CHAPTER L.
The fugitives landed a good score of miles from Stamboul, on thenorthern shore of Marmora, and struck the highway which runs westward,following the coast line to Salonika, where it divides, bending southinto Greece, and branching north through Macedonia. The fugitivesfollowed the latter highway. The country through which they passed wasat the time conquered by the Moslem, but was dotted over with thesettlements of the adherents to the old faith, who kept the watchfiresof hope still burning in their hearts, though they were extinguishedon the mountains. It was by this route that Constantine had gone toStamboul. He was therefore familiar, not only with the way, but withthe people; and easily secured from them concealment when necessary,and help along the journey. His belt had been well filled with gold byCastriot, so that two fleet horses and all provisions were readilysupplied.
Their journey was saddened by their solicitude for the fate ofAlbania. Before Constantine had left that country, Moses Goleme,wearied with the incessant sacrifices he was compelled to make, anddiscouraged by what he deemed the impossibility of longer holding outagainst the Turks, had quarreled with Castriot, and thrown off hisallegiance. He had even been induced by Mahomet's pledge of liberty toAlbania--if only Castriot were overthrown--to enter the service of theenemy. The wily Sultan had placed him in command of an invading army,with which, however, he had returned to his country only to meet anoverwhelming defeat at the hands of the great captain, and to flee indisgrace to Constantinople.
This swift vengeance administered by the patriots did not entirelycrush the dissatisfaction among the people. Their fields were wastedby the long war; for half a generation had passed since it began. Onlythe personal magnetism of their chief held the factions to theirdoubtful loyalty.
After several weeks' journeying, our fugitives reached the camp ofCastriot. It little resembled the gorgeous canvas cities of the Turksthey had passed. The overspreading trees were, in many instances, theonly shelter of voivodes and princely leaders, the story of whoseexploits floated as an enchantment to the lovers of the heroic in alllands.
But the simple welcome they received from the true hearts of theircountrymen was more to Morsinia and Constantine than any statelyreception could have been. Kabilovitsch's joy was boundless. Thevenerable man had greatly failed, worn by outward toil, and more byhis inward grief. Castriot had grown prematurely old. His hair waswhitened; his eyes more deeply sunken beneath the massive brows; hisshoulders a little bowed. Yet there was no sign of decrepitude in faceor limb. His aspect was sterner, and even stronger, as if knit withthe iron threads of desperation.
As Kabilovitsch, whom the wanderers had first sought upon theirarrival, led them to Castriot, the general gazed upon them silentlyfor a little. Years, with their strange memories, seemed to flit, oneafter another, across his scarred face. Taking Morsinia's hands inhis, he stood looking down into her blue eyes, just as he had donewhen years ago, he bade her farewell. Then he kissed her forehead ashe said:
"Thank heaven! there is not yet a wrinkle on that fair brow. But Iwronged you, my child, in sending you among strangers. Can you forgivethe blunder of my judgment? It was my heart that led me wrong."
"I have nothing to forgive thee," replied Morsinia. "Though I havesuffered, to gaze again into thy face, Sire, takes away even thememory of it all. I shall be fully blessed if now I can remove some ofthose care marks from thy brow."
"Your return takes away from me twice as many years as those you havebeen absent, and I shall be young again now--as young almost asKabilovitsch," added he, with a kindly glance at the old veteran,whose battered dignity had given place to an almost childish delight.
The scene within the tent was interrupted by a noise without. A crowdof soldiers had gathered, and were gazing from a respectful distanceat a strange-looking man: "A man of heaviness and eaten up withcares." He was clad in the coarsest garments; his beard untrimmed;hatless; a rope about his neck. As Scanderbeg came out of the tent,the man threw himself at his feet, and cried, as he bowed his headupon the ground:
"Strike, Sire! I have sold my country. I have returned to die underthe sword of my true chief, rather than live with the blessing of hisenemies. The curse on my soul is greater than I could bear, with allthe splendid rewards of my treason. Take out the curse with my blood!Strike, Sire! Strike!"
He was Moses Goleme. Castriot stood with folded arms and looked uponthe prostrate man. His lips trembled, and then were swollen, as wasnoted of them when his soul was fired with the battle rage. Then everymuscle of his face quivered as if touched by some sharp pain. Thencame a look of sorrow and pity. His broad bosom heaved with thedeep-drawn breath as he spoke.
"Moses Goleme, rise! Your place is at no man's feet. For twenty yearsyou watched by Albania, while I forgot my fatherland. Your name hasbeen the rallying cry of the patriot; your words the wisdom of ourcouncil; your arm my strength. Brave man! take Castriot's sword, andwear it again until your own heart tells you that your honor has beenredeemed. Rise!"
Untying the rope from the miserable man's neck, he flung it far off,and cried,--
"So, away with whatever disgraces the noble Goleme! My curse on himwho taunts thee for the past! Let that be as a hideous dream to beforgotten. For well I know, brave comrade, that thy heart slept whenthou wast away. But it wakes again. Thou art thy true self once more!"
The broken-hearted man replied, scarcely raising his eyes as he spoke:
"My hands are not worthy to touch the sword of Castriot. Let mecleanse them with patriot service. Tell me, Sire, some desperateadventure, where, since thou wilt not slay me, I may give my wretchedlife for my country."
"No, Moses, you shall keep your life for Albania. I know well thestrength of your temptation. My service is too much for any man. Wereit not that I am sustained by some strange invisible spirit, I toowould have yielded long ago. But enough! The old command awaits thee,Moses."
The man looked upon Castriot with grateful amazement. But he could notspeak, and turned away.
At first he was received sullenly by the soldiers; but when the storyof Castriot's magnanimity was repeated, the camps rang with the cry,"Welcome, Goleme!" That his restoration might be honored, a grand raidthrough the Turkish lines was arranged for the next night. The watchcry was, "By the beard of Moses!" and many a veteran then wielded hissword with a courage and strength he had not felt for years. Even oldKabilovitsch, whose failing vigor had long excused him from suchexpeditions, insisted upon joining in this. Constantine then rewhettedhis steel for valiant deeds to come. And, as the day after the fightdawned, Moses Goleme led back the band of victors, laden with spoil.As he appeared, to make his report to the chief, his face was flushedwith the old look; and, grasping the hand of Castriot, he raised it tohis lips and simply said:
"I thank thee, Sire!" and retired.
The Captain of the Janizaries Page 50
