Chapter III: Introduction (3)

King Briar gazed with anxious eyes at his beautiful daughter, but she gave him a merry laugh, and said the first day had passed quickly and easily indeed. When the darkness fell she went down to the river, and plunged as many as ten times into its cool depths. Then she climbed the bank, and sitting upon a mossy stone, began to shake out the coils of her hair. The moon rose over the mountain-top and looked down upon the maiden sitting there in her heavenly beauty, and tenderly did she shed her beams upon her, so that the drops that were wrung from the golden coils glittered like silver. The moon did not know that that perfect body was to endure a cruel hail of stones, or she would have veiled her face for very sadness.

When the second day dawned, there stood Vijelia in her short garment, as fresh and cheerful as though no fatigue could ever touch her. When the men came to fetch her down for this day’s work, she was ranging over the hill upon her stag Graur, casting herself down upon his back, and playing with his wings, like a child in the cradle. But now she sprang down and dismissed the creature with a light touch of the hand; then, taking a broad, flat fragment of rock upon her shoulder, she carried it down into the valley, laid it beside the river’s edge, and wading into the water, began to seek for stones, which she piled upon it as high as it would hold.

“Help me up with it on to my shoulder,” said she. But none of the men could lift the weight. Then she bent down, and, laughing, threw it on to her left shoulder. Moreover, she made the men pick up the stones that had slipped off the while, and throw them on to the heap with the rest. Then she set off so fast up the hill that no one could follow her, put down her load, and ran back to the valley again without waiting to rest.

King Briar sat watching his daughter from the heights above, and stroked his white beard in silence.

Long before the day had begun to decline, Vijelia had already collected the prescribed number of stones. She crossed her arms and stood and looked at the heap, without the smallest sign of flinching. King Briar’s heart sank as he watched his child standing there, and he slept but little that night. Yet she slept, quietly and soundly, beneath a giant pine, through the branches of which the moonbeams stole to look at the beautiful sleeper, lying with her head on her arms, her lips slightly parted, in the sweetest, most childlike slumber.

When the dawn aroused her, she sought out a linen garment that she had spun and woven herself, so that she could rely upon its strength.

And thus she appeared before her people, so fair that the heart of many a one burnt within him at the thought of misusing her.

The heap of stones disappeared in a few minutes, for each man had armed himself with one. Now they formed a great circle round the maiden, who quietly gathered her hair up and fastened it in a knot.

“So that ye may not think my mantle shields me,” she explained, with a smile.

The first stone sped from the hand of King Briar himself, who looked his daughter firmly and earnestly in the face as he cast it. She kissed the place on her arm where he had smitten her, and threw him a kiss with both hands. Then she stood as still as a statue beneath the hail of stones, though her anguish grew with every moment. Only once a sigh escaped her, and she crossed her hands for a moment over her breast--and the hands were so white! But she let her arms drop again directly, and only turned her head aside, looking towards the sun, that was slowly, very slowly, sinking nearer to the mountain-top, and bathed the maiden’s face in a golden glow.

On a sudden the rain of stones ceased, and all the men knelt, with lowered swords and lances, at her feet, while in solemn voices they swore faith to her--eternal faith, and never to be broken.

But she raised her hand and spoke:--

“And I swear to you to work, to fight, and to endure, with and for you, to my life’s end!” Then she turned to the King and whispered low to him: “Give me thy hand, father; I am weary.”

The old man cast his mantle round her, and clasping his arm about her, led her homewards. She leaned her head on his shoulder, but as she went she felt something snuffing about her ear, and there was Graur, her faithful stag.

“Ha, do thou carry me!” she cried, and kissing the beast’s warm, downy nose, she sprang on his back and was out of sight in the twinkling of an eye. Graur bore her down to the river, in which she bathed for a long time, stretching and cooling her bruised limbs. She drank greedily, too, of the ice-cold water, and then came dashing homewards as merrily as though she had endured nothing.

For a while life went on again as of old, and Vijelia was once more the same untamed creature that she had ever been--wild as the storm-wind, and refusing to hear aught that concerned the affairs of government. But King Briar aged visibly, and his people besieged him with requests that he would choose a mate for his daughter, so that he might soon hope to hold a fair grandson upon his knee.

“Whom wilt thou have for thy husband, my child?” he one day asked his daughter. “Do none of our people please thee?”

“Nay,” answered Vijelia, “I cannot wed any of those who stoned me; I should always remember it, and could not give myself to him in true love. The man whom I shall love must come down from the air above, into which none belonging to us can rise up--none save our winged stags.”

She had scarcely ceased speaking, when there appeared as it were a mighty cloud, descending from the heavens, and from the midst of the cloud the sound of a harp rang forth unearthly sweet. Slowly the cloud sank earthwards, and now it disclosed to view a radiant youth, his head covered with waving curls, who held in his hand a harp, that towered aloft as high as the forest trees, and was strung with golden strings, that glittered, like a rainbow, with a thousand changing hues. Now he would smite the chords with a powerful hand, and again he would only blow softly upon them, and then they sent forth such sounds as melted the very heart in one’s breast.

