"It's strange that you can't guess, you that are so very clever," he said, in a faltering voice.

"What, you don't believe me?" she asked, pouting her lips in a pretty, babyish fashion.

Uros stood looking at her without answering; in his nervousness he was quivering from head to foot, undecided whether he was to kiss her or not.

"Oh, I see, you don't want to tell me; you are afraid I'll not keep my promise!"

"I can ask to be paid beforehand; give me a kiss first, and I'll tell you afterwards."

Having got it out he heaved a deep sigh of relief, for he was glad it was over.

"Here, in the street?" she asked, with a forced smile.

He advanced up to her and she retreated into the house. He was obliged to follow her now, almost in spite of himself; moreover, he could hardly drag himself after her, for he had, all at once, got to be as heavy as lead.

As soon as they were both within the house, she closed the door, and leant her back against it. Then there was an awkward pause of some minutes, for neither of them knew what to do, or what to say. She took courage, however, and looking at him lovingly:

"Now tell me, will you?" said she.

As she uttered these words they clasped each other's hands, whilst their eyes uttered what their lips durst not express; then, as Uros stood there in front of Milena, he felt as if she was drawing him on, and the walls of the room began to spin round and round.

"Why, it is the loss of hair that makes people bald," he muttered in a hot, feverish whisper, the panting tone of which evidently meant--

"Milena, I love you; have pity on me."

She said something about being very stupid, but he could not quite understand what it was; he only felt the swaying motion and the powerful attraction she had over him.

"I suppose you must have your reward now," she said, with a faint voice.

The youth felt his face all aglow; the blood was rushing from his heart to his head with a whirring sound. His dizziness increased.

Did she put out her lips towards his as she said this? He could hardly remember. All that remained clear to him afterwards was, that he had clasped her in his arms, and strained her to his chest with all the might of his muscles. Had he stood there with his lips pressed upon hers for a very long time? He really did not know; it might have been moments, it might have been hours, for he had lost all idea as to the duration of time.

From that day, Uros was always hovering in the neighbourhood of Radonic's house; he was to be found lurking thereabout morning, noon and night. Milenko took him to task about it, but he soon found out that if "hunger has no eyes," lovers, likewise, have no ears, and also that "he who holds his tongue often teaches best." As for Uros, his friend's reproaches were not half so keen as those he made to himself; but love had a thousand sophistries to still the voice of conscience.

Not long after the eventful day of the riddle, Marko Radonic returned unexpectedly to Budua, his ship having to undergo some slight repairs.

For a few days, Milenko managed to keep Uros and Milena apart, but, young as they were, love soon prevailed over prudence. They therefore began to meet in by-lanes and out-of-the-way places, especially during those hours when the husband was busy at the building yard. At first they were very careful, but the reiteration of the same act rendered them more heedless.

Uros was seen again and again at Milena's door when the husband was not at home. People began to suspect, to talk; the subject was whispered mysteriously from ear to ear; it soon spread about the town like wild-fire.

A month after Radonic had returned, he was one evening at the inn, drinking and chatting with some old cronies about ships, cargoes and freights. In the midst of the conversation, an old _guzlar_ pa.s.sing thereby, stepped in to have a draught of wine. Upon seeing the bard, every man rose and, by way of greeting, offered him his gla.s.s to have a sip.

"Give us a song, Vuk; it is years since I heard the sound of your voice," said Radonic.

The bard complied willingly; he went up to a _guzla_ hanging on the wall, and took it down. He then sat on a stool, placed his instrument between his legs, and began to sc.r.a.pe its single gut-string with the monochord bow; this prelude served to give an intonation to his voice, and scan the verses he was about to sing. He thought a while, and then--his face brightening up--he commenced the ballad of "Marko Kraglievic and Janko of Sebinje."

We Slavs are so fond of music and poetry, that we will remain for hours listening to one of our bards, forgetting even hunger in our delight. No sooner was the shrill sound of Vuk's voice heard than every noise was hushed, hardly a man lifted his gla.s.s up to his mouth. Even the pa.s.sers-by walked softly or lingered about the door to catch some s.n.a.t.c.hes of the poet's song.

The ballad, however, was a short one, and as soon as the bard had finished, the strong Dalmatian wine went round again, and at every cup the company waxed merrier, more tender-hearted, more gushing; a few even grew sentimental and lachrymose.

Wine, however, brought out all the harshness of Radonic's character, and the more he drank the more brutal he grew; at such moments it seemed as if all the world was his crew, and that he had a right to bully even his betters, and say disagreeable things to everybody; his excuse was that he couldn't help it--it was stronger than himself.

"_Bogme!_" he exclaimed, turning to one of his friends; "I should have liked to see your wife, Tripko, with Marko Kraglievic. Ah, poor Tripko!"

"Why my wife more than yours?"

"Oh, my wife knows of what wood my stick is made; you only tickle yours!"

Tripko shrugged his shoulders, and added:

"Every woman is not as sharp as Janko of Sebinje's wife, but most of them are as honest."

"That means to say that you think your wife is honest," said Radonic, chuckling. "Poor Tripko!"

"Come, come," quoth a friend, trying to mend matters, "do not spit in the air, Radonic Marko, lest the spittle fall back on your face."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Radonic, who, like all jokers, could never take a jest himself.

"I? nothing; only I advise you to be more careful how you trifle with another man's wife--that's a ticklish subject."

"Oh, Tripko's wife!" said he, disparagingly.

"Radonic Marko, sweep before your own door, _bogati_!" replied Tripko, scornfully.

"Sweep before my door--sweep before my door, did you say?" and he s.n.a.t.c.hed up the earthen mug to hurl it at his friend's head, but the by-standers pinioned his arm.

"I did, and I repeat it, _bogati_!"

"And you mean that there's dirt before my house?" asked Radonic, scowling.

"More than before mine, surely."

"Come, Tripko, are you going to quarrel about a joke?" said one of his friends.

"My wife is no joking matter."

"No, no," continued Radonic, "but he who has the itch scratches himself."

"Then scratch yourself, Marko, for surely you must itch when you're not at home."

"Hum!" said the host, "when a.s.ses joke it surely rains."

Then he went up to the _guzlar_, and begged him to give them a song.

"Let it be something lively and merry," said he, "something they can all join in."

The bard thereupon sc.r.a.ped his _guzla_, silence was re-established, and he began to sing the following _zdravica_: