Kitabı oku: «The Pobratim: A Slav Novel», sayfa 11
"Oh! it is nothing, only I fancied I could see the poor woman burning; it was so dreadful!"
"Here," said Bellacic, "have a glass of slivovitz; it'll set you all right. Moreover, listen; I'll tell you a much finer story, only pay great attention, for I'm not very clever at story-telling. Are you all ears?"
"Yes," said Milena, smiling.
"Well, once upon a time, there was a man who had three dogs: the first was called Catch-it-quick; the second, Bring-it-back; and the third, I-know-better. Now, one morning this man got up very early to go out hunting, so he called Catch-it-quick, Bring-it-back, and – and – how stupid I am! now I've forgotten the name of the other dog. Well, I said I wasn't good in telling stories; what was it?"
"I-know-better," interrupted Milena.
"No doubt you do, my dear, so perhaps you'll continue the story yourself, as you know better."
Everybody laughed, and the gloom that had come over the company after the bard's story was now dispelled.
"Radonic is late; I'm afraid, Milena, if you went back home, you'd have to prepare a stake for him," said Markovic. Then, turning to the bard: "Come, Stoyan, give us another pisma."
"Yes, but something merry," interrupted Tripko; "tell us some verses about the great Kraglievic."
The bard, contrary to his wont, was sipping his glass of slivovitzvery slowly; he now finished it and said:
"I'll try, though, to tell you the truth, I'm rather out of sorts this evening; I really don't know why. There is an echo, as if of a crime, in the slightest noise, a smell of blood in every gust of wind. Do you not hear anything? Well, perhaps, I am mistaken."
Everyone looked at one another wistfully, for they all knew that old Stoyan was something of a prophet.
"There! listen," said he, staring vacantly; "did you not hear?"
"No," said Bellacic; "what was it?"
"Only the heavy thud of a man falling like a corpse on the ground," and as he said these words he crossed himself devoutly and muttered to himself: "May the Lord forgive him, whoever he is." Thereupon everybody present crossed himself, saying: "Bog nas ovari."
Milena shuddered and grew deathly pale; though she was not gifted with second sight, she saw in her mind's eye something so dreadful that it almost made her faint with terror. Mara, seeing her ghastly pale, said:
"Come, give us this song, but let it be something brisk and merry, for the howling of the wind outside is like a funeral wail, and it is that lament which makes us all so moody to-night."
"You are right, gospodina; besides, one man more or less – provided he is no relation of ours – is really no great matter. How many thousands fell treacherously at Kossoro." Then, taking up his bow, he began to scrape the chord of his guzla, in a swift, jerking, sprightly way.
"What is it?" asked Bellacic.
And Stoyan replied, as he began to sing:
MARKO KRAGLIEVIC'S FALCON.
A falcon flies o'er Budua town;
It bears a gleaming golden crest,
Its wings are gilt, so is its breast;
Of clear bright yellow is each claw,
And with its sheen it lights the wold.
Then all the maids of Budua town
Ask this fair sparkling bird of prey
Why it is yellow and not grey?
Who gilded it without a flaw?
Who gave it that bright crest of gold?
And to the maids of Budua town
That falcon shy did thus reply:
Listen, ye maids, and know that I
Belong to Mark the warrior brave,
Who is as fair as he is bold.
His sisters dwell in Budua town
The first, the fairest of the two,
Painted my claws a yellow hue,
And gilt my wings; great Marko gave
To me this sparkling crest of gold.
He finished, and then, as it was getting late, everyone began to wish Bellacic and Mara good-night and to go off. Several of the guests offered to see Milena home, but the domacica insisted that her kinswoman should remain and spend the night with her, and Milena consented full willingly, for she dreaded going back home.
When all the guests had gone, Mara took Milena in bed with her; but she, poor thing, could not find rest, for the words of the bard kept ever ringing in her ears. Then she saw again the great-coat lying on the floor, looking like a corpse; and, in the howling wind, she thought she heard a voice calling for help. Who was it? Radonic or Vranic?
It was only the wind howling outside through the trees, creeping slily along the whitewashed walls of the houses, stealthily trying to find some small cranny wherein to creep, then shrieking with a shrill cry of exultation when it had come to an open window, or when, discovering some huge keyhole, it could whistle undisturbed.
