UNDER THE YOKE

Ibetnemann'sfrnternatfonal3Ltbtat£.
Edited by EDMUND GOSSE.
Crown Zvo, in paper covers, is. 6d.t or cloth limp, 3.9. &/.

i. IN GOD'S WAY.

From the Norwegian of

BjORNSTJERNE BjORNSON.

2. PIERRE

AND JEAN.

From the French of

GUY DE MAUPASSANT.

3. THE CHIEF JUSTICE.

From the German

of KARL EMIL FRANZOS.

4. WORK

WHILE

YE HA VE THE

LIGHT.

From the Russian of COUNT LYOF TOLSTOI.

5. FANTASY.

From the Italian of M A T I L D E

SERAO.

6. FROTH.

From the Spanish of D O N ARMANDO

PALACIO VALDES.

7. FOOTSTEPS
OF FATE.
From the Dutch
of Louis COUPERUS.
8. PEPITA
JIMENEZ.
From the Spanish of
JUAN VALERA.

9. THE COMMODORES
DA UGHTERS.
the Norwegian of JONAS L I E .
10. THE HERITAGE
OF THE KURTS.

From
From

the Norwegian of BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON.

11. LOU.

From the German

of B A R O N VON

ROBERTS.

12. DONA

LUZ.

From the Spanish of J U A N

VALERA.

13. THE JEW.

From the Polish of J O S E P H I.

KRASZEWSKI.

14. UNDER

THE YOKE.

From the Bulgarian

of IVAN VAZOFF.

15. FAREWELL

LOVE!

From the Italian of

MATILDE SERAO.

Each Volume contains a specially written
Introduction by the Editor.
LONDON:

W. H E I N E M A N N , 21 BEDFORD S T . , W.C.

UNDER THE YOKE
A NOVEL

FROM T H E BULGARIAN OF

IVAN VAZOFF

LONDON
WILLIAM
HEINEMANN
1894
{All rights reserved}

INTRODUCTION
I F there is a certain gratification in presenting to the
English public the first specimen of the literature of a
new people, that gratification is lifted above triviality, and
grounded upon a serious critical basis, when the book so
presented is in itself a masterpiece. I do not think that
it will be questioned that Under the Yoke is a romance
of modern history of a very high class indeed. That it
should be the earliest representation of Bulgarian belleslettres translated into a Western tongue may be curious
and interesting, but the book rests its claim upon English
readers on no such accidental quality. In any language,
however hackneyed, the extreme beauty of this heroic novel,
so simply and yet so artfully constructed, so full of ideal
charm, permeated with so pure and fiery a passion, so human
and tender, so modern and yet so direct and primitive, must
have been assured among all imaginative readers.
The story is one of false dawn before the sunrise. The
action proceeds, as may gradually be discovered, in the
years 1875 and 1876, and the scene is laid in that corner of
Bulgaria which is not even yet completely freed from
Turkish rule—the north-west part of Thrace—overshadowed
by the Balkan on the north, and now forming part of

353445

vi

INTRODUCTION.

the anomalous suzerainty of Eastern Roumelia. Pod Igoto
is the title of the book, and I am instructed that in
Bulgarian the three words Pod Igo-to mean, literally translated, Under the Yoke. The whole story is the chronicle of
one of those abortive attempts which were made throughout
Bulgaria and Roumelia a generation ago, under the hope
of help from Russia, to throw off the intolerable Turkish
yoke of tyranny. The tale ends tragically, with the failure
of the particular and partial insurrection described, and the
martyrdom of the leading patriots who took a part in it; but
the reader is preserved from finding this failure depressing
by the consciousness that relief was at hand, and that an
end was soon afterwards to be put to all the horrors of
bondage, to the incessant zaptie at the door, to the hateful
Turkish rapine, to the misery of Christian servitude under
a horde of Oriental officials.
For particulars as to the career of the author of Under
the Yoke I am indebted to the kindness of Professor J. E.
Gueshoff of Sofia, whose enthusiasm for English institutions
is well known in this country. Ivan Vazoff, by far the most
distinguished writer of modern Bulgaria, was born in
August 1850, at Sopot, a large Bulgarian village in what is
now Eastern Roumelia, at the foot of the Balkan, and about
forty miles to the north of Philippopolis. I have not been
able to find Sopot marked in a very good map of the
peninsula, but the locality indicated is identical with the
centre of the district obviously described in Under the
Yoke, and I should not be surprised to learn that Bela
Cherkva, the little town so lovingly and so picturesquely
pictured by M. Vazoff as the centre of his novel, was
Sopot under a disguise.
The other scenes of action—Klissoura, Karlovo, Kop-

INTRODUCTION.

