Chapter FOUR (1)

AN ADVENTURE ON THE BLACK MOUNTAIN, BY FRANCES M. WILBRAHAM.

"Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares."

"A story! Why, children, you certainly are the most persevering little beggars for a story I ever encountered! Well, a story you shall have, as your lessons were, I must say, particularly well said, this morning, and, moreover, the afternoon _does_ look hopelessly wet."

A chorus of thanks responded to this promise; then Janie's demure voice was heard asking, "Is it to be a true story, aunt, about some of the foreign countries you have resided in? If so, I will bring the atlas." Here Millie broke in eagerly, "Oh dear, I hope it is to be a romantic story, full of murders, and caverns, and nice dark-eyed bandits isn't it, Aunt Cattie?"

Aunt Cattie smiled inwardly at the contrast between these twin sisters, yet their resemblance to their former selves when, six years before, she had visited England. It was the same Janie who, at seven years old, devoured books of geography and history, but laid down Aesop's Fables in disgust, unable to detect truth embedded in fiction. It was the same Millie who used coaxingly to beg for stories "all about naughty children--_very_ naughty children--and please, auntie, they mustn't improve." The same Janie and Millie, only a head and shoulders taller.

"It shall be a tale of the Black Mountain," said Aunt Cattie, after a pause. "The Black Mountain, or Montenegro, is a real place, Janie, marked in the map of Turkey in Europe, yet as wild and full of horrors as Millie could desire. It is a tract of country, several miles long, in the south-east part of Dalmatia. Its western side slopes down to, or overhangs, the beautiful Adriatic Sea; the eastern, unhappily for its peace, borders on Turkey, and between its gallant but lawless Christian inhabitants and their Mahometan oppressors there has been, for centuries, war, the most merciless you can imagine. We, who lived some years in the neighbouring seaport-town of Cattaro, heard enough, and sadly too much, of their atrocities."

During this preface to the story the girls had settled themselves with their knitting at Aunt Cattie's feet, and Archie, their brother, at her elbow, his eyes fixed on Aunt Cattie's animated face, and his ears "bristled up," as Millie expressed it, in expectation of her promised narrative. It began thus:--

"Mr Englefield and I, when first we married, in 1843, lived in a small but pretty dwelling outside the gate of Cattaro. The front of our house looked across to a narrow arm of the sea, to a range of hills. A bleak, rocky mountain stood at the back of our house and of the town; so you see we were in a very cramped situation. The sun rose an hour later, and set an hour earlier with us than elsewhere; the noonday sun baked us in summer, the keen winds, pent between our mountains, eddied round us in winter, and in autumn we were often wrapped in dense fog for days together."

Cattaro is a considerable port, in the hands of the Austrians, and some of its traders were connected with the house of "Popham and Company," for which your uncle was then an agent. He was often away for weeks together, on business. I remained behind, and was much alone, but time never hung heavy on my hands, for it was fully occupied with making sketches from nature. These I carefully finished afterwards, and they found a ready sale at Corfu, through the kindness of a friend. These little gains eked out our slender income, and I remember no moment of purer delight than that in which I welcomed your uncle home one soft autumn morning, and placed my first hoard of fifteen guineas in his hand. "My own industrious Cattie!" he exclaimed, "how very hard you have worked in my absence! You have earned a holiday, my dear. Say, how and where shall we spend the week I have to devote to you?"

"O Laurie!" I cried, "on the Black Mountain--sketching on the Black Mountain! You don't know how I long to explore it, and to paint its scenery and its splendid-looking peasants! Do let us start at once!"

"My dear, are you crazy?" he answered quietly, "Why, those mountaineers are a set of lawless cut-throats, that regard neither life nor property. They--"

"I know, I know!" cried I. "They glory in cutting off as many Turkish heads as they can, and carrying them home on the points of their lances. Yes, it _is_ horrible, Laurie; still, we must make allowance for an oppressed race, and remember how cruelly the Turks have treated them for ages. I don't believe the Black Mountaineers would hurt a hair of our heads, or of any unoffending traveller who threw himself on their honour. Just let us try, Laurie."

I was only nineteen then, and quite fearless. For many days my lonely rambles had been in the direction of Montenegro, and my upward gaze had turned hourly towards the path which leads thither, issuing forth from the gate of the town in a zigzag form, and mounting till it seems lost in the clouds. It was so tantalising to know that three hours' ascent on one of the stout mules of the country, would bring one to the heart of the Black Mountain, and to the palace of its chivalrous Vladika, or Prince-Bishop, the feared and adored monarch of a hundred and twenty thousand Montenegrins. His praises and his exploits had been continually rung in my hears by some hill-people with whom I had made great acquaintance in the market-place. Week by week they brought me fuel, eggs, and fruit, and in my dealings with them I had picked up a smattering of their beautiful Slavonic language, and was eager to display this new accomplishment to your uncle. However, I soon saw that was not the time for pressing the subject upon him; on scanning his sunburnt features there was a look of care upon them that was not usual. When the bright look my little surprise called forth had faded away, he appeared grave and harassed, and his tone, for the first time, was a little abrupt. I felt sure something had gone wrong in the affairs of Popham and Company.