At last, just as Milena began to get drowsy, and her heavy eyelids were almost closed, she again saw the kabanica, which had – some hours ago – been lying on the floor, rise and twist itself into the most grotesque and fantastic attitudes, then – almost hidden under the hood – Vranic's face making mouths at her. She opened her eyes widely, and although consciousness had now returned, and she knew that the great-coat had been left in the other room, still she saw it plainly dancing and capering like a monkey. She shivered and shuddered; she closed her eyes not to see it; still, it became ever more distinct. Then she buried her face in the pillow, and covered up her head in the sheet; then by degrees a feeling of drowsiness came over her, and just as she was going off to sleep the kabanica, which was standing erect, fell all at once to the ground with a mighty thud that almost shook the whole house, and even seemed to precipitate her down some bottomless hole. In her terror she clutched at Mara, who was fast asleep, and woke her.
"What's the matter?" asked the elderly woman.
"I heard a loud voice; didn't you hear it?"
"No, I had just dropped off to sleep."
Thereupon both the women listened, but the house was perfectly quiet.
"What kind of a noise was it?"
"Like a man falling heavily on the ground."
"You must have been dreaming; Stoyan's words frightened you, that's all, unless the cat or the dog knocked something down. You know, at night every noise sounds strange, uncouth, whilst in the day-time we'd never notice them. Now, the best thing you can do is to try and go off to sleep."
Alas! why are we not like the bird that puts its head under its wing and banishes at once the outer world from its view. Every endeavour she made to bring about oblivion seemed, on the contrary, to stimulate her to wakefulness, and thereby frustrate her efforts. Sleepiness only brought on mental irritation, instead of soft, drowsy rest. The most gloomy thoughts came into her mind. Why had her husband not come to fetch her? Perhaps Vranic, seeing himself discovered, had stabbed him to death. Then she thought that, in this case, all her trouble would be at an end. Thereupon she crossed herself devoutly, and uttered a prayer that her husband might not be murdered, even if he had been cruel to her. Still, she was quite sure that, if Radonic ever discovered her guilt, he would surely murder her – burn her, perhaps, like Gjuro had done.
Thereupon she heard the elderly man's slow and grave voice ringing in her ears:
"Slavs never forgive. Adultery amongst us is no trifle, as it is in Venice."
She shuddered with terror. Every single word as it had been uttered had sunk deep into her breast, like drops of burning wax falling from Jeljena's gown. Each one was like the stab of a sharp knife cutting her to the quick.
Then again she fancied that Stoyan had sung that pisma only to taunt her.
She had once heard the pop read in the Bible about an adulteress in Jerusolim who was to be stoned to death.
Had not every word that evening been a stone thrust at her? What was she to do? What was to become of her? Once entangled in the net of sin, every effort we make to get out of it seems to make us flounder deeper in its fatal meshes.
All these thoughts tortured and harassed her, burning tears were ever trickling down her cheeks, her weary head was aching as she tossed about, unable to go off to sleep, unable to find rest; nay, a creepiness had come over all her limbs, as if a million ants were going up and down her legs.
How glad she was at last to see through the curtainless window the first glimmer of dawn dispel the darkness of the night – the long, dreary, unending night.
"You have had a bad night," said Mara. "I heard you turning and tossing about, but I thought it better not to speak to you. I suppose it was the bed. I'm like you, I always lose my sleep in a new bed."
"Oh, no!" said Milena. "I was anxious."
"About your husband? Perhaps he got drunk and went off to sleep."
As soon as Milena was dressed she wanted to go off, but Mara would not allow her.
"First, your husband said he'd come and fetch you, so you must stay with us till he comes; then, remember you promised to help me with my embroidery, so I can't let you go."
"No, I'm too anxious about Radonic. You know, he's so hasty."
"Yes, he's a brute, I know."
"Besides, I can't get the bard's words out of my head."
"In fact, poor thing, you are looking quite ill. Anyhow, I'll not allow you to go alone, so you must wait till I've put the house in order, and then I'll go with you."
As soon as breakfast was over, and Bellacic was out of the house, Mara got ready. She little knew that, though Milena was anxious to find out the dreadful truth of that night's mystery, she was in her heart very loth to return home.
Just as Mara was near the door, she, like all women, forgot something and had to go in, for – what she called – a minute. Milena stepped out alone. First, as she pushed the door open, the hinges gave a most unpleasant grating sound. She shivered, for this was a very bad omen. Then a cat mewed. Milena crossed herself. And, as if all this were not enough, round the corner came an old lame hag whom she knew. The old woman stopped.