Vijelia stood motionless, gazing up at him, and still she gazed on, as he sprang boldly to the ground, and with a thrust of his hand sent back the cloud that had brought him thither, away into the blue distance above. And now he came straight toward the maiden, and stretching out his hands to her, spoke thus:--

“I come from out the air; I am _Viscol_.[5] Wilt thou be mine, for I am thine equal?”

“Yea,” answered the maiden, as though in a dream. “I will be thine, for all time.”

But King Briar frowned, saying:

“And dost thou, indeed, love him already, my child? Have a care; for thou wilt not find happiness at his side, and he is not fitted for our people; he will ever be ranging far away over the skies and leaving thee alone, till thy men will refuse to serve thee. Child, child, it will come to a bad end, and thou wilt not be happy!”

“Happy or not, it is all alike to me, father. I cannot live without him; and I would rather be miserable with him than happy with another!”

With a deep sigh, the old King consented to her wish; but he cut short the promises and protestations of the youth with an impatient gesture of the hand.

“I will judge thee by thine actions,” he said curtly.

At first all went merrily enough; now Vijelia would ride through the heavens upon a cloud, and again, her husband would go forth with the flying stags. But the King often heard his men complain that there was much unrest in the land, and that the stranger had better never have come.

Presently, however, Vijelia began to stay much at home with her father, while her husband went rushing over the world. She spoke very little, and looked far sadder than she had done upon the day of her stoning. When she was asked where her husband was, she would hang her head and answer, “I know not;” or again, if inquiry were made when he was coming back, or when he would carry her forth with him upon the clouds, still the answer was, “I know not.”

And when he did return he was rough and violent, and the more humbly and quietly his young wife behaved, the more hardly he treated her.

Often did old King Briar’s beard tremble and his head droop toward the earth, whereon, indeed, he soon laid him down, saying:

“I shall never see my fair grandson now! May the Great Spirit grant thee, in him, the happiness thou hast not found for thyself!”

When he was dead, his men mourned night and day with lowered spears around his grave, for nine times nine weeks. And Vijelia did not cease from sighs and groans, until, in the midst of her great sorrow, a wondrous fair but exceeding tender little son was laid in her arms. Her tears rained down upon his tiny face as she gave him the name of Zephyr. Alas! how was he ever to rule this mighty people, and how withstand his father’s harsh usage?

She held him in her arms night and day, and never left him for an hour. He lay upon her lap when she sat and pronounced sentence, or tried to smooth over quarrels with all justice and wisdom.

When Viscol returned his anger knew no bounds. She had to defend the fragile child like a lioness, for he would fain have dashed him to pieces against a rock. He threw the whole land into an uproar; he gave unjust judgments, and was a scourge indeed, until he dashed forth again upon his wanderings. His harp, which he had forgotten, was, however, a source of consolation and joy both to mother and child. She learnt to play dirges upon it, to which all the people listened; but it was sweeter yet when Zephyr breathed across the strings--then the whole air seemed to be swelling with song, and the heart in every bosom melted for delight.

Zephyr grew dazzlingly beautiful, all the more so since his mother thought much of training and hardening him against the time of the “King-choosing,” which she dreaded exceedingly for her tender boy. She would trust him now to Graur, now to Mititica, who had to carry him for hours, and use him to their quickest pace. But in the midst of these rides Mititica would often kneel down and suffer him to suck a draught of her milk. Vijelia, too, would run races with the boy, and teach him to bend the bow and to bear heavy burdens; and, that he might become used to pain, she would smite him with rods and pelt him with stones, and if he did not laugh over it, but began to weep, she would call him coward, and after bathing him in the coldest streams, would strike him the next day yet harder, till he learnt to clench his teeth and laugh.

The people had such a hatred of Viscol that they would suffer him to enter the land no more, and shot at him as soon as he drew near upon his cloud. Some of them loved the boy for his noble mother’s sake, but some bore a grudge against him, because he was so delicate and tender. But when he played upon his harp all were enchanted, and, indeed, when he stood beside the harp, his silky golden curls falling upon his shoulders, he looked like a being from another world. He could not, it is true, drive five stags at once, or bear such burdens as his mother could; but he was far stronger than she had ever dared to hope, when he reached his sixteenth year, and the men judged it was time to try him and see if he were strong enough to be king. If it should chance otherwise, they were ready to force upon Vijelia another husband, chosen from amongst them, whose son might be expected to prove a stalwart king.