So it proved; a younger brother of the firm, Mr John Popham, had come out, some months before, to look after the affairs of the house, which, for some unexplained reason, had gone less smoothly than usual of late. Unfortunately he was not the right person to conduct such an inquiry, for he was young, rash, and easily duped. Our agent at Ragusa, one Orlando Jones, an artful, worthless person, half English, half Greek, insinuated himself into his good graces, and managed to hoodwink him completely. Now, you must know that Mr Englefield had long watched Jones with suspicion, and in this last visit to Ragusa had obtained such proofs of his dishonesty as appeared to him quite convincing. These he thought it his duty to lay before Mr Popham. Unfortunately that young gentleman took up the information hotly and unwisely, blurting out the whole matter to Jones, instead of watching his conduct narrowly and then judging for himself. Jones affected the most virtuous indignation when charged with fraud by Mr Popham. He accused your dear uncle of base jealousy, spoke movingly of his own services, and, in short, talked Mr Popham so completely round that he turned the cold shoulder on his faithful and tried servant. So your uncle returned to Cattaro deeply hurt, and more anxious than ever about the safety of the house.

I heard not a word of all this at the time, for Mr Englefield was secret as the grave as to the affairs of his employers. To soothe and amuse him was my province; so I pulled out a budget of cheerful home letters, and read them aloud, with comments, while he partook of breakfast under the shade of our carob tree. His brow relaxed by degrees, and after breakfast he proposed we should take a stroll together; and we set out, following the bend of the sea-shore, and returning by the eastern gate of the town. I am afraid this was a little stroke of crooked policy on my part; for at this gate is held, every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, a market, to which the hill-people flock, and I knew it would be in full activity at that moment, and my dear Montenegrins would be there in their trimmest apparel. How I wish you could have beheld the scene: there were the citizens of Cattaro in their sober garb--black cloth or velvet jackets with silver basket buttons, small black caps, wide trousers also black, black stockings, and a dull red sash--the only relief of this heavy costume. In strong contrast to it were the bright dresses of the mountaineers, numbers of whom were buzzing about, the men all armed to the teeth, as their custom is. They were engaged in gossiping, sauntering about, or comparing their guns and other weapons. Their women, heavily laden, and square in figure, were transacting the real business of the market. Amid the throng I looked out for some special friends of mine, and soon espied them driving their mule down the zigzag road. "O Laurie," said I, "yonder is the group I want to introduce to you; look at my pretty peasant-wife Spira, and Basil her husband; is he not a grand specimen? six feet three, and so broad-shouldered, and such a frank good-tempered expression of face; look at his rich silver-hilted dagger, and his long gun, and that graceful bright scarf (_strucca_, they call it) wound round him; doesn't he look like a doughty warrior?"

"He does, indeed," your uncle answered; "permit me, however, to hint that your friend appears scarcely as gal_lant_ as he is _gal_lant; he stalks on unhampered, leaving his little wife to trudge after with that huge bundle of firewood on her back."

"And a child on the top of it," I rejoined, laughing; "all husbands are not like you, Laurie, who feel injured if I insist on carrying my own umbrella. Now look at Spira's face--there is something so lovely in that deep-tinted golden hair and those large mournful eyes. Don't look at her hands or ankles, please--hard work has spoilt them."

Spira now came up to me and kissed my hand, with a low obeisance, as her wont was; she did not speak when her husband was by--he greeted us frankly; then leaning on his long gun, said to me: "I have brought the fuel, the quinces, and the walnuts your Excellency desired; also the mutton-hams you bespoke--they are of my wife's own curing (I ask your pardon for naming her) and right well cured."

The articles were submitted to my inspection, approved of, and paid for, Basil asking very fair prices for them, and handing over the silver to Spira as if he could not be "fashed" to carry it. "Now, Basil," I rather maliciously said, "pray relieve your wife of that heavy load; she must be quite tired."

"Spira is used to heavy loads," replied the imperturbable Basil; "no wife in our hamlet can carry so large a sheaf of corn as she."

Apparently it gratified Spira to be thus compared to a beast of burden; for she crept up to Basil's side and kissed his sleeve. The little boy perched on her back, who had hitherto remained motionless, his face hidden against her neck, and only his tangled auburn curls visible, now threw back his head suddenly, and uttered a hoarse cough. A thrill seemed to run through the mother's whole frame at that sound, and she lifted her terrified eyes to her husband. Whatever he might feel, he was too proud to betray anxiety in our presence; and taking the boy off Spira's shoulders he addressed him thus: "Fear not, Nilo, little Nilo; thou shalt live and grow up to be a man, and cut off more Turks' heads in thy day than thy father and thy grandfather, put together." So saying, he tapped a bright silver medal attached to his own breast--the Prince-Bishop's reward for extraordinary valour against the infidels. The child looked up, amused; such a lovely child, of perhaps two years old, with almond-shaped deep-blue eyes, pearly complexion, and sweet dimpled mouth. I noticed, however, that the eyes were heavy, and the lip soft pink, not red, coral; his breathing came thick, and there was something of the same appearance of distress about him that I once witnessed in a dear little brother of my own, who died in an attack of croup. The sight roused within me feelings and memories that had long, long slept.

