CHAPTER XXIII.
The lake of Skadar lay like an immense _lapis lazuli_ within itssetting of mountains, which, on the east, were golden with the rays ofthe declining sun, and on the west, enameled in emerald with the denseshadows their summits dropped upon them. The surface of the water wasunbroken, save here and there by black spots where a pair of loonsshrieked their marital unhappiness, or a flock of wild ducks floated,like a miniature fleet, about the reed-fringed shores of some littleisland. Had there been watchers on the fortress of Obod, which lay onthe cliff just above where the Tsernoyevitcha enters Skadar, theywould have espied a light shallop gliding along the eastern bank ofthe lake. This contained the voivode Amesa and his attendant. Just atnight-fall they reached the cavern, whose hidden recesses begot ahundred legends which the weird shadows of the cave clothed in formsas fantastic as their own, and which still flit among the hamlets ofMontenegro. It was said that whoever should sleep within the cavewould rest his head on the bosoms of the nymphs:--only let him takecare that their love does not prevent his ever waking. Amesa and hiscompanion were courageous, but discretion led them to wind the strookaabout their heads, and seek without a couch of pine needles betweenthe enormous roots of the trees which had dropped them.
The dawn had just silvered the east, and the coming sun transformedthe cold blue tints of Skadar into amber, when they entered the river.The great stream wound through the broad lowlands of Tsetinie, girdledwith rocky hills. Then it dashed in impetuous floods between morestraightened banks, or lingered, as if the river spirit would bathehimself in the deep pools that were cooled by the springs at theirbottoms. Though familiar with the phenomenon, they loitered that theymight watch the schools of fish which were so dense in places as toimpede the stroke of the oar blade, and tint the entire stream withtheir dull silvery gleam.[56] Emerging from a tortuous channel,through which the river twisted itself like a vast shining serpent,they came to a cluster of houses that nestled in a gorge. These houseswere made of stone, and so covered with vines as to be hardlydistinguishable from the dense shrubbery that clambered over therocks about them.
Amesa was warmly greeted by the stargeshina who occupied the konak, orprincipal house. The older people remembered the visitor as the comelylad who, before the return of George Castriot, was almost the onlymale representative of that noble family left in the land. The voivodewas honored with every evidence that the villagers felt themselvescomplimented by the visit of their guest, whatever business or capricemight have brought him thither.
A simple repast was provided, in which the courtesy of the service onthe part of the stargeshina more than compensated any poverty in thedisplay of viands;--though there were set forth meats dried in stripsin the smoke of an open fire; eggs; sweet, though black bread; andwine pressed from various mountain berries, and allowed to ferment inskins. As they sat beside a low table at the doorway of the konak, thestargeshina offered a formal salam, the zdravitsa, which was half atoast and half a prayer, and extended his hand to Amesa in theprotestation of personal friendship. At the meal the glories ofCastriot and Ivan Beg--or Ivo, as the peasants called him--were dulyrecited.
"But why," said the old man, rising to his feet with the enthusiasm ofthe sentiment--"Why should the country sing the praises of GeorgeCastriot, who for thirty years was willing to be a Turk and fight foran alien faith? Your shoulders, noble Amesa--Prince Amesa, my loyalheart would call you--could as well have borne the burden of thepeople's defence. Your arm could strike as good a blow as his forAlbania. Your blood is that of the Castriots, and untainted by Moslemtouch. Your estates, since you have become heir to the lands of DeStreeses, make you our richest and most influential voivode."
These words made the eyes of Amesa flash, not with any novel pleasure,rather with an ambition to which he was no stranger. But the flash wassmothered at once by the half-closed eyelids, and he responded--
"I ought not to hear such words, my good friend. My Uncle George isthe hero of the hour. The people need a hero in whom they believe; andthe very mystery of his life for the thirty years among the Turks, andthe romance of his return, make him a convenient hero."
"But Sire, my noble--my Prince Amesa--do you not daily hear such wordsas I speak? The thought is as common as the Pater Noster, and echoesfrom Skadar to Ochrida. It was but a week since a young Albanianpassed through this border country, whispering everywhere that theland was ready to cry Amesa's name rather than the reformed renegade,George Castriot's; that Scanderbeg, the Lord Alexander, the struttingtitle the Turks gave him, was an offence to the free hearts of thepeople."
"Ah! and what sort of a man for look was this Albanian?" asked Amesain surprise.
"A sturdy youth of, say, twenty summers, with hair like a turban whichhad been worn by a dozen slaughtered Turks, so blood red is it."