Zephyr bore the heat of the sun the whole day without flinching, and no one knew that all through the ensuing night he tossed to and fro in fever, while his mother watched beside him and bathed his temples. The next day he gathered the stones together, and his mother went beside him all the while, and secretly lent a helping hand. When evening came and the darkness covered them, he sank fainting into her arms. And now dawned the day, of which the unhappy mother stood in such dread. Every stone that struck her boy’s fair body smote her in the heart. Once she saw him reel, but her clear voice, ringing out in cheery encouragement, brought back the colour to his cheeks and the smile to his white lips. There were only a few more stones yet to come, when one, cast by a spiteful hand, sped forth, sharp and pointed, and struck the lad upon the temple. A wild cry burst from his mother, who flew to catch her fainting child in her arms, and kneeling down, pressed his blood-stained locks to her heart. He opened his eyes once more. “My harp--bring me the harp!” he whispered, and clasping it in his arms, he breathed out his pure soul into those chords, till the heavenly sound echoed on and on, vibrating ever further upon the air. But the poor mother rose up with fixed and terrible gaze, and lifting her arms to the clouds, she cried, “May ye then turn to stone, O ye men of stone! The Great Spirit will hear a mother’s voice, that cries aloud for vengeance! Stone shall ye become, who have broken faith with me! Stone shall ye become, who have cast out the purest spirit among you!”

And behold! before her eyes the people, as they stood in a circle, were turned to stone. But she sighed so deeply that the sighs burst her bosom, and went forth in wails of sorrow to tell the world of a mother’s woe, and to shake the foundations of the world, that had wrought such evil!

And the winged stags rose up into the air and disappeared for ever.

VII

THE WITCH’S STRONGHOLD

Going up the Prahova valley one cannot see “Cetatea Babei,” the Witch’s Castle, because it is hidden by the Bucegi Mountain. It is a jagged peak, and looks as though it were covered with ruins. A field of eternal snow lies between it and the Jipi. In far-off times, when wolves guarded the flocks, and eagles and doves made their nests together, a proud castle stood there, and within the castle busy doings went on. From morning till night it rang with pattering, clanging, bustling sounds, and hundreds of hasty footsteps scurried to and fro therein. But at night-time a light shone forth from the tower, and the humming of a mighty wheel was heard, and above the hum of the wheel a wondrous, soft song seemed to hover, keeping time with it. Then people would glance fearfully up toward the castle and whisper: “She is spinning again!” And she who sat spinning there was the mistress of the castle, a very evil witch, to whom the mountain-dwarfs brought all the gold that they found in the depths of the earth, that she might spin threads of gold for all the brides to wear upon their heads on their wedding-day.[6] The gold was unloaded in heaps in her castle, and she weighed it and chose it out--and woe to the dwarf who did not bring the required weight; he was thrust between the stem and bark of a huge tree, and squeezed until he gave up the very uttermost grain of gold; or he would be caught by the beard only in the tree, and there he might struggle and writhe as he pleased, and cry for mercy--the old witch turned a deaf ear to it all. The name of _Baba Coaja_ (“Mother Bark”) had been given her, perhaps because of this cruel custom of hers, perhaps because she was as hard as a stale crust of bread, and as wrinkled as the stem of an old oak. She alone understood the spinning of the golden threads, and she went on preparing them for hundreds of years in advance.

Baba Coaja had a wondrously beautiful daughter, named _Alba_ (“The White One”), for she was as white as the snow that covered the mountain-tops. Her skin was like velvet, and like velvet, too, were her brown eyes, and her hair was like the gold-threads that her mother spun.

She was always kept shut up, for Baba Coaja had plenty of work for her to do; and, besides, no one was to be allowed to see her, still less to woo her. She had to wind all the golden thread on reels, and store it up in underground cellars, ready for all those hundreds and hundreds of years to come. This work was very burdensome to the sweet maiden, because her mother would sing and mutter all sorts of evil spells and sayings as she spun, so that a portion of sorrow and heartache was already prepared for each bride, so soon as the golden threads should have rested upon her head; and Alba thought sadly of all the trouble that was being thus determined beforehand. Indeed, she once sat down herself to the great wheel, while her mother was away, and spun a length of thread into which she worked nothing but good wishes. But when Baba Coaja came home she was very wroth, and beat her daughter unmercifully, saying, as she threw the thread upon a heap with the rest: “Thou shalt never wed until thou canst tell thine own spinning apart again!”

In her heart the old witch was glad to have a pretext for keeping her daughter to herself, for it had been prophesied that Alba would be very unhappy, and would die young. The only being that she loved in the world was her beautiful child, yet, however much trouble she took to please her with fine clothes and all sorts of pretty trifles, she could not bring a shade of colour to her cheek or a smile to her eyes, for the only thing the maiden yearned after was freedom, and that was never hers. How she longed to go wandering for once beneath the trees that clothed the foot of the mountain whereon she dwelt. Up there nothing grew, save a little short grass; and the winter lasted far longer than the summer. When the wind howled round the castle, raging as though he would tear it to pieces, then her heart would grow heavy indeed; she would sit for hours before the hearth, staring into the fire, watching the sparks fly, and thinking of nothing at all. Or again, she would listen to her mother’s uncanny singing, while the humming of the wheel and the howling of the storm mingled in one dreary accompaniment. And then she would wonder why she spun so much sorrow for the brides into the gold-threads--why men were not suffered to be happy and gay, out there in the beautiful sunshine, for that always looked bright and merry. But she could never make out the reason why, and would fall asleep at last from sheer thinking. The great reels of gold in the cellars all had one and the same face, yet she would play with them, and pretend they were people, and make up their histories, and try and fancy what would befall the brides that were to wear those golden threads; but as she knew nothing of the world, all her stories were very unlikely ones.