The sky, meanwhile, had clouded over, and some heavy drops began to fall--presaging one of those deluges of autumn rain which so often rush down at Cattaro. Mr Englefield urged me to return home, adding, "Had you not better offer shelter to your mountain friends? that pretty child hardly looks stout enough to bear a drenching."

I acted on the kind suggestion, and Spira was thankful to accept my offer; as by the time she had driven her mule to our door it rained in torrents. The Montenegrin standard of cleanliness being very low, I gave them an unoccupied room on the ground floor, and carried some food to them there. Spira scarcely tasted it, but crumbled some bread into a cup of milk and water for little Nilo, and coaxed him to swallow a mouthful or two. By degrees her shyness wore off, and I drew her out to talk of Basil and his exploits; how Basil had won a prize at a shooting match given by their Bishop, and how he was esteemed nearly as good a shot as that prince--not quite: nobody could quite come up to his skill, who could hit a lemon thrown up to a great height in the air! This seems a singular accomplishment for a Bishop in the nineteenth century, does it not? Then she related how Basil had last year defended a pass all by himself against five armed Turks; and how, in token of his approval, the Vladika had deigned to baptise their little child, and permitted him to be called Danilo (or Daniel) after himself. So far all was smooth; but when the little woman entered into particulars about the Turkish war, I was astonished to see how ferocious she grew. Her eyes flashed and dilated as she denounced those "unbelieving dogs;" and she talked of cutting off their heads as coolly as our sportsmen do of bringing home the fox's brush! I was shocked, and tried to bring to her mind the heavenly precepts of mercy towards our enemies; but she only looked bewildered, and said in reply, "Excellency, they are Turks." Saddened, and rather repelled, I went back to your uncle; but scarcely five minutes later a ringing cry from Spira's part of the house made us both start. We hastened to the spot, and beheld little Nilo stiff and blue in his father's arms--his frame convulsed, and his throat emitting that kind of barking sound which accompanies violent croup. Basil, as he held him, looked the image of despair. As for Spira she had flung herself in a heap in a corner of the room, crying out, like Hagar, "Let me not see the death of the child!" Neither of them had an idea of trying any remedy, unless laying a leaden image of Saint Basil (the patron of Montenegro) on the baby's breast might be called such. When I stole to Basil's side to look at the poor child, and offer a suggestion of hope, he said briefly, "He is called; he must go, as our three others have gone before him; I know it by that hoarse raven-note." Then breaking down altogether, he cried, "Nilo, Nilo, would I could die for thee, little one! would I could die for thee!" and the strong man sobbed as if his heart would break. Your uncle and I, deeply moved, took counsel together, and determined to try what could be done. I flew to my well-stocked medicine-chest, and weighed out some croup powders; your uncle, kind soul! went off in search of a bath and hot water. When I returned, I found the parents on the move, preparing to carry their child to a neighbouring church, that the priest might anoint it, according to the rites of the Greek communion, before its death. The rain had ceased, but a dense mist had gathered in and sent a chilly breath through the doorway where Basil stood with Nilo in his arms. Spira was following--her hands clasped over her bright bodice, and her face looking ten years older than when she came in. So aghast was I at this sight, that I stopped Basil peremptorily, exclaiming in my wretched Slavonic, "Turn back, this instant, if you do not wish to kill the child!" The father glared on me angrily, and stalked across the threshold, muttering some word that sounded like "heretic;" but Spira, whose lovely eyes turned upon me with a ray of hope, happily interposed: she plucked him by the sleeve, kissed it, and said humbly, "Basil, the lady is good; I pray you hearken to her!"

Most providentially, the proud mountaineer's resolution gave way before this meek appeal. He turned back gloomily, let me take the child from his arms, let me have my own way, in short; I beckoned to Spira to help, and together we placed Nilo in the soothing warm water, and coaxed the medicine between those pearly teeth, which at first closed stubbornly against it. It was anxious work, with Basil's dark, distrustful eyes lowering upon me, but, thank Heaven, a blessed and complete success crowned our efforts. Half an hour later, the cold, stiff, little limbs had relaxed, the breathing had become soft, and natural glow and moisture had returned to the skin; the child knew his father, and lifted his hands caressingly to stroke Spira's face. Oh, the pure exquisite delight of those moments, and the deep thankfulness also! My heart silently overflowed with both. Basil and Spira were beside themselves with joy.

To be brief. We insisted on keeping Spira and the child with us till Nilo's strength was restored; as for Basil, he discovered that he must return to Montenegro that night. He stalked off through the misty moonlight, glad, I believe, of the fresh air and rapid climb as a safety-valve for his overflowing rapture. One look was all the thanks he offered me at that time, but what a world of feeling did that look convey!

The night passed without further alarm.

Little Nilo quickly recovered his strength, all the more quickly, probably, from the unwonted care I insisted on bestowing on his ablutions and diet. He became a bonnie boy, and wound himself round our hearts, and very sorry we were when the time came for parting. Perched on his mother's back, he returned to the Black Mountain the day week of his seizure.

From that time, tokens of grateful, loving remembrance from our Montenegrin friends ceased not to flow in. It rained quinces, figs, and walnuts; poultry cackled at our door, the bringers running hastily off to get out of the way of payment; and, finally, an elaborate epistle from the parish priest of Cetigna (Basil's home) expressed the gratitude of the village for this our simple act of kindness.

II.

