he had seen.
When Uros went up on deck, he found that the wind had greatly increased, and that from a cap-full, as it had been in the beginning, it had grown into a hurricane. The sky was even darker than before; the waves, swollen into huge breakers, dashed against the prow of the ship, making her stagger and reel as if she had been stunned by those mighty blows.
The captain had now taken command of the ship, for all that part of the Adriatic up to the Quarnero, with its archipelago of islands, its numerous straits, its friths and rock-bound inlets, where the mountains of the mainland – sloping down to the water's edge – end in long ledges and chasms all interspersed with sharp ridges, rocks and sunken reefs, through which the ships have often to wind carefully in and out, is like a perilous maze. The navigation of these parts, difficult enough in the day-time by fair weather, is more than dangerous on a dark and stormy night.
The ship, according to all calculation, had passed the Punta della Planca, and was not very far from the port of Sebenico. It was useless to try and take shelter there, for the town is most difficult of access, especially during contrary winds.
All that night the whole crew were on deck obeying the captain's orders, for it was as much as they could do to manage the ship, at war with all the elements; besides, as she rode forecastle in, she had shipped several seas, so that, deeply-laden as she was, she wallowed heavily about, and looked every moment as if she were ready to founder.
The storm had now risen to the highest pitch, and the captain, who, as it has been said, was an elderly man, as well as an experienced sailor, acknowledged that he scarcely remembered a more fearful gale in the whole of his lifetime. All waited eagerly for the first streaks of dawn; for a tempest, though frightful in broad daylight, is always more appalling in the dead of the night. They waited a long time, for it seemed as if darkness had set for ever over this world.
At last a faint grey, glimmering light appeared in the east; then, by degrees, towards daybreak, the waters overhead, and the waters underneath, had a gloomy, greyish hue. Light spread itself far and wide, but the storm did not abate.
Milenko, with his spy-glass in his hand, was searching through the veil of mist that surrounded the ship, for some island in the offing, when, all at once, he thought he could perceive a dark speck not very far off. This object, apparently cradled by the waters, was so dimly seen that he could not even guess what it was; but after keeping his eyes steadily upon it, he saw, or rather, he thought he saw, the hull or wreck of a ship, or a buoy. No, surely it could not be a buoy floating there in the midst of the waters. Was it not, perhaps, some foam-covered rock against which the waves were dashing? His eyes were rooted upon it for some time, and then he was certain that it was not a rock, for it moved, nay, it seemed to float about. He pondered for a while. Could it not be, he thought, the head of one of those huge sea-snakes, upon which ships, having sometimes cast their anchors, are dragged down into the fathomless abysses of the deep, there to become the prey of this horrible monster? It was really too far off for him to understand what it was.
He waited for some time, then he strained his eyes, and he saw that it could be nothing but a boat. He called Uros to him, but his friend's sight being less keen than his own, he could make nothing of it. The captain, having come to them, could not distinguish the floating object at all. As they steered onwards, they came nearer to it, and then they found out that it was indeed the hull of a caique or galley-boat, which, having lost its masts and rudder, was tossed about at the mercy of the breakers, that always seemed ready to swallow it up. The crew on board were making signs of distress, but it was a rather difficult task to lend a helping hand to that crazy ship. It was impossible, with that heavy sea, for the brig to go alongside of her, or to lie near enough for her crew to manage to get on board. Nay, it was very dangerous for the brig to attempt going anywhere near the caique, for the consequences might have been disastrous if the wreck were thrown against her, as the stronger one of the two would thus have dashed the weaker vessel to pieces.
In this predicament Milenko volunteered to go in a little boat, if any two men would go with him. At first all refused, but when Uros said that he was ready to share his friend's fate, another sailor came forth to lend a helping hand in rescuing those lives in fearful jeopardy.
The pobratim having skilfully managed to get near enough to the caique, so as to be understood, they called out to the captain to throw them a rope overboard. This was done, but the hawser, without a buoy, could hardly be got at; it was, therefore, pulled back, a broken spar was tied at its end, and then it was again cast overboard.
After a full half-hour's hard work, Milenko and his mates managed to get to the floating hawser and to haul it up; then they rowed lustily back to the ship with it. The caique was then tugged close to the brig's stern, which steered towards the land as well as she could.
The poor bark, shorn of her masts, was in a wretched state, and one of her men having gone down in the hold to see how much water there was in her, found that she had sprung a leak and that she was filling fast, notwithstanding all the exertions of the men at the pump.