“Mother,” she asked one day, resting her chin upon her hand, “are the people in the world just as we are, thou and I--or have they other forms, and other thoughts?”

“What are the people in the world to thee? They are all very bad, and would only do thee harm if they got hold of thee.”

“But a while ago a beautiful creature came up our mountain, and there sat one upon him, one who was fairer far to see than any of the little dwarfs; he had black locks, and no beard, and a purple mantle. Was not that a man?”

The old witch was terror-stricken at this speech, and answered: “If he does but ride up here again, I will break his neck for him, and those in the valley shall never see him again!”

“Oh, mother! do not thus--he was so fair!”

“If thou dost think but once again of him, I tell thee I will lock thee in the cellar, and make thee weigh gold out night and day. As it is, thou art grown so idle in these latter times, and dost nought but sit there and ask useless questions! Hast thou not all thy heart can desire?”

“Nay, mother; I too would fain have a beautiful creature, such as yonder man had, and sit upon it. Up here there are but sheep, and one cannot sit upon them.”

“Now thou wouldst have a horse indeed, wouldst thou, foolish child! Dost not see that it were dangerous to life to ride here? The grass is slippery and the abyss deep. One false step, and thou wert lying shattered to pieces down below.”

Alba thought over this for a long while, and wondered why it was dangerous for horses to go where sheep could tread in safety; but to this question also she got no reply, for she did not dare to ask it. Only, the dwarfs appeared much uglier to her than before, and the gold became so distasteful to her that she could not bear to look at it. She constantly thought of the beautiful horse, and of the youth who was to have his neck broken if he showed himself there again. Why did her mother want to break his neck? This time, too, she found no answer, however much she puzzled over the matter.

Some time after, the handsome youth rode up to the mountain again; he was tormented by curiosity to discover who lived in that mighty castle, whose walls were hewn out of the living rock. He was a king’s son, and his name was Porfirie. He was not used to being unable to do things, and any obstacle was welcome to his impetuous nature. When they spoke to him of marriage, he was wont to reply that he should win his bride from the clutches of a dragon, or pluck her down from a cliff, but never have her tamely wooed for him by a deputy, and end up with a commonplace wedding!

Just at that moment Alba was busy bedecking herself, by way of passing the time, after having worked at reeling off gold all the morning. She had bathed her hands and face, and combed her long hair with her ivory comb, and about her brow she had bound a double row of pearls, in which she had fastened an alpine rose sideways. Her robe was white, with a golden girdle, and over it flowed a green velvet mantle, held on either shoulder with chains of pearls. Around her snow-white throat she laid a string of emeralds, as large as pigeons’ eggs, a present from the mountain-dwarfs; and then she looked at herself in the glass, in which, however, she could not see how her golden hair gleamed upon the green velvet mantle. Indeed, she could not have seen aright at all, or the glass was bad, for now she smote her face, crying: “How ugly I am!--oh, how ugly! That is why my mother hides me from all men, and gives me fine dresses, and jewels like a queen’s--that it may be forgotten how ugly I am!”

Just then the sound of horses’ hoofs echoed among the rocks, and with horror-stricken gaze she beheld the handsome stranger, who was to lose his life if he appeared again before the castle. He must be warned at any cost. She sprang like a wild goat down the mountain-side, with fluttering mantle and waving hair, in which the sunbeams seemed to catch as she went. The young King saw her speeding towards him over the rocks, her feet scarcely seeming to touch the stones upon the way, and reined in his horse in wonder-struck admiration. He asked himself what princess, or mountain-fairy, this might be, flying down to him thus. And now she waved both her arms, crying breathlessly: “Back, back! Do not come up hither--it were thy death!”

“And though it should be my death,” he exclaimed, “I would die gladly, seeing I have beheld the fairest maid that ever trod this earth!”

Alba stood still before him, a faint blush overspread her cheeks, and looking at him with wide-open eyes, she said: “Am I fair?”

“Yea, verily, wondrous fair! So bewitching art thou, with thy golden hair and thy golden eyes, that I love thee from this hour!”

“And I love thee, too,” replied the guileless maiden, unaware of the fact that it is not customary among men to say what one thinks. “But do not say my hair is golden, for gold is so ugly!”

“Ugly!” The King’s son laughed. “I have never heard that of it before. Hast thou, then, seen so much gold that it has grown to seem ugly to thee?”

“Ah, yes! I see nought save gold--instead of green trees, gold--instead of flowers, gold--instead of men, gold--heaps of it, like that.” And she spread out her arms and turned herself about. “Oh, how much rather would I sit upon yon beautiful creature! I have never seen a horse before--may I touch it?”

“Yes, indeed, and stroke it too, and climb up beside me. Thou shalt ride as long as thou hast a mind to.”