"Oh, that I were where I would be."

Aunt Cattie was called away to see visitors, and it was not till after tea that the story could be resumed. Millie had chafed at the interruption, and said it was horrid of people to come, and bring one down from the Black Mountain to listen to talk about weather and fashions. Janie bore the delay more philosophically, observing that she could not have turned the heel of her stocking so correctly while thinking of Nilo and his poor mother. Archie remained silent, only when Aunt Cattie sat down and resumed her narrative, he was heard to mutter to himself that it was "awful jolly!"

The day that Spira left us, she said, was the last of your uncle's holiday. That evening we sat together before the hearth on which a pine log or two from Montenegro blazed. Your uncle cracked his walnuts in a thoughtful mood, and I sat listening to the wind which rose and rose till it blew a perfect gale; when it paused, as if to take breath, I could count the waves that plashed on the shingle, and hear the shouts of people on the quay welcoming the mail steamer from Ragusa.

"Laurie," said I at last, "are you going by that vessel to-morrow morning?"

"Yes," he answered, "I have made up my mind to go to Ragusa, and come to an explanation with John Popham; there has been a misunderstanding between us, Cattie--I may tell you this much--and he has been led to doubt not only the prudence of my conduct in the affairs of the house, but the purity of my motives also."

"Doubt your purity of motive!" I cried. "If he can do that, Laurie, it is not fit you should remain in his service another moment; it is not, indeed."

There was a quiet smile on his face as he sat opposite to me in the flickering firelight; he did not speak and I sat silent too, perusing the lines of that dear face with a strange unaccountable foreboding of evil.

"The man," thought I, "who can meet the glance of those clear, honest, grey eyes, hear the tones of that kindly voice, and harbour one suspicion, must be blind indeed. Heaven grant my Laurie be not too honest, too unsuspicious for his own safety! If he could only be persuaded to take half the care of that he does of the interests of those ungrateful Pophams, there would be no cause for fear."

Your uncle spoke at last.

"Wee wifie," he said, "one must not be in a hurry to break a connection of thirty-three years' standing. I was but two years old when Mr Popham, the father of Francis and John, first took me up. I was an orphan with a bare pittance to maintain me, and no near relations; and had Mr Popham been a less conscientious guardian, I might have been exposed to many privations, ay, and temptations too. As it was, he nursed my little inheritance carefully, put me to a good though strict school, and arranged that I should spend my holidays at his house. Mrs Popham (the mother of Francis, now head of our firm) was a mother to me also, and her early death was my first keen and lasting grief. It made Francis and me cling closely to one another, the more so because bereavement added much to the natural sternness of Mr Popham's character. Our holidays for the next three years were seasons rather of restraint than of enjoyment, but bright days returned when he married the second Mrs Popham, a young Greek of extraordinary beauty and gentleness. He only lived five years after that, and his death was a great misfortune to his younger boy John, who was left at four years old to the boundless spoiling of a doting mother. Francis's character was quite formed at that time, and his habits of business and order were very remarkable for one so young. At twenty, he took the direction of affairs, and with the help of experienced advisers, has managed them admirably for fifteen years. He and I have met but rarely, as my knack of mastering languages easily had caused me to be employed chiefly in the service of the house abroad, but I think our friendship is such as to stand the test of absence, ay, and of calumny too. I do not, cannot, believe he will endorse his brother's hasty censure of my conduct."

Laurie jumped up and paced the room awhile, then stood still, and said abruptly--

"Shall I read you an article in the last `Quarterly,' Cattie? It's in my portmanteau somewhere; come and help me to look for it."

I linked my arm in his, well pleased, and we were crossing the hall and listening to the pattering of the salt spray against the window, when, lo! there came a sharp rap at the house door. Mr Englefield unbarred it cautiously, and started as he encountered a very tall and slight figure wrapped in a shepherd's plaid, and seeming to cower under the stormy blast.

"Mr Popham," he said, in a low, constrained voice; then observing the wet and forlorn plight of the unexpected visitor, he added anxiously, "Come in, sir, I beg; come in. Catherine, see that Mr Popham's room is got ready at once, and the stove lighted."

"Don't call me `Mr Popham,' Englefield," responded the musical, pleading voice of the stranger. "Call me John or Johnnie, as in old days, if you don't wish to overpower me with shame and self-reproach. I have been an egregious fool, Englefield, and a most ungrateful one, and really know not in what terms to implore your forgiveness."

"It is granted as soon as asked," replied your uncle in his frank way, and he drew our guest in towards the blazing hearth, "Johnnie's" arm lovingly twining itself round his neck as they walked together. What a revolution was this! I stood by, in silent wonder, watching Laurie's brightening face, and glancing up curiously at the fair-haired stranger. As I observed his youthful appearance, more that of nineteen than of his real age, twenty-two; his delicate features, glowing with excitement; and his deep, blue eyes, with tears gathering on their long lashes, I no longer marvelled at the tenderness with which my husband had always spoken of him; my recent dislike quickly melted away, and kind feelings sprang up in its place. These feelings speedily took the practical shape of providing dry clothes, supper and bed for our guest, who seemed really distressed at giving me any trouble. He positively declined supper, saying, "he had dined late on the steamer." As for bed, why it was hardly worth while preparing that, for he must be up and away by daybreak. "He should go with a lighter heart now Laurie had forgiven him."

