The Pobratim Part 71

"From the windows of the inn he saw all his house illuminated, and people coming in and going out as if some wedding or other grand feast were taking place. Then, in one of the rooms of the first floor he saw his wife--now a buxom matron--together with two handsome youths in priest's attire. To his horror and dismay, he saw her hugging and fondling the young men, who were covering her with kisses. At this sight he got into such a rage that he took out his pistol."

"No," said the child, interrupting, "he took up his gun, which was in a corner of the room."

"Quite right," answered Milena; "he took up his gun, aimed at his wife, and was about to shoot, when he fancied he heard his master's voice saying:

"'Whenever you are about to commit some rash act, put off your purpose till the morrow.'

"He, therefore, thought he would postpone his revenge till the next day, and he went downstairs to have his supper.

"'Who lives opposite,' he asked of the landlord, 'in that house where they seem to be having such grand doings?'

"'A very virtuous woman,' quoth the host, 'whose husband disappeared in a strange, mysterious way on the eighth day of the wedding feast, and has never been heard of since.'

"'And she never married again?'

"'No, of course not.'

"'But who are those two handsome priests that are with her?'

"'Those are her two boys, twins born shortly after the marriage. The house is illuminated as to-morrow the two young men are to be consecrated priests, and their mother is giving a feast in their honour.'

"On the morrow the husband went home, made himself known, presented each of his two sons with a sack of gold coins, gave his wife all the beautiful presents he had bought for her; then he went to church and a.s.sisted at the ceremony of the consecration. After that he gave all his old friends a splendid feast, which lasted eight days; and he told them how, for twenty-five years, he had served the devil, who was by no means as black as he is painted."

"I wonder," said the child, "if he got thin again after the feast."

"I don't know," replied Milena, "for the story stops there."

"No, it doesn't, for my papa said that many people tried to go and offer themselves as cooks to the devil, but that they had never been heard of since then."

"And now I'll take you home. Perhaps we'll meet _gospa_ Mara on our way."

"No, we'll not meet her," said the child, abruptly.

"Why? Because Uros has come home?"

"But Uros hasn't come home."

"How do you know?"

"I know, because _Capitan_ Milenko came this morning and told _gospa_ Mara that Josko Vranic had killed Uros, and so she went off at once to the Convent of St. George, where----"

Milena heard no more. A deadly faintness came over her; she loosened the grasp of the door she had clutched, her legs sank under her, and she fell lifeless on the ground.

The urchin looked at her astonished. He, for a moment, gave up sucking his peach-stone; then he turned on his heels and scampered home to inform his mother about what had happened.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE CONVENT OF ST. GEORGE

When Mara reached the convent, it was with the greatest difficulty, and only through the persuasive influence of her uncle, Danko Kvekvic, that she was allowed to see her son. Uros, moreover, had to be transported from the cell into which he had been carried, into a room near the church--a sort of border-land between the sanctuary and the convent. Even there she was only allowed to remain till nightfall.

"Tell me," said Mara, to the ministering monk (a man more than six feet in height, and who, in his black robes, seemed a real giant), "tell me, do you think he might pa.s.s away during the night while I am not with him?"

"No, I don't think so. He is young and strong; he is one of our st.u.r.dy race--a Iugo Slav, not a Greek, or an effete Turk eaten away by vice and debauchery. He'll linger on."

"Still, there is no hope?"

"Who can tell? I never said there was none. For me, as long as there is a faint spark of life, there is always hope."

"Still, you have administered the sacrament to him?"

"You wouldn't have him die like a dog, would you?" answered the priest, combing out his long white beard with his fingers.

"No, certainly not."

"Besides, we all take the sacrament when we are in bodily health.

Your son came to himself for a few moments, and we seized the opportunity to administer to him the Holy Communion and pray with him; it does no harm to the body, whilst it sets the troubled mind at ease."

Danko Kvekvic, Mara and Milenko crossed themselves devoutly.

"It cannot be denied," continued the monk, "that our patient lies there with both his feet in the grave. Still, G.o.d is omnipotent. I have seen many a brave man fall on the battlefield----"

"You have been in war?" asked Milenko, astonished.

"Bearing the Cross and tending the wounded."

"Still, it is said that at times you wielded the gun with remarkable dexterity," interrupted Danko Kvekvic, with a keen smile.

"Do people say so? Well, what if they do? I am sure no harm is meant by it; for, if my memory does not deceive me, the very same thing was said about a priest who is no monk of our order, Danko Kvekvic, and who, for all that, is said to be a holy man."

"Well, well, we all try to serve our G.o.d and our country as well as we can; and no doubt we have done our best to save our flag from being trampled in the dust, or a fellow-countryman's life when in danger. But I interrupted you; tell me what you have seen on the battlefield."

"Nothing, except blood spilt; but I was going to say that I've seen many a man linger within the jaws of death for days together, and then be s.n.a.t.c.hed from danger when his state became desperate."

"By your skill, father," said Mara, "for we are all aware that you know the secrets of plants, and that you have effected wonderful cures by means of simples."

"Aye, aye! perhaps I have been more successful than the learned doctors of Dunaj" (Vienna) "or Benetke" (Venice); "still, shall I tell you the secret of my cures?"

Mara opened her eyes in wonder. "I thought it was only a death-bed secret transmitted from one dying monk to his successor," said she.

"We are not wizards," said the old man, with a pleasant smile; "we make no mystery of the herbs we seek on the mountains, and even the youngest lay-brother is taught to concoct an elixir or make a salve for wounds."

"But the secret you spoke of?" said Mara.

"It is the pure life-giving air of our mountains, the sobriety of our life, our healthy work in the open fields or on the wide sea. Our sons have in their veins their mothers' blood, for every Serb or Montenegrin woman is a heroine, a brave _juna-kinja_, who has often suckled her babe with blood instead of milk. These are the secrets with which we heal dying men."