Amesa gave a puzzled look toward Drakul, who was eating his meal at alittle distance, but whose ears seemed to prick up like those of ahorse at this description.
"It is likely that he may be again in the village this very night. Ourneighbor next lodged him. I will ask him if he will return," said thestargeshina, leaving the konak for a little.
"It is he; it's that Constantine," said Drakul, coming nearer toAmesa. "The wily young devil is ready to betray your Uncle George.That will make the matter easier."
"The way is clear, then," replied Amesa. "I am glad that the raid wasnot successful. It might have led to further blood. With this fellowin league with us, it is straight work and honorable."
The stargeshina reported the man would probably be in again that verynight, and added:
"I would you could see him; for though he is fair spoken, there issome mystery in his going day after day among these mountains, like ahound who is looking for a lost scent."
"Perhaps he is attracted here by some of the fair maidens of thehamlets," suggested Amesa, looking at Drakul, who was tearing a bit ofjerked meat in his teeth, apparently intent only upon that selfishoccupation.
"It may well be, for our neighbor here has harbored a bit of straywomanhood which might tempt a monk to lodge there rather than in hiscell," said the old man.
A shout from above them attracted their attention to a merry companywhich was coming down the mountain. It was the procession of theDodola. Drought threatened to destroy the scanty grain growing in thenarrow valleys, and the vines on the terraces cut out of the steephills. According to an ancient custom, a young maiden had been takenby her companions into the woods, stripped of her usual garments, andreclothed in the leaves and flowers of the endangered vegetation. Longgrasses and stalks of grain were matted in many folds about herperson, and served as a base for artistic decoration with everyvariety of floral beauty. Her feet were buskined in clover blossoms. Akilt of broad-leaved ferns hung from her waist, which was belted witha broad zone of wild roses. White and pink laurel blossoms made herbodice. An ivy wreath upon her brows was starred with white daisies,and plumed with the stems and hanging bells of the columbine.
The Dodola thus appeared as the impersonation of floral nature athirstfor the vivifying rains. Her attendants, who led her in a leash ofroses, chanted a hymn, the refrain of which was a prayer to Elijah,who, since he brought the rain at Carmel, is supposed by the peasantsof Albania to be that saint to whom Providence has committed theshepherding of the clouds. As the procession wound down the terracedpaths between the houses, the Dodola was welcomed by the matrons ofthe hamlet, who stood each in her own doorway, with hair gatheredbeneath a cap of coins, teeth enameled in black, fingers tippedbrownish-red with henna. The maidens sung a verse of their hymn ateach cottage; and, at the refrain, the housewife poured upon the headof the leaf-clad Dodola a cup of water; repeating the last line ofthe chorus, "Good Saint Elias, so send the rain!"
As the Dodola paused before the konak, Amesa said, quiteenthusiastically, and designing to be overheard by the fair girl whotook the part of thirsting nature, "If Elias can refuse the prayer ofso much womanly beauty, I swear, by Jezebel, that I shall hereafterbelieve
, with the Turks, that the austere old prophet has becomebewitched with the houris in paradise, and so does not care to lookinto the faces of earthly damsels."
"You may still keep your Christian faith, for the Dodola has won thefavor of the Thunderer,"[57] replied the stargeshina. "Listen to hislove-making in response to the witchery of that wild dove! Do you hearit?"
The distant murmur of a coming shower confirmed the credulity of thepeasants.
"Yes, soon the Holy Virgin will turn her bright glances upon us,"[58]said he looking at the sky.
"Who is that wild dove who acts the Dodola?" inquired Amesa.
"The one I told you of, who has come into our neighbor's cot," repliedthe old man. "But only the sharp eyes of the crows saw where she camefrom. Did she not speak our tongue and know our ways as well as any ofus, I should say she was one of the Tsigani who were driven out of themorning land by Timour.[59] Yet it may be that her own story is true.She says she had two lovers in her village; and these two werebrothers in God, who had taken the vow before heaven and St. John tohelp and never to hinder each other in whatever adventure of love orbrigandage, at cost of limb or life. But as the hot blood of neitherof these lovers could endure to see this nymph in the arms of theother, it was determined that she should be slain by the hand of both,rather than that the sacred brotherhood should be broken. By her ownfather's hearth the two daggers were struck together at her heart. Butthe strong arms of the slayers collided, and both blows glanced. Sheescaped and fled, and came hither."