"Go, and whither?" inquired your uncle who out or delicacy had restrained his eager longing to learn how the affairs of the house stood.

"I hardly know," answered Mr Popham; "that's the point I want to discuss with you, Englefield. I think I must go to Scutari, as that rascal Orlando Jones appears to have crossed the Turkish frontier in that direction. I must, at any rate, track and secure those diamonds. I can never face Francis otherwise; you know they were entrusted to our care so specially."

My husband had listened in speechless astonishment to these disclosures, and I saw him turn pale. Mr Popham saw it too.

"Is it possible, my dear Laurence," he said, "that you had not heard of Jones's having absconded? Why, I wrote you five days ago a penitential letter, and a full, true, and particular account of the rascal's moonlight flitting; if, as it seems, you had never received my apology, I wonder you didn't shut your door in my face; but you _are_ the best fellow in the world."

"Nonsense," was the blunt reply; "drink that glass of mulled wine, John, I insist upon it, and then come with me. I must know all, that we may see what's to be done, and do it at once."

I saw little more of Laurie that evening; their voices might be heard through the thin wall in earnest talk. Then he went out into the town with a brow full of care and thought. He would not let young Popham go with him, but ordered him off to bed, observing.

"We will start early if I can obtain to-night from the authorities a pass into the Turkish dominions. My Cattarese servant, a sharp fellow, will soon find us horses and a guide for the journey."

"Then you are going with me? God bless you, Laurie," said John Popham, earnestly.

"Of course I am," growled your uncle.

With an aching heart, I put the finishing touches to Laurie's travelling gear, then went to bed, but not to quiet or refreshing sleep. There is generally something depressing, I think, in a very early setting out; my heart sinks now as I recall the breakfast by lamplight; faint, bluish dawn just marking the square outline of the window; the horses' tread, as our man servant walked them up and down before the doors--the last words and directions hastily given by the travellers. Laurie found a moment to take me aside and say: "Cattie, I think we shall be back very shortly; Scutari, whither we can trace Jones, is but a few miles distant and our journey attended with little or no risk, as we are well armed, fairly mounted, and provided with a passport in due form. I have letters too to the Pasha which _may_ induce him to assist us in our search after that rascal."

"Have you much hope of catching him?" I asked.

Laurie shook his head. "I confess I have very little," he said; "yet it seems worth the attempt at all events; Johnnie is bent on making it, and I can't let him go alone, poor boy! Ah, had his letter reached me four days ago, as it would have done had he trusted it to fitting hands, we should have had a much better chance;" and he fairly stamped his foot with vexation.

Well, they started; it was a Tuesday, and several days dragged their slow length along, without any tidings of the absentees. Saturday morning came, and brought a throng of mountain women to market, unaccompanied, for the first time, by their husbands. Spira was there, and delighted to see me, but even to her I could not hint my troubles, as the good understanding then existing between Austria and England and the Turks, was a very sore subject to a Montenegrin. So I replied but vaguely to her inquiries after my lord and master, and begged to know why _hers_ had not made his appearance as usual.

"Oh, your Excellency, he is much better employed," she replied, "than coming down here to buy salt; have you not heard? has nobody told you the new outrage committed by those Turkish dogs? our deadly foe, the Pasha of Scutari, without notice or warning, has attacked our Bishop's island fort of Lessandro, at the head of the Scutari lake, and taken it; ten of our men have been killed, my father's brother's son amongst them, and ten taken prisoners. The Bishop is mad about it, and Basil and all the picked men are flocking to him. The Pasha himself is at Lessandro," added Spira, "may a bullet from our Vladika's rifle whiz through his brain shortly! But what ails your Excellency? you shiver like our silver aspen leaves."

I did indeed feel great disquiet at the thought of the wild work my husband might be witnessing, and finding Spira's conversation too warlike to suit my taste, walked homewards slowly, bidding her follow with the marketings. In our sitting-room I found Mr Popham!

He came up and took my two hands in his, as if he had been the friend of a lifetime, instead of the acquaintance of an evening.

"I think, I hope he is safe," he said, looking very white.

"How safe?" I asked; "tell me _all_, Mr Popham, if you please."

"I will," he answered; "it is a flesh-wound in the shoulder, nothing of consequence, on my honour; he bade me tell you so, with his love."

"Am I to understand that you have left Mr Englefield wounded?" I asked; it never struck me, in my consternation, that I had worded the question harshly, till I saw Mr Popham's look of deep distress. There was not the least anger in the crimson glow that suffused his face, nor in his voice as he huskily answered: "I deserve this for my cruel ingratitude towards him at Ragusa, but, on my honour, Mrs Englefield, I am not to blame for leaving him now, nor shall I know rest till I am again at his side."

"Thank you, thank you," I answered; "we will lose no time in going to him; and now, let me hear some particulars."

"We reached Scutari all right," said Mr Popham; "the Pasha had just left it to attack a fort belonging to the Prince of the Black Mountain; so we followed, and reached the camp just as the fort was being stormed. That evening we had an audience of the Pasha, in which Englefield laid the whole matter before him; he spoke us fair, and promised help, but it was all a sham, a regular sham; you will not wonder this when I tell you that Orlando Jones, unseen by us was at the Pasha's elbow, bribing, cringing, and sticking at nothing to gain his ends! It seems the wretched man has long been in communication with the Turks, and has now adopted the Mussulman creed and dress. In requital, a lucrative post has been conferred on him."