Though the storm had somewhat abated, still the caique was now sinking, so that it was beyond all possibility to reach the shore in time to save her. The two friends again got into the boat, and went once more beside the wreck. This time they managed to get near enough to save the crew and the few passengers they had. When all were on board, then this little boat, heavily laden with human lives, was rowed back to the brig. After this, the rope which bound the caique was cut off, and she was left to drift away at the mercy of the waves, and, little by little, sink out of sight.
The first person that Milenko had got into the little boat, and who he now helped on board the brig, was a young girl of about sixteen, but who, like the women of her country, looked rather older than she was. After her came her father and her mother, who were passengers on board of the caique; they had come from Scio, and were bound for Nona, a small town near Zara. The young girl had, throughout the storm, shown an extraordinary courage; nay, she had been a helpmate rather than an encumbrance. But when she saw herself safe on board the Spera in Dio (Hope in God) – for this was the brig's name – then her strength failed her all at once, and she sank into a deep swoon. Milenko, who had helped her on board, and who was standing by her, caught her up in his arms, carried her downstairs and laid her upon his bed.
Milenko had hitherto never cared for any woman; but now, as he carried this lifeless body, and he saw this pale, wan, childlike face leaning on his shoulder, he felt a strange unknown flutter somewhere about his heart. Then the sense of his own manhood came over him; he knew himself strong, and he was glad to be able to shelter this frail being within his brawny arms.
Having rescued this girl from the jaws of death, she seemed to be his own, and his bosom heaved with a feeling quite new to him. He would have liked to have gone through life with this weak creature clinging to him for strength, just as a mother would fain have her babe ever nestling on her bosom. Now, having to relinquish her, he was glad to lay her upon his own bed, for thus she still seemed to belong to him.
Her mother was at once by her side, her father and the captain soon followed, and all the care their rough hospitality could afford was lavished upon her. As the fainting-fit had been brought on through long fasting, as well as by a strain of the nerves, a spoonful of the captain's rare cognac had the desired effect of recalling her to life.
Coming to herself, she was astonished at seeing so many sunburnt, weather-beaten, unknown faces around her; she looked at them all, from one to the other, but Milenko's deep blue eyes, wistfully gloating upon her own, attracted her attention. She had seen him in the boat when he came to their rescue, he had helped her on board; and now, after that fainting-fit, which seemed to have stopped the march of time for a while, she fancied she had known him long ago. She looked first at him, then at her mother; then again at him. After this, feeling as if she was quite safe as long as her mother and that unknown young man – who still was no stranger – stood watching over her, her heavy eyelids drooped, and she fell into a light slumber.
The captain having persuaded the mother to take some rest, all went to attend to their duties; still, Milenko softly crept down every now and then to see if the women wanted anything, and to have a sly look at the young girl sleeping in his bed. As he stood there gazing upon her, he was conscious that his senses had grown more mellow – that life henceforth had an aim. This was the dawn of real love in a strong man's breast. Whilst he was looking at her, the young girl woke from her slumbers; she opened her eyes, and her glances fell again upon him.
"Where am I?" she said, half-frightened. Then, recognising the young man, she added: "Yes, I know, you saved my life when I was drowning."
The mother, hearing her daughter speak, yawned, stretched out her arms and woke.
The storm had now abated. The dark clouds were quickly flitting, and the sun, which had risen upon that first day of the year, was now shining in all its splendour on the broad expanse of the blue waters and upon the huge crested waves; and the sight was as exhilarating as it was delightful.
The poor wrecked family having gathered together on deck, breakfast was got ready, and all sat down to the frugal meal which the ship's provisions afforded.
When the breakfast was over, the father of the young girl – who had been questioned several times as to the place from where he was coming, to the port whither he was bound, his occupation, and so forth – related to his hosts the story of his adventures, which can be abridged as follows:
"My name is Giulianic. Our family, though Slav and Orthodox, is said to have been of Italian origin, and that the name, years ago, was Giuliani. Still, I cannot swear as to the truth of this assertion. My father in his first youth had gone to the Levant, and had settled at Chios. He was a coppersmith; and, as far as I can remember, he was very prosperous. He had a large and well-furnished shop, and employed a good many workmen.
"I was the eldest of the family; after me there came a girl, who, happily for herself, died when she was yet quite a baby, and before trouble befel us; for had she been spared, she doubtless would have ended her life in some harem, if not in a worse way, losing thus both soul and body. After her came two boys; so that between myself and my youngest brother there was a difference of about ten years, if not more. I was, therefore, the only child of our family who knew the blessing of a happy boyhood, for my early years, spent either in my father's shop or in our country-house, were passed in bliss; but alas! that time is so far off that its remembrance is only like a dream.