VII

rivshtitsa, and the rest—appear in the course of this
romance under their real names, and are the towns
of a lovely pastoral district. The story passes in the
heart of the famous Valley of Roses, where the attar is
made; and over these billowy meadows, heavy with the
redundant rose, over the hurrying water-courses, the groves
of walnut and pear trees, the white cupolas ringed about
with poplars, the little sparkling cities—over all this foreground of rich fertility there rises the huge bulwark of the inaccessible Balkan, snow-clad all through the tropic summer,
and feeding the flowery plain with the wealth of its cascades
and torrents.
M. Ivan Vazoff was educated at the school of his native
village. From Sopot his father, a small trader, sent him
to Kalofer and then to Philippopolis. At that time, so Professor Gueshoff assures me, Bulgarian literature consisted
of nothing but a few school-books and political pamphlets,
possessed of no literary pretensions. Like all other
Bulgarians who have made their mark in new Bulgaria, M.
Vazoff was driven to seek his facts and his ideas from foreign
sources. None but works written in alien languages were
worthy to be read. H e set himself to study Russian and
then French, taking advantage of the school libraries existing in the chief centres of population. When the budding
spirit of Bulgaria put forth that first tender leaf, The Periodic
Review, published at Braila, over the frontiers of friendly
Roumania, he was one of the first to contribute poems
to it.
From 1870 to 1872 M. Vazoff resided, like so many educated Bulgarians of that time, in Roumania. But in the latter
year he went back to Sopot, hesitating between the only
two employments open to such men as he, teaching and

viii

INTRODUCTION.

trade. He chose the latter, and entered his father's business.
H e was not very successful, attending to it, we may believe,
not much more closely than his hero, OgnianofF, does to
school-work. No doubt, not a little of M. Vazoff's personal
history is here mingled with his fiction, for we find that he
grew more and more an object of suspicion to the Turkish
authorities, until in 1876, the year of smouldering and
futile insurrection, he had to fly north across the Balkan
for his life. H e reached Roumania in safety, and at
Bucharest joined the Bulgarian Revolutionary Committee.
The three stormy years that followed saw the final development of his genius, and the publication of three famous
volumes of his patriotic lyrical poetry, The Banner and the
Guzla, The Sorrows of Bulgaria, The Deliverance, in which
the progressive story of Bulgarian emancipation may be read
in admirable verse.
H e returned in 1878 to find Sopot destroyed, and
his father murdered by the Bashi-bozouks. The impression made upon his imagination by the horrors of his
bleeding country may be clearly marked in the later
chapters of Under the Yoke. M. Vazoff accepted from
the Russians, who were then in occupation of Bulgaria,
a judicial appointment. In 1879 he was elected a member
of the Permanent Committee of the Provincial Assembly
in the new and anomalous country of Eastern Roumelia.
H e settled in the new capital, Philippopolis, and here he
published his earliest prose works, his stories of Not Long
Ago, Mitrofan, Hadji Akhil, and The Outcast, his comedy
of Mikhalaki, and issued, besides, two new collections of
poetry, entitled Fields and Woods and Italy respectively.
The last-mentioned was published in 1884, after the author
had been travelling in the country it celebrated.