"But to return to Laurie: on Thursday night, finding the Pasha still impracticable, he advised our return to Cattaro next morning; we took our leave of that dignitary and retired to the hut assigned us by the Turkish quartermaster, in a wretched village near the head of the lake. A force of some two hundred Turks guarded the place, but so negligently that before daybreak they were surprised and overpowered by a daring band of Black Mountaineers. Our share in this transaction was rather passive than active; in fact I was dead asleep till the door of the hut was burst in; I then saw Englefield, who had been vainly trying to shake me into consciousness, deliberately place himself between me and the intruders. That was a perilous moment; several swords were aimed at us, and one came down on Laurie's shoulder, inflicting the wound I have mentioned. I must confess that its effect would have been far more serious, but for a most strange and providential circumstance. A stalwart young mountaineer no sooner caught a glimpse of your husband's face, than he rushed forward, grasped his comrade's arm, so as to weaken the blow he could not quite avert, then threw himself on Laurie's neck with wild yells of delight. A few words from this `Basil,' as they called him, to his companions, changed their murderous fury into enthusiasm. Laurie was hoisted on their shoulders, and carried at a sort of shuffling trot a little way up the mountain, just within the frontier of Montenegro; I followed close at their heels, and saw him deposited in a hut, and his wound dressed by one of these gigantic highlanders. I watched by him for several hours afterwards."

"And how did he seem?" I asked anxiously, for I well remembered Laurie's telling me before we left England that he was of a feverish temperament, and that hurts which others would recover from quickly, became from that cause serious matters with him. The answer rather increased my fears. He had fallen into a doze, but wakened within an hour a good deal excited. Perhaps the extreme roughness of the bed they had laid him in, contributed to his unrest, also the heavy anxiety on his mind. He had talked confusedly of Orlando Jones, then he almost raved about me, first begging I might not be told of his state, then changing his mind suddenly, and entreating them to bring me to him. You will easily believe that I did not require such a summons to make me hasten to his side.

An old mountaineer, past fighting, who had guided Mr Popham to Cattaro, offered me his escort, and Spira, who was at the door with her mule, went into an ecstasy of delight at the prospect of showing her dear native crags to "our lady," as she called me. I hastily put together needful clothes for myself and Laurie, old linen, a change of sheets for my dear patient, tea, arrow-root, and other provisions, and a selection from the precious medicine-chest. These were packed on one side of the stout mule, and a seat for me was devised on the other side. Happily for the animal, I was as light as a feather in those days. Seeing Mr Popham pale and fatigued, I urged him to remain at our house till his strength was recruited, and rejoin us the next Tuesday, when he would easily find a competent guide in the market-place; but he rejected this advice with vehemence, and after swallowing some refreshment and writing several letters to Ragusa and England, declared himself quite ready for a start. My heart warmed to him for his love of Laurie.

Up, up the zigzag path I had so long panted to explore; up, up, we climbed, but under circumstances how different from those I had pictured to myself! No Laurie at my side, enjoying every beautiful thing in earth, air, or sky, showing me what to sketch and how to sketch it; but vague, uneasy thoughts of him on his feverish couch and among half savage people. The channel of Cattaro lay below us, its jagged shores, studded with pretty villages; on all sides were craggy grey peaks, rising one behind the other, a sky of hazy blue arching over all. My guide Giuro was full of apologies for the roughness of the track we rode upon, telling me the old Montenegrin legend "that at the Creation, the bag which held the stones to be distributed over the earth, burst, and let them all fall on the Black Mountain."

The road certainly was as bad as possible; but my mule advanced sturdily, by jumps and jerks, till we reached the top of the pass. There we were, I am afraid to pay how many hundred feet above the sea, but overhanging it so completely that a pebble dropped from one's hand fell into the waves. The Ragusan steamer looked like a nutshell from our eminence.

The ascent had occupied two hours and a half; it took us three more to reach our halting-place, Cetigna, Spira's home. A gentle descent led to the village, and in the distance shimmered a white shroud-like mist, which Spira told me covered the lake of Scutari. Somewhere in that direction Laurie must be lying, I knew; and the certainty doubled my impatience to get to him. Old Giuro now raised his voice to the shrillest key imaginable, and, in a way peculiar to these mountaineers, who talk to each other from hill tops half a mile asunder, announced that "our lady" was approaching. Whereupon a great hubbub arose; dogs barked, and feminine voices responded eagerly. Two or three muskets were presently discharged, and the twang of the balls as they passed near gave my nerves rather an unpleasant shock. I did not then know that the Black Mountaineers always receive their friends thus; in this instance female hands had loaded and fired, the men being almost all away fighting. A band of brightly-clad women, not less than forty in number, now came to meet me, their children frolicking round them, and some boys playing, not very discordantly, the one-stringed fiddle of the country. At their head walked a grey-haired matron, whom Spira pointed out as her grandmother, and who carried on her shoulder Nilo, looking lovely in a "strucca" striped olive-green and mulberry-red. The dear little fellow knew me at once, and almost sprang to my arms, whereupon the good housewives of Cetigna uttered a screech of delight, closed round me and kissed my cloak, hands, and even lips with a fervour I could have dispensed with.