"And you believe this story?" asked Amesa, with a look of incredulitymingled with triumph, as of one who knew more than the narrator.
"I believe her story, noble Amesa, because--because no one has told meany other. But--" He shook his head.
"Does not the young stranger you spoke of know something of her, thathe prowls about this neighborhood?" asked the guest.
"It may be. I had not thought it, but it may well be! Hist--!"
The Dodola passed by, returning to her own cottage. As she did so herbright black eyes glanced coquettishly at the stranger from beneathher disarranged chaplet of flowers and dishevelled hair. She soonreturned, having assumed her garments as a peasant maid, but withevident effort to make this simple attire set off the great naturalbeauty of face and form, of which she was fully conscious. Herforehead was too low; but Pygmalion could not have chiselled a browand temples upon which glossy black ringlets clustered morebewitchingly. Her eyes flashed too cold a fire light to give one theimpression of great amiability in their possessor; but the long lasheswhich drooped before them, partially veiled their stare so as to givethe illusion of coyness, if not of maidenly modesty. Her mouth wasperhaps sensuously curved; but was one of those marvellously plasticones which can tell by the slightest arching or compressing of thelips as much of purpose or feeling as most people can tell inwords:--dangerous lips to the possessor, if she be guileless andunsuspicious, for they reveal too much of her soul to others who haveno right to know its secrets; dangerous lips to others if she woulddeceive, for they can lie, consummately, wickedly, without uttering aword. Her complexion was scarcely brunette; rather that indescribablefairness in which the whiteness of alabaster is tinged with the bloodof perfect health, slightly bronzed by constant exposure to thesunshine and air--a complexion seldom seen except in Syria, the GreekIslands, or Wales. Her form was faultless,--just at that stage ofdevelopment when the grace and litheness of childhood are beginning tobe lost in the statelier mysteries of womanly beauty; that transitionstate between two ideals of loveliness, which, from the days ofPhidias, has lured, but always eluded, the artist's skill toreproduce.
The girl's face flushed with the consciousness of being gazed atapprovingly by the courtly stranger. But the pretty toss of her headshowed that the blush was due as much to the conceit of her beauty asto bashfulness. As she talked with the other maidens, she glancedfurtively toward the door of the konak, where Amesa sat. The youngvoivode foresaw that it would not be difficult to entice the girlherself to be the chief agent in any plan he might have for herabduction.
He needed, however, to make more certain of her identity with theobject of his search. He could discern no trace of Mara De Streeses inher face; much less in her manner. Since Drakul had suggested it, heimagined a resemblance to De Streeses himself, whose bearing washaughty and his temperament fiery.
The evening brought the young man of whom the stargeshina had spoken.His resemblance to the description given him of Constantine left nodoubt in Amesa's mind of his being the mysterious custodian of theheiress to his estates. The young Servian he supposed would at oncerecognize him as Amesa; for, as a prominent officer in the army, hisface would be well known to all who had been in Castriot's camps, evenif the gossip of the villagers did not at once inform him of hispresence. It were best then, thought Amesa, to boldly confront him;win him, if possible, to his service; if not, destroy him.
The young stranger was at once on frolicksome terms with the villagegirls and lads; and Amesa thought he observed that through it all thefellow kept a sharp, if not a suspicious, eye upon him. Lest he shouldescape, the voivode invited him to walk beyond the houses of thevillage. When out of sight and hearing he suddenly turned upon theyoung man, and, laying a hand upon his shoulder, exclaimed,
"You are known, man!"
Upon the instant the stranger was transformed from the saunteringpeasant into a gladiator, with feet firmly planted, the left handraised as a shield, and the right grasping a yataghan which had beenconcealed upon his person. Amesa, though the aggressor, was thrownupon the defensive, and was compelled to retreat in order to gain timefor the grip of his weapon.
The two men stood glaring into each other's eyes as there each to readhis antagonist's movement before his hand began to execute it.
"I did not know that a Servian peasant was so trained," said Amesa,still retreating before the advance of his opponent, who gave him noopportunity to assume the offensive.
"For whom do you take me that you dare to lay a rough hand on me?"said the man, half in menace, and yet apparently willing to discoverif his assailant were right in his surmise.
"Arnaud's man and I need not be enemies," said Amesa, seeing no chanceof relieving himself from the advantage the other had gained in thesword play. "I can reward you better than he or Castriot."
A smile passed over the man's face, which Amesa might have detectedthe meaning of had his mind been less occupied with thoughts about hispersonal safety from the yataghan, whose point was seeking his throataccording to the most approved rules of single combat.