INTRODUCTION.

ix

During the Serbo-Bulgarian war of 1885, M. Vazoff
visited the battle-fields of Slivnitza, Tsaribrod and Pirot,
sang the valour of his countrymen in dithyrambic strains,
and inveighed—in a volume entitled Slivnitza—against the
fratricidal madness of King Milan. Dissatisfied with the
turn taken by affairs in the peninsula after the abdication
of Prince Alexander of Battenberg, M. Vazoff in 1886 left
for Russia. It was while residing in Odessa that he wrote
the romance of Pod Igoto (" Under the Yoke "), which is
generally admitted to be his masterpiece. In 1889 he
returned to Bulgaria, and settled in Sofia, where he had
inherited some property from an uncle. Pod Igoto first
appeared, in serial form, in the excellent Sbornik (or
Miscellany) published by the Bulgarian Ministry of Public
Instruction. The same review issued in 1892 a book by
M. Vazoff entitled The Great Desert of Rilo, and another
this year, called In the Heart of the Rhodofie* In 1891-92
our author undertook the editorial management of the
monthly periodical Dennitsa ("The Morning Star"). He
is now, without a rival, the leading writer of Bulgaria, and
actively engaged in the production of prose and verse.
The poems of Vazoff enjoy a great popularity in his own
country, and selections from them have been translated
into Russian, Czech, Slovenian, and Servian. The Bohemians may read him in a version by Voracek, published at
Prague in 1891, which is recommended to me as particularly admirable. But alas ! Bohemia is itself remote, and a
poet to whom a translation into Czech appears to be an
introduction to the Western world seems to us inaccessible indeed. Professor Gueshoff considers that
Vazoff will hold in the history of Bulgarian literature a
place analogous to that of Chaucer in our own. Having

x

INTRODUCTION.

no Bulgarian models to follow, and no native traditions of
poetical style, VazofT has had to invent the very forms of
versification that he uses. His success has already led to the
creation of a school of young Bulgarian poets, but, though
many have imitated Vazoff with talent, not one approaches
him in the melody of his metrical effects or in his magical
command of the resources of the Bulgarian language.
Written during an epoch of intense national excitement,
in a language quite unused before, VazofPs poems are
described to me as reflecting with extraordinary directness
and simple passion the woes and burdens, the hopes and
the pleasures, of a pastoral people, long held in servitude
but at length released. Most of the figures celebrated in
his ballads and his odes are the heroes of contemporary
patriotism—men, unknown till yesterday, who rose into
momentary fame by fighting and dying for their country.
They live crystallised in this beautiful verse, already
classical, already the food and inspiration of Bulgarian
youth—verse written by a son of the new country, one
who suffered and struggled with her through her worst
years of hope deferred. How tantalising it is that we
cannot read such poetry, with the dew of the morning of a
nation upon it! It is almost enough to tempt the busiest
of us to turn aside to the study of Bulgarian.
We may regret our wider loss the less, since it is now
practicable to read in English what all Bulgarians seem to
admit is the leading prose product of their nation. In Pod
Igoto (" Under the Yoke") Vazoff is understood to have
concentrated in riper form than elsewhere the peculiar gifts
of his mind and style. The first quality which strikes the
critic in reading this very remarkable book is its freshness.
It is not difficult to realise that, in its original form, this

INTRODUCTION.

XI

must be the earliest work of genius written in an unexhausted
language. Nor, if Vazoff should live eighty years, and
should write with unabated zeal and volume, is it very likely
that he will ever recapture this first fine careless rapture.
Under the Yoke is a historical romance, not constructed by
an antiquary or imagined by a poet out of vague and insufficient materials accidentally saved from a distant past,
but recorded by one who lived and fought and suffered
through the scenes that he sets himself to chronicle. It is
like seeing Old Mortality written by Morton, or finding the
autobiography of Ivanhoe. It is history seen through a
powerful telescope, with mediaeval figures crossing and
recrossing the seventies of our own discoloured nineteenth
century.
When the passion which animates it is taken into consideration, the moderate and artistic tone of Under the Yoke
is worthy of great praise. In an episode out of the epic of an
intoxicated nation, great extravagance, great violence might
have been expected and excused. But this tale of forlorn
Bulgarian patriotism is constructed with delicate consideration, and passes nowhere into bombast. The author
writes out of his heart things which he has seen and felt,
but the moment of frenzy has gone by, and his pulse as an
observer has recovered its precision. The passion is there
still, the intense conviction of intolerable wrongs, scarcely
to be wiped out with blood. He reverts to the immediate
past—
Seeing how with covered face and plumeless wings,
With unreverted head
Veiled, as who mourns his dead,
Lay Freedom, couched between the thrones of kings,
A wearied lion without lair,
And bleeding from base wounds, and vexed with alien air—