"What, gospa! is it you? and where are you going so early in the morning?"
Milena shuddered, and her teeth chattered in such a way that she could hardly answer her. It was very bad to meet an old woman in the morning; worse still, a lame old woman; worst of all, to be asked where you are going.
The best thing on such a day would be to go back in-doors, and do nothing at all; for everything undertaken would go all wrong.
The old woman's curiosity having been satisfied, she hobbled away, and soon disappeared, leaving Milena more dejected and forlorn even than she had been before.
Mara came out, and found her ghastly pale; she tried to laugh the matter over, though she, too, felt that it was really no laughing matter. Weary and worn, poor Milena dragged herself homewards, but her knees seemed as if they were broken, and her limbs almost refused to carry her.
Soon they came in sight of the house; all the windows and the doors were shut – evidently Radonic was not at home.
"I wonder where he is," said Milena to her friend.
"Probably he has gone to our house to look for you. If you had only waited a little! Now he'll say that we wanted to get rid of you."
At last they were at the door.
"And now," said Mara, "probably the house is locked, and you'll have to come back with me." Then, all at once interrupting herself: "Oh! how my left ear is ringing, someone is speaking about me; can you guess who it is, Milena? Yes, I think I can hear my son's voice," and the fond mother's handsome face beamed with pleasure.
She had hardly uttered these words, when they heard someone call out:
"Gospa Mara! gospa Mara!"
Then turning round, they saw a youth running up to them.
"What! is it you, Todor Teodorovic? and when did you come back?" quoth Mara.
"We came back last evening."
"Perhaps you met the Spera in Dio on your voyage?"
"Yes, we met the brig at Zara, but as she had somewhat suffered from the storm, she was obliged to go to Nona for repairs, as all the building yards of Zara were busy."
Thereupon, he began to expatiate very learnedly about the nature of the damage the ship had suffered, but Mara interrupted him —
"And how was Uros? did you see him?"
"Oh, yes! he was quite well."
Then he began to tell Mara all about the lives Uros and Milenko had saved, and how gallantly they had endangered their own. "But," added he, "our captain has a letter for you, gospa."
"There, I told you I'd have a letter to-day; I had dreamt of doves, and when I see doves or horses in my sleep, I always get some news the day afterwards," said Mara, turning to her friend, but Milena had disappeared.
Todor Teodorovic having found a willing listener, an occurrence which happened but very seldom with him, began to tell Mara all about the repairs the Spera in Dio would have to undergo, and also how long they would stay at Nona, their approximate cost, and so forth, and Mara listened because anything that related to her son was interesting to her.
Milena had stood for a few moments on the doorstep, but when she heard that Uros was quite well, she slipped unperceived into the house. She felt so oppressed as she went in that she almost fancied she was going to meet her death.
Was it for the last time she went into that house? Would she ever come out of it again?
Her hand was on the latch, she pressed it down; it yielded, the door opened. Perhaps Radonic had come home late, drunk, and he was there now sleeping himself sober. If this were the case, she would have a bad day of it; he was always so fretful and peevish on the day that followed a drinking bout.
How dark the room was; all the shutters were tightly shut, and dazzled as she was by the broad daylight, she could not see the slightest thing in that dark room.
Her heart was beating so loud that she fancied it was going to burst; she panted for breath, she shrank within herself, appalled as she was by that overpowering darkness. She dreaded to stretch out her hand and grope about, for it seemed to her as if she would be seized by some invisible foe, lying there in wait for her.
Just then, as she was staring in front of her, with widely-opened eyes, the kabanica, as she had seen it the evening before, rose slowly, gravely, silently, from the floor, and stood upright before her.
That gloomy ghost of a garment detached itself from the surrounding darkness and glided up to her, bending forward with outstretched arms. No face was to be seen, for the head was quite concealed by the hood. And yet she fancied Vranic's livid face must be there, near her.
She almost crouched down, oppressed by that ghostly garment; she shrank back with terror, and yet she knew that the phantom in front of her only existed in her morbid imagination.
To nerve herself to courage, she turned round to cast a glance at Uros' mother, and convince herself that she was still there, within reach at a few steps; then, with averted head, she went in.