Then he bade her rest her foot on his and give him both her hands, and so he drew her up before him on the saddle, clasped his arm about her, and gave his horse the spur. He fancied she would be frightened, but no such thought occurred to the gentle, innocent creature, for she knew nought of danger. As soon as the ground was soft beneath them he loosened the reins, and away they sped, through the woodland shade, and over the flowery meadows.

Alba shouted and clapped her hands for glee, crying: “Faster, faster yet!” So they drew near to the city, through which they had to ride before reaching the hill upon which the royal castle stood. Then suddenly fear came upon the maiden.

“Are all these human beings?” she asked, as they rode at a foot’s-pace through the streets. “And does not the wind blow down these tiny houses?”

“Nay,” laughed Porfirie. “The wind does not blow here as hard as it does up yonder.”

“See, my people,” he cried to the folk as he passed, “here I bring you your Queen. She is a fairy-blossom, and I plucked her from yonder cliff!”

“But I am no Queen,” said Alba in affright.

“I am a King, and since thou art to be my wife, thou wilt become Queen also.”

“Thy wife? But I was to have no husband, my mother said.”

“She only said that because she knew that none was to have thee, save I alone.”

“Art thou not at all bad, then?”

“No, I am not bad.”

“Then art thou not a human being?”

“Nay, but I am.”

“Yet my mother said that all human creatures were bad, and that I must have nought to do with them.”

“Who is thy mother, then?”

“That I do not know. She spins gold.”

“Spins gold? And for what?”

“For bridal veils--but I will have no gold at my wedding!” added Alba hastily, and she clutched at her head as though she would defend it from that dangerous contact.

“But thou canst not do otherwise,” said Porfirie, “or every one would wonder. Here we are at my home; we are even now riding into the courtyard, and thou must speak pleasantly to my mother.”

“Is she old and ugly?”

“Nay, she is fair and proud.”

“What does ‘proud’ mean?” asked Alba.

Porfirie looked into her eyes--they were as clear and unsullied as the sun itself. He pressed the maiden to his heart; then throwing the reins to the attendants who came forward, he sprang from his horse, lifted Alba gently to the ground, and offered his hand to lead her up the broad stone steps.

They entered a lofty hall, and there sat a tall, noble lady, surrounded by many maidens, and she was spinning beautiful gold-coloured silk. All rose from their work, and gazed in delighted amaze on the beautiful pair standing beneath the portal, that was just then flooded by the glory of the setting sun.

“Here, mother,” cried Porfirie, “is thy dear daughter, my sweet bride, whom I found up yonder, quite near the sky; and I am not yet sure whether she be not indeed one of the heavenly inhabitants, that will presently spread wings and flee away from us!”

“Oh, thou beauteous lady!” cried Alba, and fell at the feet of the Queen, who raised her up and kissed her with great kindness.

“And thou art spinning too,” she went on, “only far, far more beautifully than my mother; for what thou dost spin is as soft and fine as snowflakes, or the petals of flowers.”

“What does thy mother spin, then?”

“Oh, always that hard, ugly gold!”

“Gold!” echoed the bystanders; and many laughed, and did not believe the maiden’s words.

“Canst thou, too, spin gold?”

“I can, but I may not.”

“Why not?”

She was opening her lips to tell what her mother did over her spinning, but all at once she felt strangely ill at ease, and realised how angrily every one would look at her if the maidens knew that all kinds of sorrow was spun for them into their bridal veils. And here they were all looking so happy and so kind, these bad people, against whom her mother had warned her! They seemed far better, indeed, than that mother herself, of whom the mountain-dwarfs were always so horribly afraid.

She was relieved of her perplexity by hearing one of the maidens whisper: “Her dress is velvet--real white velvet!”

“And the jewels--from whom did she get her jewels?” said another, rather louder.

“From my friends,” answered Alba. “Would you like them? I have many more such playthings at home.” And taking the emeralds from her neck, she gave each of the girls one.

She would have done the same with her strings of pearls, had not the Queen prevented her.

“Are thy friends so rich, then?” inquired the latter.

“I do not know. What is ‘rich’? They bring it all up out of the earth in sacks; and when they do not bring enough, they are punished.”

Then the Queen’s face darkened; she drew her son aside and said: “This maiden is none other than the daughter of the abominable witch, Baba Coaja. Take her back as quickly as possible to the spot where thou didst find her. She will only bring trouble upon our house.”

“Ask anything of me but that, mother,” replied the young King, turning pale. “I love this sweet and innocent maid with my every thought, with my every breath, with all the blood in my veins, and though she were Baba Coaja her very self, I could not give her up!”

The Queen sighed. But she gave orders that an apartment should be made ready next to her own for the maiden; and the wedding was fixed for the following day.

The Queen desired to adorn her new daughter for it with her own hands, but she had a bitter struggle with her, because the maiden would on no account suffer any gold-threads to be laid upon her head. She fled from one end of the castle to the other like a hunted doe, she cast herself upon the ground, and hid beneath the coverings of the divans; she begged and prayed with streaming eyes that she might be spared. “Let the Queen put some of the beautiful silken threads of her own spinning upon her hair, only not the horrible gold!”

But as she knelt wailing and praying before her, the Queen gave a sign, and two of the attendant maidens bound her hands, while a third fastened on the golden veil. They all expected to see an outbreak of rage and despair; but Alba grew quite quiet. As pale as death, she bowed her head beneath its burden. “Thou art harder than my mother,” she said, “for she would not give me a husband, lest I should be unhappy, but thou dost thyself call down sorrow upon me!”

No one understood these words. Alba could not be prevailed upon to explain them, whereby the general mistrust of her was yet further increased. She looked so sad that the people no longer even recognised in her the beaming maiden of yesterday; and all her young husband’s words of love could not chase the clouds from her brow.

At court there was presently no talk of anything but the countless treasures of the young Queen, and many people urged the King to go up the mountain and examine them for himself. He cared nothing for the treasures; he only thought of how he could bring back the smile to his young wife’s face, and fancied that perhaps, if he fetched her the ornaments she was fond of, she would grow merry again. For she smiled pityingly at the little stones other people called jewels, and could not at all understand that such trifles should be costly. But as soon as she learnt that Porfirie intended to ride up to her castle again, she was terror-stricken, and implored and conjured him not to do so. “It will surely be thy death,” said she.

He, however, would not be convinced, and the more she depicted the dangers that awaited him there, the more did these very dangers attract him; so that one morning he set off secretly, while she still lay in a deep slumber.

With only a few followers, he dashed up towards Baba Coaja’s castle. But she spied his coming from afar, and cried out to him as he drew nearer: “A curse upon thee--thou who didst ravish my child, only to bring her to sorrow! See here, then--satisfy the greed that has driven thee back hither, miserable wretch! I never desired to have aught to do with thee--why didst thou seek me out?”

With these words she began to scatter down jewels in endless quantities upon the horsemen; but as they fell, the precious stones were changed into ice and snow, and whirled through the air in such clouds that the unhappy men were unable to shield themselves, and were, moreover, so dazzled that they could no longer see their way. The greater number of them fell over the precipices; but the young King, who, thirsting for vengeance, tried to reach the castle that he might strangle the terrible witch, was so completely caught in the avalanche that ere a moment was past he could no longer move a limb, and before he had time to utter a word he was buried deep beneath the snow.

As he disappeared, Baba Coaja said, with a malicious laugh: “Now she will come, to him, not to me--yet it will be to me, not to him, that she comes. I shall have my child again, for she may not remain in the wicked world, and among men, whom I hate.”

And indeed it was not long before Alba, weary with her long journey afoot, her white velvet dress dusty and travel-stained, came hastening up the mountain.

“Where, where is he?” she asked, with blanched lips.

“So!” said the old witch, “thou hast run away from me with a strange man, and now comest back, and dost not ask after me, but after him? He is not here.”

“Yes, yes, he is! I traced him, up to the edge of yonder snow!”

“He came no further, indeed!” laughed the old witch. “He is smothered beneath thy jewels!”

With a terrible cry, Alba cast herself down upon the patch of snow and began to shovel it away with her hands. But in vain! The covering that lay upon her beloved was too heavy, it was frozen too fast. With one cry--“Oh, mother, mother! what hast thou done to me!”--Alba fell dead beside the ice and snow.

Then Baba Coaja hurled forth so terrible a curse, that the very mountain reeled, and the castle fell with a crash, burying her and her gold beneath its ruins. But on the spot where the beautiful Alba had drawn her last breath, there sprang up a white flower, in a white velvet dress, which has ever since been called “Alba Regina,” or _Edelweiss_. This flower only blooms close to the eternal snow which covered her beloved, and is as white and pure as she was herself.

Perhaps the snow will turn to jewels again some day, if an innocent maiden should pass over it.

The piece of gold-thread that Alba spun is still being sought for, and every bride hopes that it is she who has found it. That is why not one of them ever fears the golden threads that are so dangerous, but still believes that happiness will be her portion.

VIII

PIATRA ARSA

(“THE BURNT ROCK”)

The beautiful Paùna was proud, very proud. It was not for nothing that she had those great dark eyes, with black brows rising to a point above them, and that sharply-cut aquiline nose. Her mouth was somewhat large, but well-shaped, and when she spoke or laughed she showed two gleaming rows of teeth. Her black tresses were coiled like a crown above her brow, and the people were wont to call her, in jest, _Pui de Imparat_, or “Emperor’s child,” when she went by with her long stride and her broad shoulders, holding her head as straight as though she were carrying something upon it. But she was not too proud to turn that head when Tannas went by, or to give ear to him when he talked to her during the Hora. Only, if any one teased her about him, an angry flush would rise to her cheek, and she was quick to punish the daring offender with a sharp retort.

Tannas was an object of envy to all the other village lads, specially as the betrothal was looked upon as a certainty. Then, on a sudden, war broke out in the land, and Tannas had to join the army and march down to the Danube. Paùna swallowed her tears before people; but no one dared ask her whether she did not shed a few in secret.