"When I was about ten or twelve years – I cannot say exactly how old I was, as all the registers have been destroyed – a terrible revolution took place. It was, I remember, an awful time, when Christian blood ran in streams through the streets of towns and villages, when houses were burnt down, and the whole island remained a mass of smouldering ruins.
"My father was, if I am not mistaken, the first victim of that bloody fray; like all men of pluck, and indeed like most men of no pluck at all, he was butchered by the Turks. My mother – "
There was a pause. A tear glistened in the corner of the old man's eye, then it rolled down his wrinkled cheek and disappeared in the long, bristling white moustache; his voice faltered. Though more than half a century had passed since that dreadful day, still he could hardly speak about it. After a moment he added, drily:
"My mother fell into the hands of those dogs. I was separated from my brothers. The youngest, as I was told, was taken by those fiends. He was a bright, handsome boy; they made a Turk of him. My other brother disappeared; for days I sought him everywhere, but I could not find him.
"Before I go on with the story of my life, I must tell you that all the men in the Giulianic family have, since immemorial times, a bright red stain, like a small drop of blood, on the nape of the neck, just about where the collar-bone is bound to the skull. Its peculiarity is that its colour increases and decreases with the lunar phases. Besides this, my father in those troubled times, foreseeing that the day might come when we should be snatched from him, caused a little Greek Cross to be tattooed upon us."
Here, suiting the action to the words, he bared his left breast and showed us the holy sign just near the place where the heart is seen to throb.
"Thus, to resume the story of my life, when I was hardly twelve I found myself an orphan, alone and penniless. The night of that dreadful day I went to cry by the smouldering ruins of our house, looking if I could at least find the mangled remains of that father whom I loved so dearly. When morning came, I knew that I was not only turned adrift upon this wide world, but that I had to flee, whither I knew not. I lurked about in all kinds of hiding-places, and when I crawled out I always seemed to hear the steps and the voices of those bloodthirsty murderers. The falling leaf, the sudden flight of a locust, the chirrup of an insect filled me with terror, and indeed more than once, hidden within a bush or crouching behind a stone, I saw the tall zeibeks, those fierce-looking mountaineers, the scourge of the country far around, in search of prey. For days I managed to live, I really do not know how, but principally on oranges, I think. One day, being on the strand and seeing a vessel riding at anchor at some distance, I swam up to it. The captain, who was a Dalmatian, took pity on me, and brought me to Zara, whither his ship was bound. From that time I managed to drag on through life; still, I should not have been unhappy had I been able to forget.
"After several years of hard struggle, I at last went to Mostar; there fate, tired of persecuting me, began to be more favourable. I was prosperous in all my undertakings; I married; then my restlessness began to wear away, I thought I had settled down for life. Had I only been able to find out something about my lost brothers, I do not think anything more would have been wanting to my happiness.
"Years passed, aye, a good many years since those terrible days which had blighted my childhood, for my eldest child, who died soon afterwards, was then about the age I had been when I was bereft of kith and kin. It happened that one day – stop, it was on Easter Monday – I was having a picnic with some friends at a farm belonging to my wife's father. We were sauntering in the fields, enjoying the beauty of the country, which at that time was in all its bloom, when looking down from a height upon the road beneath, we saw a cloud of dust. We stopped to look, and we perceived at a few yards from us, two or three panting men evidently running for their lives.
"They were all armed, not only with daggers and pistols, but also with long muskets. At twenty paces behind them came half-a-dozenzaptiehs, or guards.
"The highwaymen, for such they seemed to us, evidently tired out, were losing ground at every step, and the Turks were about to overtake them. All at once the robbers reached a corner of the road, just under the hill on which we were standing; there the foremost man amongst them stopped, and after bidding the others to be off, he put his musket to his shoulder. When the zaptiehs came nearer, he called to them to turn back if they cared for their lives. There was a moment of indecision amongst the guards; each one looked upon his neighbour, wondering what he would do, when the one who seemed to be their officer took out his pistol and pointed it at the highwayman, calling to him to give up. For all reply, the robber took a deliberate aim at the Turk. Both men fired at once. The guards, astonished, stood back for a trice. The Turk fell, the highwayman remained unhurt; thereupon he laid by his gun and took out a revolver. The guards came up and fired off their weapons; the robber fell, apparently shot through by many balls.