She turned round; the phantom of the kabanica had disappeared. She was by the hearth. What was she to do now? First, open the shutters and have some light. She turned towards the right.
All at once she stumbled on the very spot where, the evening before, she had caught and entangled her foot in the great-coat. A man was lying there now, apparently dead. She uttered a piercing cry as she fell on a cold, lifeless body. Then, as she fell, she fainted.
Mara and Todor, hearing the cry, rushed into the house. They opened the shutters, and then they saw Milena lying on the floor, all of a heap, upon an outstretched body. They lifted her up and laid her on the bed; then they went to examine the man, who was extended at full length by the hearth, wrapped up in his huge great-coat.
"There is no blood about him," said Todor; "he, therefore, must be drunk, and asleep."
Still, when they touched his limbs, they found that they were stiff and stark, anchylosed by the rigid sleep of death.
Mara pushed back the hood of the kabanica, and then she saw a sight which she never forgot the whole of her life.
She saw Vranic's face staring at her in the most horrible contortions of overpowering pain. His distorted mouth was widely open, like a huge black hole; out of it, his slimy, bloody, dark tongue protruded – dreadful to behold. His nostrils were fiercely dilated. Still, worst of all, his eyes, with their ugly cast, started – squinting, glazed and bloodshot – out of their sockets. The hair of his face and of his head was bristling frightfully; his ghastly complexion was blotched with livid spots. It was, indeed, a gruesome sight, especially seen so unexpectedly.
All around his neck he bore the traces of strangulation, for Radonic, who had promised not to use a knife, had been true to his word.
Mara, shuddering, made the sign of the Cross. She pulled the hood of the coat over the corpse's face, and then went to nurse Milena; whilst Todor Teodorovic, who had, at last, found a topic of conversation worth being listened to, went out to call for help.
CHAPTER IX
THE HAYDUK
On the morning of the murder Vranic accompanied Radonic out of the town. He had told Milena he would do so. On reaching the gate fronting the open country and the dark mountains, Radonic stopped, and wished his friend Good-bye. The seer insisted upon walking a little way out of town with him.
"No, thank you; go back. The weather is threatening, and we'll soon have rain."
"Well, what does it matter? If you don't melt, no more shall I," and he laughed at his would-be witticism.
"The roads are bad, and you are no great walker."
Vranic, however, insisted.
Thus they went on together, through vineyards and olive-groves, until they got in sight of the white-walled convent. There Radonic tried once more to get rid of his friend. At last they reached the foot of the rocky mountain, usually fragrant with sage and thyme. Having got to the flinty, winding path leading to the fort of Kosmac:
"Now," said Radonic, "you must positively come no farther."
The road was uneven and very steep. Vranic yielded.
"Go back, and take care of Milena."
"Well, I do not say it as a boast, but you could not leave her in better hands."
"She is young, and, like all women – well, she has long hair and short brains. Look after her."
"Vranic has his eyes open, and will keep good watch."
"I know I can rely on you. Have we not always been friends, we two?
That is why, whenever I left my home, I did so with a light heart."
"Your honour is as dear to me as if it were my own."
"It is only in times of need that we really appreciate the advantage of having a friend. The proverb is right: 'Let thy trusted friend be as a brother to you'; and a friend to whom we can entrust our wife, is even more than a brother. I therefore hope to be able to repay you soon for your kindness."
"Don't mention it. It has been a pleasure for me to be of use to you; for, as honey attracts flies, a handsome young woman collects men around her. So there must always be someone to ward off indiscreet admirers. Moreover, as you know, they say I am a seer, and they are afraid of me."
At last they kissed and parted; the one walking quickly townwards, almost light-hearted, especially after the load of his friend's company, the other trudging heavily upwards.
After a few steps, Radonic climbed a high rock, and sat down to watch Vranic retracing his steps townwards. When he had seen him disappear, he at last rose and quietly followed him for a while. A quarter of an hour afterwards he was knocking at the gate of the white-walled convent. The monks, who are always fond of any break in their monotonous life, received him almost with deference – a sea captain, who had been all over the world, was always a welcome guest. After taking snuff with all of them, and chatting about politics, the crops and the scandal of the town, Radonic asked to be confessed; then he gave alms, was absolved of his peccadilloes, and finally took the Eucharist – a spoonful of bread soaked in wine – although he prided himself on being something of a sceptic. Still, he felt comforted thereby; he had blotted out all past sins and could now begin a new score. Religion, they say, in all its forms always tends to make man happy – aye, and better!
In this merry frame of mind he sat down to dinner with the jolly brotherhood, and after a copious but plain meal, he, according to the custom of this holy house, retired to one of the cells appointed to strangers, to have a nap. No sooner was he alone than he undid his bundle, took out a razor and shaved off all the hair of his cheeks and chin, leaving only a long pair of thick moustaches, which he curled upwards according to the fierce fashion of the Kotor. This done, he took off his soiled, ugly, badly-fitting European clothes and put on the dress of the country – one of the finest and manliest devised by man; so that, although not good-looking, he was handsome to what he had just been.
The monks, on seeing him come out, did not recognise him, and could not understand from whence he had sprung. Then they were more than astonished when they found out the reason for this transformation, for he told them that it was to surprise his wife, or rather, the moths attracted by her sparkling eyes.
"I thought I should never put on again the clothes of my youth, but fate, it appears, has decreed otherwise."
"Man is made of dust, and to dust he returneth. Sooner or later we have to become again what we once were. You know the story of the mouse, don't you?"
"No; or at least I don't think I do."
"Then listen, and I'll tell it you."
A great many years ago, in the times of Christ and His disciples, there lived somewhere in Asia a very good man, who had left off worshipping idols and had become a Christian.
Finding soon afterwards that it was impossible for him to dwell any more with his own people – who scoffed at his new creed, rated him for wishing to be better than they were, mocked him when he prayed, and played all kinds of tricks on him when he fasted – he sold his birthright and divided all his money amongst the poor, the blind and the cripples of his native town. Then he bade farewell to all his friends and relations, and with the Holy Scriptures in one hand, and a staff in the other, he went out of the town gate and walked into the wilderness.
He wandered for many days until he arrived on top of a steep, treeless, wind-blown hill, and, almost on the summit, he found a small cave, the ground of which was strewn with fine white sand, as soft to the feet as a velvet carpet. On one side of this grotto there was a fountain of icy cold water, and on the other, hewn in the rock as if by the hand of man, a kind of long niche, which looked as if it had been made on purpose for a bed. The Christian, who had decided to become a hermit, saw in this cave a sign of God's will and favour; therefore, he stopped there. For some time he lived on the roots of plants, berries and wild fruit, that grew at the foot of the hill; then he cultivated a patch of ground, and so he passed his time, praying, reading his holy Book, meditating over it, or tilling his bit of glebe.
Years and years passed – who knows how many? – and he had become an old man, with a long white beard reaching down to his knees, a brown, sun-burnt skin, and a face furrowed with wrinkles. Since the day he had left his country, he had never again seen a man, a woman or a child, nor, indeed, any other animal, except a few birds that flew over his head, or some small snakes that glided amongst the stones. So one evening, after he had said his lengthy prayers and committed his soul to God, he went to lie down on his couch of leaves and moss; but he could not sleep. He, for the first time, felt lonely, and, as it were, home-sick. He knew he would never behold again the face of any man, so he almost wished he had, at least, some tiny living creature to cherish. Sleep at last closed his eyes. In the morning, on awaking, he saw a little mouse frisking in the sand of his cave. The old hermit looked astonished at the pretty little thing, and he durst not move, but remained as quiet as a mouse, for fear the mouse would run away.
The animal, however, caught sight of him, and stood stock-still on its hind legs, looking at him. Thus they both remained for some seconds, staring at each other. Then the hermit understood at last that God, in His goodness, had heard his wish, and had sent him this little mouse to comfort him, and be a companion to him in his old age. And so it was.
Days, months, years passed, and the mouse never left the hermit, not even for a single instant; and the godly man grew always fonder of this friendly little beast. He played with it, patted it, and called it pet names; and at night, when he crept into his niche to sleep, he took the mouse with him.
One night, as he pressed the little animal to his breast, he felt his heart overflow with love for it, and in his unutterable fondness he begged the Almighty to change this dear little mouse into a girl; and lo, and behold! God granted his prayer, for, of course, he was a saintly man. The hermit pressed the girl to his heart, and then fell upon his knees and thanked the All-Merciful for His great goodness.
The girl grew up a beautiful maiden – tall, slender, and most graceful in her movements, with a soft skin, and twinkling, almost mischievous eyes.