Mr Popham, much amused with these greetings, pushed forward to the little inn of the place to order supper. I meanwhile yielded to Spira's urgent wish, and turned into her cottage to be introduced to the remaining members of her family. You will smile, children, when you hear that I found squatting round the hearth a great-grandfather of a hundred years old, and a grandfather of eighty-two; her mother, a handsome woman with scarlet vest and girdle encrusted with cornelians was there also, and these, with Spira and her boy, made up five generations. Such patriarchal families, they say, are not uncommon on the Black Mountain. The fire-place was merely a raised hearth in one corner of the room, with a cauldron hanging over it. A lump of dough was baking on the ashes; chimney there was none, so the smoke eddied slowly round, a portion of it making its way into my throat and eyes; at least one pig reposed on the floor of the hut, and I heard a faint clucking of poultry roosting in some remote and dusky corner of the chamber. It really was a relief to get away from the motley group, and under Spira's guidance I soon reached the clean little inn of Cetigna. Here, in the bright, low kitchen, I found Mr Popham on his knees, toasting bread, and at the same time giving our Cattarese landlady useful hints as to the grilling of some fine trout her boy had just caught. A quaintly-carved chair had been dragged to the fireside, and stuffed with cloaks to supply the want of cushions. Tea was set forth; also a flask of the famous Ragusa Malmesey; a red-legged partridge, intended by the hostess for her own supper, had been carried off for mine, she smiling complacently at the theft, and confiding to Spira that so pleasant a gentleman had never visited the mountain before! In fact, Mr Popham was now quite in his glory, and as I lazily leaned back in my chair and watched him (for he would not allow me to make myself of use), his ingenuity and overflowing good-nature amused and cheered me. After supper we held a little council as to next day's movements, and my spirits were further raised by Mr Popham's proposing that we should start at five in the morning, so as to get to Laurie by noon. The indefatigable Spira begged to be our guide; all was settled, and I went to bed in a small adjoining room, feeling almost happy. It was an untold comfort when alone to pull out my little Bible and Prayer-book, and in that wild region to be able to commend Laurie, myself, and all we loved to _His_ fatherly care "in whose hand are all the corners of the earth."

III.

"When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou."

Scott.

If I went to sleep with a cheerful impression of the Black Mountain, my first glance next morning dispelled it. I woke at four, dressed, and then put my head out of the one small window, from which I could see the village of Cetigna, bathed in white moonlight. This village, which, by the way, is the capital of Montenegro, seemed to consist of scarcely twenty hovels or houses, scattered about; a corner of a larger building was visible, which I found afterwards was the Prince-bishop's palace. A crag rose opposite my window, on the top of which stood a low round tower, crowned with at least twenty Turkish skulls, fixed to tall stakes. Strange trophies those Turkish heads were for the residence of a Christian bishop! Spira's entrance diverted my eyes and thoughts from these horrible proofs of Montenegrin ferocity; and after partaking of an inviting little breakfast of Mr Popham'a arranging I mounted my mule, and we set out. He rode also, and Spira and Giuro trudged alongside. Leaving Cetigna and its grassy plain behind, we rode down a rough and dangerous ascent. We saw not a human being till, on turning a sharp corner, we suddenly came on a party of Black Mountaineers-- active-looking fellows, coming up from the Turkish frontier, and singing snatches of wild songs as they went. They were going to their homes to celebrate some feast, and meant to be back again under their Bishop's standard before night. As usual with these highland soldiers, they had asked nobody's leave but their own for this freak. They looked hard at me and then at Mr Popham, and pointed out to one another, well pleased, the Fez cap which he wore and politely took off to them. Hats and European caps of all sorts, you must know, they have a special dislike to. Spira and some of them exchanged greetings, and in reply to her questions one of them said:--"Basil Basilovich was well at sunset; I saw him with a fresh head at his girdle, guarding the hut of the wounded stranger from the west." There was nothing to be gleaned from them respecting Mr Englefield's state, so we pushed on once more, my eyes fixed on the brightening east, where presently the sun came up like a torch. We now came down on a rapid, clear, green stream, which hurries to the Lake of Scutari.

The stream widened into a little river, and we suddenly turned to the right, and went down to its bank through a patch of Indian corn seven feet high. A number of wild ducks flew out of the reeds, startled partly by our approach, partly by that of a boat, in which sat a solitary figure rowing vigorously. "It is Basil!" cried Spira, joyfully. He heard the voice, looked up, saw her, recognised me with a start of glad surprise, and at once ran his boat ashore, and joined us. Spira, after four days' separation, did not know how to make enough of him. He seemed in his lordly manner truly glad to see her again, and asked with much earnestness after his boy. To me his manner was one of almost reverential courtesy; scarcely durst I ask him how he had left Laurie, but while the question was faltering on my tongue, Spira came out with it in round, unvarnished terms, saying, "Is our good Englishman alive?--is he better?"

"Alive, but not better," answered Basil bluffly; "a hurt which I should have forgotten in three days has eaten into his very flesh and bone; there must be devilry in it, and I am on my way to fetch priest Jovan from Nariako to exorcise him."