She always contrived to be one of the first in the village to get tidings from the army; and when tales went about of the first battles that had taken place, she was obliged, as she listened, to lean against the great stone cross that stood at the entrance of the village, so weak and faint did the strong Paùna turn. At night all sleep forsook her, and she often had to let her light burn till morning, to chase away the terrible visions that arose before her in the darkness, of Tannas covered with wounds, and dead or dying. One dark night she was sitting thus, still dressed, upon the edge of her bed--and never knew that, outside, some one was gliding round the house, and peeping in at her little window. She did not know, either, how beautiful she looked, gazing before her with wide-open eyes, her hands folded upon her knee. All at once there was a knocking on the window, and she sprang up with a stifled cry, turning her head and trying to pierce the darkness with her eyes. Then she fancied she could make out the face of Tannas at the window, and presently, indeed, she heard him call her in low tones--

“Paùna, dear Paùna, I pray thee to come out to me. Do not be afraid; it is only I, Tannas.”

Paùna’s hand was already upon the latch--in a moment she was outside, and felt herself enfolded in a warm embrace. But she put aside the arm that clasped her, and said: “Art thou Tannas indeed, or is some one making sport of me?”

“Here, feel thine own little ring, Paùna; and here again, the coin about my neck. I could bear it no longer, without coming to see whether thou wert true to me.”

“Who gave thee leave to come away from the army?”

“Me? No one.”

“No one?--and thou art here? Is the war over, then?”

“Nay, there is still war. But I came secretly, and out of love to thee, Paùna!”

“Love to me!” Paùna gave a short, bitter laugh. “Dost thou think, then, that it gives me pleasure to have a deserter for my betrothed? Go out of my sight!”

“Paùna! Is this thy love? Thou art sending me back to death and destruction!”

“Go whither thou wilt. This only I tell thee, I will never be thy wife--I could not endure to have to despise my husband.”

“Thou dost love some other!”

“Nay, Tannas, thee I love, and thee alone. I have many a time watched through the livelong night for love of thee; but I never dreamed that I had a coward for my lover!” Paùna wept, burying her face in her hands.

“And I, who thought thou wouldst welcome me with joy, and hide me in thy dwelling!”

“Oh, shame!” cried the maiden--“shame! that I should have betrothed myself to thee. But this I swear, that the Bucegi Mountain shall burn ere I become thy wife!”

“And I swear,” cried Tannas, “that thou shalt not see me again till I am a cripple--or dead!”

And as they spoke thus, the two lovers faced one another with such burning glances that their eyes sparkled in the darkness.

Just then a red light shone out over the heights above, and looking up, they saw that one of the rocky peaks of the Bucegi seemed all aglow. Brighter and brighter it grew, till a red flame appeared to break out and send up a shower of stars on high. The two lovers stood as though turned to stone. Then windows began to open in the neighbouring houses, and the people to call out to one another that there was a forest fire--nay, that the mountain was burning! All the village was in an uproar--dogs began to bark and cocks to crow.

Thereupon Paùna took her lover by the shoulders, and thrusting him far from her, she cried: “Away, away from hence--hide thy face, or I shall die of shame!”

Then she flung the door to behind her, and extinguished her light. With a beating heart she watched Tannas slip away in the shadow of the houses; and presently she turned her eyes to the mountain as it glowed and slowly grew dark again, but never an answer did she give when the neighbours called her to come and look at the miracle.

From that time forth people began to notice that Paùna looked wonderfully pale; no smile was ever seen now upon her lips, that before had been wont so often to curl in mockery, and quick retorts no longer cut short the teasing words that folk called out to her as she passed. She did her work in silence, but was often so tired that she was obliged to sit down to rest upon the margin of the well, and bathe her forehead with the fresh water. Sometimes she would gaze sadly at her own reflection in the well, or glance timidly up towards the Bucegi Mountain. All at once it began to be bruited about that Tannas had been in the village; this person and that felt sure of having seen him by the light of the burning mountain, and it was even said that his voice had been heard with Paùna’s. When the latter was questioned about it, the drops of sweat burst out upon her brow and round her lips, that trembled slightly as she replied: “Was not all still and dark in our house, the night that the mountain was on fire?”

Paùna’s mother shook her head, till her very under lip quivered, and said that all manner of strange signs were to be seen in these evil days.

At last the news came that a great and deadly battle had been fought. This time Paùna was the last to hear of it, but when she did, she hurried home and made a little bundle, tying up a gourd and some maize-bread in a cloth; and when her mother anxiously asked her whither she was going, she only said: “I shall soon come back again, mother; do not fear for me.”

The battlefield lay wide and silent in the twilight; thousands of dead bodies were scattered upon it; horses writhed in the death-throes, or limped about with drooping heads. The army was encamped around huge sentry-fires, and the men no longer gave any heed to the cries and wailings that echoed from the battlefield. A stately woman’s form moved alone amid the lines of bodies; it was Paùna, who had already made inquiry after Tannas throughout the whole camp. She drew bravely near to both friend and foe, giving many a one a drink, and closely scanning the features of the dead. Night had now closed in, and the moon lit up the fearsome scene. Still the maiden moved to and fro, anon kneeling down and resting some dying man’s head upon her breast, and again searching some terribly disfigured corpse for a little ring, and a coin about the throat. Only once she staggered back, and that was when she beheld some women plundering a corpse, and heard the finger-joints crack as they dragged the rings from off the hand. She hastened away, but soon returned to scan the dead man’s face with anxiety.