Years passed. The hermit now had grown to be a very old man; and in his last years his spirit was troubled, and his heart was full of care. He knew that he had passed the time allotted to man here below, and he was loth to think that he would have to die and leave his daughter alone in the wilderness. Besides, she had reached marriageable age; and if it is no easy matter for a match-making mother to marry her daughter in a populous town, it was a difficult task to find a husband for her in that desert. Moreover, he did not exactly know how to broach the subject of matrimony to a girl who was so very ingenuous, and who thought that all the world was limited to the cave and the hill on which she lived. Still, he did not shrink from this duty; and, therefore, he told her what he had read in scientific books about the conjunctions of planets in the sky. Then he quoted the Scriptures, and said that it was not good for man to be alone, nor for woman either; that even widows should marry, if they cannot live in the holy state of celibacy.
The poor girl did not quite fathom all the depths of his speech, but said she would be guided by his wisdom.
"Very well," said the anchorite, "I shall soon find you a husband worthy of you."
"But," said the girl, ingenuously, "why do you not marry me yourself?"
"I marry you? First, my dear, I am a hermit, and hermits never marry, for if they did, they might have a family, then – you understand – they wouldn't be hermits any more, would they?"
"But they needn't have a family, need they?"
"Well, perhaps not; besides, I can't marry you, because – "
"Because?"
"I," stammered the anchorite, blushing, "I'm too old."
"Ah, yes!" echoed the maid, sighing; "it's a fact, you are veryold."
That night, after the hermit and his adopted daughter had said their prayers, she, who was very sleepy, went off to bed, whilst he, who was as perplexed as any father having a dowerless daughter, went out of his cavern to meditate.
The full moon had just risen above the verge of the horizon, and her soft light silvered the sand of the desert, and made it look like newly fallen snow.
The old man stood on top of the hill, and stretching forth his arms to the Moon:
"Oh! thou mightiest of God's works, lovely Moon, take pity upon a perplexed father, and listen to my prayer. I have one fair daughter that has now reached marriageable age; she is of radiant beauty, and well versed in all the mysteries of our holy religion. Marry my daughter, O Moon!"
"Now," said Radonic, interrupting, "that's foolish; how could the old hermit expect the Moon to marry his daughter?"
"First, this is a parable, like one of those our blessed Saviour used to tell the people; therefore, being a parable, it's Gospel, and you must believe it as a true story, for it is the life of one of the holy Fathers of the Church."
"I see," quoth Radonic, although he did not see quite clearly.
Then the Moon replied:
"You are mistaken, old man; I am not the mightiest of God's creation. The Sun, whose light I reflect, is the greatest of the Omnipotent's works; ask the Sun to be a husband to thy daughter."
The hermit sank on his knees and uttered lengthy prayers, till the light of the Moon grew pale and vanished, and the sky got to be of a saffron tint; soon afterwards, the first rays of the Sun flooded the desert, and transmuted the sandy plain into one mass of glittering gold. When the old man saw the effulgent disc of the Sun, he stretched out his arms and apostrophised this planet as he had done the Moon. Then he rubbed his hands and thought:
"Well, if I only get the Sun for my son-in-law I'm a lucky man."
But the Morning Sun told the hermit that he was mistaken:
"I'm not the mightiest of the Creator's works," quoth the Sun. "You see yon cloudlet yonder. Well, soon that little weasel will get to be as big as a camel, then as a whale, then it'll spread all over the sky and will hide my face from the earth I love so well. That Cloud is mightier than I am."
Then the hermit waited on top of the hill until he saw the Cloud expand itself in the most fantastic shapes, and when it had covered up the face of the Morning Sun, the hermit stretched out his hands and offered to it his daughter in marriage. The Cloud, however, answered just as the Moon and the Sun had done, and it proposed the Simoon as a suitor to his daughter.
"Wait a bit," said the Cloud, "and you will see the might of the Simoon, that, howling, rises and not only drives us whithersoever he will, but scatters us in the four corners of the Earth."
No sooner had the Cloud done speaking than the Wind arose, lifting up clouds of dust from the earth. It seemed to cast the sand upwards in the face of the sky, and against the clouds; and the waters above dropped down in big tears, or fled from the wrath of the Wind.
Then the hermit stretched his hands towards the Simoon, and begged him, as the mightiest of the Creator's works, to marry his daughter.