"Take me to him first, kind Basil," said I anxiously; "I too have soothing spells here," pointing to the valise which held my remedies, "nor shall prayers be wanting to aid them." I wept as I spoke; Basil, with some odd contortions of feature, meant, I believe, to drive back sympathetic tears, beckoned us to get into the boat. Spira and he followed with my light baggage, and Giuro remained behind in charge of the animals. Softly and swiftly we glided along, the green waters rippling and gurgling round our boat. The river gradually widened till it grew into a lake, the lovely Lake of Scutari. Of its beauties I can say little, for, indeed, they fell on a heedless eye; but I remember well the deeply indented shore to our left, under which we stole along, the flocks of ducks and cormorants, and the noble milk-white herons that rose up screaming at our approach.

"Your husband lies yonder, near the crest of this next hill," said Basil to me, indicating by a jerk of his chin a craggy height almost overhanging the water; "your excellency would see the roof of the hut, but a wild cherry tree hides it." Then he explained to me (Mr Popham not understanding his dialect) that we had but to double one more headland, and we should come to a creek, and a landing-place, and a path leading straight to the hut. You may think how my heart bounded to be there!

But we were reckoning without our host. On rounding the headland there was the path indeed, like a white thread on the green height, but it was beset by foes. Several shots fired from that direction showed this too plainly; and I saw Basil's eyes dilate with wonder and wrath as he marked the quick flashes, the smoke, the sharp report of fire-arms in the tall thicket. The fact was, the enemy had within the last quarter of an hour stolen on a party of mountaineers set to guard that point, and surprised them. Our friends were fighting with their usual desperate bravery, but they seemed likely to be worsted. Basil now signed to Mr Popham that we must turn back, and effect a landing on the other side of the headland; and accordingly ten minutes' rowing brought us back to that point. Meanwhile, Mr Popham drew closer to me, and said, with a grave solicitude scarcely natural to him, "You see the plan is that we should scale the hill on this side, which the enemy has not reached--possibly may not attempt to reach. Once at the top--where Laurie is, I mean--you are safe enough, for a strong body of the black highlanders is posted there; and the Turks would have no object that I could see in attacking them. But, dear Mrs Englefield, there _is_ a certain amount of risk in the ascent. I ought not to disguise this from you. If it--the ascent, I mean--should occupy much time (and it is so steep and tangled that it might prove tedious); and if our friends should be driven back speedily, the Turks might be upon us before we reached the crest. Mind, I don't say it is probable, but it is possible. For a man the risk is a trifle, not worth thinking twice about; but for a woman!--Good heavens!--that's quite another thing."

He paused, then added, "The sum of all this is, that I want you to turn back with Spira, and stay at the next hamlet till this alarm is over. Basil will guide me back to Laurie, and we will cheer him with the hope of your coming. I am a poor nurse compared with you, but I'll do my best."

He was so kind, so in earnest, poor fellow! I wrung his hand, and said, "Thank you again and again. You are a true friend, and Laurie knows it. But if you won't think me obstinate, I would rather go on; Laurie may be very ill, very wretched; and the wild people about him may not know how to treat him. You would hardly know, perhaps, for you can't be used to sick-room ways, and Laurie's ways in particular. From what you say, the risk is small, almost nothing; and I was brought up at the foot of Skiddaw, and can climb like a cat, so I should not delay you; and--"

"Enough!" he said, resuming his offhand manner. "Such an array of reasons cannot be gainsaid; and, indeed, I shouldn't feel comfortable in leaving you down here with no champion but little Spira, so let us be off at once. Head the van, you see, by crossing this Slough of Despond on friend Basil's back!"

Danger always sharpens my sense of the ridiculous, and the sight of Basil steadying himself with a pole, and striding through the mire with the long-legged Englishman on his back, fairly upset my gravity. He soon landed him, and came back for me; lifting me on one arm, and carrying me as easily and tenderly as if I had been little Nilo.

Well! we scrambled up the pathless steep, through oaks and ashes of mushroom growth to a height of perhaps two hundred feet. It was troublesome climbing, for there was an undergrowth of brier and bramble which tore my clothes, and the sharp crags which jutted in all directions out of the ground cut my feet; nevertheless, I progressed rapidly, outstripping Spira and Mr Popham, and keeping alongside of Basil, who now and then stretched out a helping hand to me and nodded grim approval.

No one uttered a word, and a sign from Basil made us understand that we were to keep in the shade, lest, perchance, some of the enemy might be straggling in our direction. I was growing tired and breathless, when our herculean guide signed to me to look upwards. My eye following the lead of his finger, travelled across a curtain of foliage--the delicate ash leaf, faded and ready to drop away; the sturdier oak, brown, yellow, dull green, or blotted with crimson. At the top of all was a hut perched on the edge of the cliff; that was Laurie's hut, Basil whispered. I could see the wall, built of rough stones, and a miserable little hole meant for a window, and a bright patch of red, probably a "strucca," stuffed into it to keep out the cold. At that sight I forgot my fatigue, and Mr Popham grew excited, and waved his cap over his head, crying, "Hurrah! Now go ahead, Mrs Englefield!" for which piece of boyish folly he received a frown from Basil, the darkest I ever saw on human face.