Xll

INTRODUCTION.

but already the image is settled, and has taken the monumental and marmoreal aspect of past history.
The strenuous'political fervour of this romance is relieved
by a multitude of delicate, touching, and humorous episodes.
The scene in the theatre, where, in the presence of the
indulgent and indolent Turkish Bey, songs of Bulgarian
insurrection are boldly introduced into a sentimental farce,
a spurious running translation being supplied to the unsuspecting governor; the thrilling slaughter of the bandits at
the Mill; the construction of the hollow cherry-tree cannon,
which bursts so ignominiously at the moment of trial; the
beautiful and heroic love-scenes between Ognianoff and
Rada, cunningly devised and prepared as the very food of
patriotism for youthful native readers; the copious and
recurrent, but never needless or wire-drawn, descriptions of
the scenery of the Balkan valleys ; the vignettes of life in
Bulgarian farmsteads, and cafes, and Monasteries, and
water-mills—all these are but the embroidery of a noble
piece of imaginative texture, unquestionably one of the
finest romances that Eastern Europe has sent into the
West.
EDMUND GOSSE.

TRANSLATOR'S NOTE
APART from the difficulty of rendering into English a work
written in Bulgarian, a language which may be said to be
as yet uncultivated and in a state of transition, which
possesses no dictionary worthy of the name, and which,
at all events in peasant mouths and in certain districts, is
a strange jumble, where Turkish words, and sometimes even
Greek, predominate—it is no easy task to bring before the
English reader a more or less accurate picture of village
life in the Balkans, where so much must appear strange
and inexplicable. It has been thought best to take the
fewest liberties possible with the text, so far as this could
be done without giving the translation too un-English an
appearance.
Such Turkish words as it has been thought necessary to
retain will be found explained in footnotes where they
occur. But it may be not amiss to give a somewhat fuller
explanation of the term "chorbaji" and the class designated
by that name.
The Turkish word chorbaji literally means a soup-man,
one who makes, distributes, or otherwise deals with soup.
In the hierarchy of the Janissaries the chorbaji was an
officer, probably charged with the superintendence of the

xiv

TRANSLATOR'S

NOTE.

commissariat, whose rank equalled that of a captain. The
term was also applied to the principal resident in Christian
villages, who extended his hospitality to such chance
strangers as might arrive, there being no inn accommodation
then available. So it came to mean any comparatively
wealthy and respectable townsman, any one who belonged
to " Society." And as, not unnaturally, these were usually
men of thoroughly conservative notions, opposed to any
upheaval which might endanger their possessions and
security, the chorbajis became as a class most unpopular
among the ardent and enthusiastic youth who were eager
for their country's emancipation. But M. Vazoff defends
them from the sweeping imputation, often made against
them, that they did nothing but impede and even betray
the national movement, and at least two of his insurgents
belong to this much-abused class.
LONDON, November 1893.

CONTENTS
PART I.
CHAP.

PAGE

I. A VISITOR
II. T H E STORM

3
10

.

III. T H E MONASTERY .

19

IV. BACK AT MARKO'S

23

V. T H E REST OF T H E

NIGHT

35

VI. THE L E T T E R
VII.

29

37

HEROISM

VIII. AT CHORBAJI YORDAN's

44

IX. EXPLANATIONS

5i

X. T H E NUNNERY

56
62

XI. RADA'S TRIALS

69

XII. BOICHO OGNIANOFF
XIII. T H E ROAD TO SILISTRIA

75

XIV. AN UNFORESEEN

MEETING

82

XV. A VOICE FROM T H E GRAVE

90

XVI. THE

96

THEATRICALS

XVII. TWO STROKES OF LUCK
.

A DISAGREEABLE VISIT

118

XVIII. A DIFFICULT MISSION
XIX.

108
114

xvi

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

PAGE

XX. ^ H E FUGITIVE

122

XXI. AT VERIGOVO

12J

XXII. AN AWKWARD PREDICAMENT

I33
.

