The Pobratim Part 72

Then, turning to Milenko, he added:

"You, too, must be a brave young man, and wise even beyond your years. You have the courage of reason, for you do not lose your head in moments of great danger. We have already heard how you saved several precious lives from the waves, and now, if your friend does recover--and, with G.o.d's help, let us hope he will--it is to you, far more than to anyone else, that he will owe his life. A practised surgeon could surely not have bandaged the wound and stopped the hemorrhage better than you did. Your father should have sent you to study medicine in one of the great towns."

Mara stretched forth her hand and clasped Milenko.

"You never told me what you had done, my boy," said she, while the tears trickled down her cheeks.

"What I did was little enough; besides, did Uros ever tell you how he saved my life and dragged me out of prison at Ragusa?" and Milenko thereupon proceeded to tell them all how he had been accused of manslaughter, and in what a wonderful way he had been saved by his friend.

"In my grief I have always one consolation," said Mara; "should the worst happen, one son is left me, for they are _pobratim_," said she, turning to the monk.

"What has become of the murderer? Has he been arrested?" asked Kvekvic of Milenko.

"He took to the rocks and disappeared like a horned adder. At that moment I only thought of Uros, who would have bled to death had he been left alone."

"Oh, those Vranics are a cursed race! The Almighty G.o.d has not put a sign on them for nothing. This one has a cast in his eye, so that men should keep aloof from him. They are all a peevish, fretful, malicious race," said Kvekvic.

"Their blood turns to gall," added the monk.

"Oh, but I'll find him out, even if he hide himself in the most secret recess!" quoth Milenko, turning towards Mara. "I'll not rest till my brother's blood is avenged."

"'Tooth for tooth, eye for eye,' say our Holy Scriptures," and Danko Kvekvic crossed himself.

"Amen!" added the monk, following his example.

Just then Uros opened his eyes. He came to his senses for a few seconds, and, seeing his mother, his pupils seemed to dilate with a yearning look of love. She pressed his hand, and he slightly--almost imperceptibly--returned the pressure. His lips quivered; he was about to speak, when he again closed his eyes and his senses began once more to wander. The monk bathed his lips with the cordial he was administering him. The patient, apparently, had again fallen off to sleep.

Just then the sound of the convent bell was heard.

"I am sorry," said the old caloyer, turning towards his guests, "but I have to dismiss you now; the bell you have just heard summons us to _vecernjca_. When our prayers are over, the doors of our house are closed for the night--no one comes in or goes out after evensong."

"But we two can surely remain with you to-night," said Kvekvic, pointing to Milenko.

"Surely Father Vjekoslav will readily give you permission to be our honoured guests as long as you like, if he has not already granted it; but----" (here the old man hesitated).

"But what?" asked Kvekvic.

"The _gospa_," said the monk, turning towards Mara, "must return home."

"Yes, I know," added Mara, sighing as she got up.

"Still," quoth the good caloyer, "we shall take great care of him, and to-morrow morning you can come as early as you like."

The poor mother thanked the good old man; she slightly brushed off the curls from her boy's forehead, kissed him with a deep-drawn sigh, and with tearful eyes rose to go.

"Thank you for all the care you have taken of my child; thank you, uncle Danko, for all your kindness," and she kissed the priest's and the monk's hands, according to the custom of the Slavs.

Just then, a young lay-monk came to inform Mara that someone was asking for her. It was Milenko's mother, who had come up to the convent door to ask how Uros was getting on, and to see if she could be of any use, for Milenko, with his usual thoughtfulness, had begged his mother to come in the evening and accompany her friend back home.

"Go, Milos, and join the brethren in their prayers," said Danko Kvekvic. "I shall recite my orisons here, beside my nephew's bed."

The monk and Milenko accompanied the forlorn mother to the convent door, and bade her be of good cheer; then they went to church to take part in the evening service.

When the candles were all put out, and echoes of the evening-song had died away, they all slowly, and with stately steps, wended their way to the refectory, where a simple repast was spread out for them.

Being Friday, the frugal supper consisted of vegetarian food; there were tomatoes baked with bread-crumbs, egg-plants stuffed with rice, and other such oriental dishes. The dessert, especially, was a sumptuous one, not only on account of the thickly-curded sour milk, but of the splendid fruit which the convent garden afforded. There were luscious plums as big as eggs; large, juicy and fragrant peaches, the flesh of which clung to the stone; huge water-melons, the inside of which looked like crimson snow, and melted away as such, and sweet-scented musk-melons; above all, big cl.u.s.ters of grapes of all shapes and hues; rosy-tinted, translucent berries, looking like pale rubies; dark purple drupes covered with pearly dust, which seemed like bunches of damsons; big white Smyrna grapes of a waxy hue, the small sultana of Corinth, and the long grapes that look like amber tears.