"And what if I am Arnaud's man?"
As he said this the yataghan made a thorough reconnoissance of all thevulnerable parts of Amesa's body from the fifth rib upwards, followedby Amesa's dagger in ward.
"You do not deny it?" said the Albanian between breaths.
"I deny nothing. Nor need I confess anything, since you say I amknown."
"Shall we be friends?" asked Amesa, cautiously lowering his arm.
"You made war, and can withdraw its declaration, or take theconsequences," was the reply.
The two men put up their weapons.
"So good a soldier as you are should not be here guarding a girl,"said Amesa.
"Guarding a girl?" said the man in amazement, but, recollectinghimself, added, "And why not guard a girl?"
"Come," replied Amesa, "you and I can serve each other. You can dothat for me which no other man can; and I can give to you more goldthan any other Albanian can."
"And when you are king of Albania, Prince Amesa, you can reward mewith high appointment," said the stranger with a slight sneer, which,however, Amesa did not notice, at the moment thinking of what thestargeshina had said of the man's interest in the movement against hisuncle's leadership.
"You have but to ask your reward when that event comes," he replied.
"I will swear to serve Amesa against Scanderbeg to the death," saidthe man offering his hand.
"You know the girl's true story?" as
ked Amesa.
"Of course," was the cautious reply. "But of that I may not speak aword. I can leave his service whose man you say I am, but I cannotbetray anything he may have told me. As you know the girl's story itis needless to tempt me to divulge it," added he, with shrewdnon-committal of himself to any information that the other mightrecognize as erroneous.
"You speak nobly for a Servian," said the voivode.
"How do you know I am a Servian?" asked the stranger.
"Partly from your accent. You have not got our pure Albanian tongue,though it is now six years you have been talking it. And thenArnaud--Colonel Kabilovitsch--came back as a Servian. Is it not so?"asked Amesa, noticing the surprised look which the mention ofKabilovitsch's name brought to the man's face.
For a while the stranger was lost in thought; but with an effortthrowing off a sort of reverie, he said:
"Pardon my silence. I have been thinking of your proposal. May Ifollow you to the village after a little? I would think over how bestI can meet your proposition, my Prince Amesa."
"I will await you at the konak. But first let us swear friendship!"said the voivode.
"Heartily!" was the response. "With Amesa as against Scanderbeg."
"You will induce the girl to go with me to my castle. She will farebetter there than here, playing Dodola to these ignorant peasants."
"It is agreed."
As Amesa disappeared, the man sat down upon a huge root of a tree,which for lack of earth had twined itself over the rock. He buriedhis face in his hands--
"Strange! strange! is all this. Kabilovitsch? the girl? Not my littleplaymate on the Balkans--sweet faced Morsinia. The Dodola here is notshe. If Uncle Kabilovitsch is Colonel Kabilovitsch, or this Arnaud hespeaks of, then this treacherous Amesa is on the wrong track. Can itbe that Constantine--dear little Constantine--is in Albania, and thatI am mistaken for him? No, this is impossible. But still I must bewary, and not do that which would harm a golden hair of Morsinia'shead, if she be living, or Constantine's, or Uncle Kabilovitsch's.There's some mystery here. Only one thing is certain--Amesa mistakesthis pretty impudent Dodola girl for somebody else. To get her offwith him may serve that somebody else: for the voivode is a villain:that much is sure. The cursed Giaour serpent! I will help him to getthis saucy belle of the hamlet, and so save somebody else, whoever shemay be who is the game for which he lays his snares."
An hour later the Dodola, whose name was Elissa, passed Amesa andblushed deeply.
The family at whose house the girl was living made no objection toAmesa's request that she should be transferred to the protection ofthe voivode. The elders of the village acquiesced; for, said one,
"We do not know who she is, and may get into difficulty throughharboring her."
Another averred his belief that she was possessed of the evil eye; forhe had observed her staring at the olive tree the day before it wasstruck by lightning; and he declared that half the young men of thehamlet were bewitched with her.
A sharp-tongued dame remarked that some of the older men would ratherlisten to the merry tattle of the sprite than to the most serious andwholesome counsel of their own wives.
FOOTNOTES:
[56] Still noted by travellers on this river.
[57] An Albanian title of Elijah.
[58] The Albanians regard Mary as the sender of lightning.
[59] Tsigani; a word by which Slavic people designate the gypsies, whoare supposed by them to have come from India in the time of Tamerlane.
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