The whole camp was sunk in slumber, but still Paùna glided about the battlefield in the moonlight. Sometimes she would utter a low cry: “Tannasse!”--and often a groan would be heard in answer, but she always shook her head sadly, after bending to give the sufferer a drink. The dawn was beginning to break, and the moon to pale, when she suddenly saw something glitter on the ground, and drawing near, found a half-stripped, dead man lying there, on whose hand shone a little ring. And the hand had grasped something that the man wore about his neck, so firmly, that the plunderers had plainly given up trying to force the fingers open. Paùna knew her own ring again, and with a loud cry of “Tannasse!” she sank down beside the body, whose face was so covered with blood that it was scarcely recognisable. In a few moments Paùna came to herself again, and began to wash the beloved face. She saw, with fast-flowing tears, that both eyes and nose were gashed through by a terrible stroke, but she saw also that the blood gushed out again as she wiped it away. Now she was sure that her beloved was not dead, and she hastened to moisten his lips, and to bind up his wound with her kerchief. Then he began to sigh, and when he heard his name called, to feel about with his hand. Presently it touched Paùna’s face, and lingered long upon it.

“My Paùna!” he murmured almost inaudibly. “Let me die--I am blind--I am of no more use on earth!”

“Nay, nay!” cried Paùna, “thou art my beloved, and, God willing, shalt be my husband soon. Only be still now, be still!”

Many long weeks had passed since that morning--weeks during which Paùna had watched day and night by Tannas’s bed and nursed him untiringly. And now, one day, two wanderers were seen coming along the road into the village--a blind man in a soldier’s cloak, with the cross of honour upon his breast, and a maiden, who led him carefully along, and said to the passers-by, with a joyful smile: “This is my bridegroom. He is a hero! See the cross upon his breast!”

“And upon his face!” rejoined Tannas, with a sigh.

Never had such a crowded wedding been seen before. People streamed from far and near, to pity the beautiful Paùna at the side of the blind man. But she smiled at every one, and said: “I am proud now. I have a hero for my husband; and, thank God, I am strong and can work for both.”

The mountain that had been seen on fire was from that day called _Piatra Arsa_ (“the burnt rock”), for both shepherds and hunters bore witness that on that spot they had found the rock all blackened and charred.

IX

RÎUL DOAMNEI

(“THE RIVER OF THE PRINCESS”)

Not far from the pretty little mountain-town of Câmpa Lungo, a clear, cool stream winds along, called _Rîul Doamnei_--“the river of the Princess.” This stream washes down gold along its bed, sometimes a bit half the size of one’s nail; and it was a custom in times gone by that all the gold found there should belong to the Princess, the wife of the ruler of the land. And this is the reason why:--

There was once a great famine in the land of Roumania, such a famine as had never been known in the memory of man. First the locusts had come into the land, in such swarms that the sun was darkened, and wherever they settled they devastated everything, so that in a few minutes the fairest field of corn would be left bald as a threshing-floor, and the trees, stripped of every leaf, stretched out their naked boughs against the summer sky, beneath whose cloudless blue the heat grew ever greater and greater, so that even at night there was no longer a breath of coolness in the air. As soon as all things around were devoured, the cloud of locusts would arise, only to settle instantly again upon the next green patch. And so it went on unceasingly; and in those days folk were not so clever as they are now, when they cover the great stretches of land where the insects have settled, with petroleum, and set it all on fire. Nor were there then any cannon with which they could shoot into the swarm of flying locusts, as they do now, and so sometimes contrive to scatter them.

After the locusts came the Poles from the North, the Hungarians from the West, and the Turks from the South, and fell upon the land, and by them all the houses were burnt and the cattle stolen away. At last these foes, too, quitted the country, but they left behind them fever and pestilence, both among man and beast.

Men went about with blackened lips, and grievous sores on their bodies. The cattle perished together in heaps on the barren fields, where not a single blade of grass was standing. Only the dogs and the ravens were in good case; they tore the flesh from the bones of the dead creatures, and for miles around nothing was to be seen but white bones with red flesh hanging to them, and millions of flies, that shone with gorgeous prismatic colours, settling upon them.

The air quivered with heat, and pestilential odours spread far over the land, so that men were stricken as with a plague, and died in a few hours.

Complaints were heard no longer, for dull despair had reduced all men to silence; and when the starving people tore one another to pieces, no one even told of it.

The bells rang no more; there was no keeping Sundays or holidays, nor was there any work done, for no one had any oxen for the ploughing, or any seeds to sow.

Men crept about like ghosts, with their bones staring through the skin, their lips drawn back so that the teeth lay bare, and only a few rags upon their bodies. There was hardly any one found to bury the dead, and many remained lying, like the cattle, upon the fields.