Milenko, notwithstanding the grief he felt, made a hearty meal, for, except a bit of bread, broken off as he walked along from his father's loaf, and a draught of wine, he had scarcely tasted food the whole of that day; therefore, he was more than hungry. Supper being over, and a short thanksgiving prayer having been offered, Milenko found himself all at once surrounded by the monks, who pressed him with questions, for childish curiosity was their prevailing weakness.

They were especially interested in the theatrical performances the young man had witnessed at the Fenice of Venice, for they were amazed to hear that the grand ladies of the town, all glittering with costly gems, sat in boxes, where they exhibited to all eyes their naked arms and b.r.e.a.s.t.s, whilst they looked at young girls in transparent skirts hardly reaching their knees, who kept dancing on the tips of their toes, or twirled their legs over their partners' heads. Hearing such lewdness the saintly men were so greatly shocked that they crossed themselves demurely, and the eldest shook their heads, and said, reproachfully, that such dens of infamous resort were not places for modest young men to go to.

After that, Milenko told them of the last great invention, the boats that went without sails, but which had two huge wheels moved by fire; at which the monks again crossed themselves, and said that those were the devil's inventions, and that if things continued at such a rate, G.o.d would have to send another flood and destroy the world once more.

Milenko would have willingly escaped from his persecutors, but he still had to answer many questions about his life on board, the hards.h.i.+ps he had had to undergo, the storms his s.h.i.+p had met with.

The medical monk had gone to take his place at Uros' bedside, and Danko Kvekvic, after having had some supper, had come out to breathe the fresh air on the convent's terrace, where all the caloyers had a.s.sembled before retiring to rest.

The scene was a most lovely one. Behind the terrace the high mountains rose dark against the sky; nearer, the black rocks had furry, velvety, and satin tints, for, under the dark and dusky light of the disappearing twilight, the stones seemed to have grown soft; whilst, on the other side, the broad expanse of the sea looked like a ma.s.s of some hard burnished metal.

The utter quietness, the perfect peace and rest which pervaded the whole scene, rendered the sense of life a pleasurable feeling; still, it is doubtful whether most of those holy men--who had never known the real wear and tear of life--felt all the bliss of that beatific rest.

"Now," said Kvekvic to Milenko, "you can come and see your friend, who, I am sorry to say, seems to be sinking; then you must retire to rest; you'll soon have to start with your s.h.i.+p, and you should not unfit yourself for your task."

"No," pleaded Milenko; "it is, perhaps, the last watch we shall keep together; therefore, let me stay by his bedside. But, tell me, is he really getting worse?"

"The fever is increasing fast, notwithstanding the father's medicines."

"Had we not better have a doctor from Budua or Cattaro?"

"I don't think their skill could be of much use, for I really think his hours are numbered here below--although he is young, and might struggle back to life; darkness, albeit, is gathering fast around him."

Milenko, with a heavy heart, went back to the sufferer's cell, where some other monks, also versed in the art of healing, had gathered around him in a grave consultation. They all said to Milenko that there was still hope; but, one by one, they all left the room, making the sign of the Cross, and recommending him to G.o.d, as if human aid could do nothing more for him.

Poor Milenko felt as if all the nerves of his chest had contracted painfully; life did not seem possible without the friend, the constant companion of his infancy.

As it was agreed that Danko Kvekvic should stay up with the old monk, all the other caloyers went off to sleep; but presently one of the younger brothers came in, bearing a tray of fragrant coffee, cooked in the Turkish fas.h.i.+on.

"Oh, thank you!" said Kvekvic, rubbing his hands, "I think you must have guessed my wishes, for, to tell you the truth, I was actually pining for a draught of that exhilarating beverage, one of the few good things we owe to the enemies of our creed, for, in fact, I know of few beverages that can be compared to a cup of fragrant coffee."

"As far as luxuries go, the Turks are certainly our masters; not only in confectionery, in sweet-scented sherbet, but even in cooking we are rude barbarians compared to them."

"They certainly are hedonists, who know how to render life pleasurable."

"Aye," said the monk, sternly, "theirs is the broad path leading to perdition." Then, after a slight pause, he added: "What is that book thou hast brought with thee, Blagoslav?"

"I thought," replied the young man, somewhat bashfully, "I might help you to pa.s.s your long vigil by reading to you; that is, of course, if it be agreeable to you."

The poor fellow stammered, and stopped, seeing the little success his proposal seemed to elicit.