.

XXIV. GOD IS TOO HIGH AND T H E TSAR TOO FAR .

XXIII. THE SEWING PARTY AT ALTINOVO

.

.

. 1 3 7
.

XXV. RETRIBUTION

145
152

XXVI. THE STORM

162

XXVII. IN T H E HUT

167

PART IIt
I. TOGETHER AGAIN

175

II. EXTREMES MEET

183

III. FATHER-IN-LAW AND" SON-IN-LAW .

.

.

.

.

l88

IV. A SPY IN 1 8 7 6

192

V.* T H E CHERRY-TREE

200

VI. MARKO'S PRAYER

200.

VII. A NATION INTOXICATED

.

.

.

.

.

.

VIII. TROUBLE UPON TROUBLE

2l8

IX. T H E REBELLION

223

X. T H E BATTERY OF ZLI DOL

227

XI. DISCOURAGEMENT IN THE FORT

23O

XII. A BAPTISM

233

XIIL T H E VALLEY OF THE STREMA IN FLAMES

.

.

.

XIV. A FRESH ATTEMPT

236
242

XV. AVRAM
XVI. NIGHT .

2I5

246
.

.

248

XVII. MORNING

251

XVIII. THE FIGHT

253

XIX. RADA

259

XX. THE TWO STREAMS

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

263

CONTENTS.

PART

xvii

III.

CHAP.

PAGE

I. A RETROSPECT

271

II. A S H E P H E R D ' S HOSPITALITY

273

III. TO THE NORTH

276

IV. T H E FLAG

283

V. T H E SLAIN

284

VI. T H E MESSENGER

287

VII. MARIKA'S FAILURE

29O

VIII. THE MEADOW

294

IX. AN ALLY

299

X. LOVE AND HEROISM

303

XI. THE BASHI-BOZOUK
XII. THE HISTORY OF AN UNREVOLTED CITY

306
.

.

.

308

XIII. THE HISTORY CONTINUED

312

XIV. A SERIOUS CONVERSATION

3I4

XV. THE MEETING

317

XVI. THE PARTING
XVII. DESTRUCTION

320
.

323

PART I

A

CHAPTER I.
A VISITOR.

ON a delightful evening in May, Chorbaji Marko, bareheaded, and in dressing-gown and slippers, was sitting at
supper with his family in the courtyard. As usual, the table
was laid at the foot of the vines; on one side flowed the
clear, cold brooklet, which sang night and day like a
swallow as it rippled past; on the other, the high hedge of
clustering ivy made an evergreen cover for the wall all the
year round. A lantern shone down from an overhanging
branch of lilac, which spread its odorous blossoms over the
heads of the assembled family. The family was a large one.
Round Marko, his old mother and his buxom wife, were
crowded a complete circle of children, great and small, all
armed with knives and forks, and ready for a terrible onslaught on their victuals ; they fully personified the Turkish
saying : " Saman doushmanlari" (foes to their fodder).
'From time to time their father cast an approving glance at
the execution done by the teeth of these indefatigable
Workers, and encouraged them with a smile and a merry
•'Set to, young 'uns. Fill up the jug again, Pena." And
t.ie maid would go to the well, where the great wine jar
tyas cooling, and fill the earthenware jug; while Marko,
handing it to the children, would say, " Drink, you young
rascals !" and so the jar would go round the table. Eyes
brightened, cheeks sparkled, and lips parted in a smile of
satisfaction, and Marko would turn to his wife, and seeing a
look of disapproval on her face, would say, " Let them
drink in my presence. I won't stint them of wine—for I
don't want them to become drunkards when they grow up."
Marko was a thoroughly practical man. His education

4

UNDER THE YOKE.

had been but slight—he was of the old rSgime—but thanks
to his natural common sense, he understood human nature
well, and knew that people always hanker most after what
is forbidden. For the same reason he always entrusted his
children with the key of his money-chest, so as to prevent
any inclination to theft. " Gocho," he would say, " go and
open the cypress-wood chest and bring me the money-bag;"
or else, as he went out, "My boy, just count out twenty1
liras in gold, and give them to me when I come in."
In spite of the then prevailing custom, which required
that during meals children should remain standing till their
elders had finished, as a mark of respect, Marko's children
were always allowed to be seated; nor was this rule changed
when there were guests present. " I want them to get used
to company," he would say, "not to run wild, and sink into
their shoes when they see a stranger, like Anka Raspopche,"
who had become proverbial for bashfulness of the most
abject description whenever she met.a man with cloth
trousers on.
As he was engaged with his business all day, Marko only
saw his whole family once a day—at supper—and it was the/a
that he carried out his system of education in his own
peculiar manner.
Thus : a Dimitr, don't sit down before your grandmother
takes her place—you're becoming a regular Freemason !*
Ilia, don't hold your knife like a butcher; cut your meat,
don't hack it. Gocho,-what are you about ? Take off your
fez when you sit down to supper. Why, your hair is ds
long as a Toutrakan peasant's; go and have it cut presently,
cossack-style. Vassili, turn in those elbows of yours—
you're sprawling all over the table. You can do that in the
fields, but not in here. Abraham, what do you mean %
getting up from your supper without crossing yourse ?
None of these Protestant* ways here, sir ! "
But this was only when Marko was in a good temper J if
he was put out, no one dared to open his mouth.
Being extremely pious and particular, Marko took the
greatest pains to inculcate a proper religious spirit in iiis
children. Every evening the elder members ol the family
* The terms " Freemason " and " Protestant" are almost synonymous
in Bulgaria, and are applied to persons who do not comply with the
orthodox fasts, &c.

A

VISITOR.

S
had to be present while prayers were read. Every Sunday
or holiday, all were obliged to go to church—this was a
rule which admitted of no exception; any infringement led
to a storm in the household. One Christmas Eve, Kiril
had been told to go to confession, as he was to communicate
the following morning. Kiril came back from church
suspiciously early—in fact, he had not been near the Pope.
" D i d you confess?" his father asked, incredulously.
" Y e s . " " T o w h o m ? " " To—to Father Enio " stammered Kiril. That settled it, for Father Enio was a young
deacon who could not give absolution. Marko at once
detected the lie, seized his son angrily by the ear, and so
dragged him to the church, where he handed him over to
old Father Stavri, with the words, " Father, just confess this
donkey " ; and, sitting down, he waited there himself, till
the operation was over. He was still more severe in cases
of playing truant from school.
For though he had but little education himself, he loved
learning and the learned. H e was one of those numerous
patriots whose eager zeal for the new educational movement
has in so short a time filled Bulgaria with schools. H e had
but a dim notion of the practical-benefit likely to accrue to
a nation then consisting almost exclusively of farm labourers,
artisans, and merchants. Marko saw with regret that there
was neither work nor bread for the learned when they left
school. But he felt, he understood in his heart that some
secret force lay hidden in learning which would change the
world. H e believed in learning as he did in God—without
inquiry :* hence he sought to advance it as far as lay in his
power. His only ambition was to be elected a member of
the School Committee, as indeed he invariably was, being
universally respected and esteemed. For this modest social
duty Marko spared neither time nor trouble; but he
sedulously avoided all other dealings with the authorities,
and especially with the Konak.*
When the table was cleared Marko rose. H e was about
fifty years of age, very tall, with a slight stoop, but still hale.
His ruddy face, tanned by sun and wind in his frequent
journeyings to and from shearings and fairs, had a serious
and somewhat stern expression even when he smiled. The
* The Konak is the official residence of the chief executive officer,
and hence comes to be used for " t h e Turkish authorities.'"'

6

UNDER THE YOKE.

thick eyebrows, which almost met, added to the severity of
his mien. But a certain air of geniality, straightforwardness,
and sincerity toned this down, and made the whole sympathetic and worthy of respect*
Marko sat down on the wooden bench among the ivy,
and puffed at his chibouk. The children scattered round
in free play, and the maid brought in the coffee.
That evening Marko was in a good temper. He watched
with pleased interest the gambols of his well-fed, rosy
children as they filled the air with their ringing laughter.
Every moment the scene changed, while the pattering of
their feet and the chorus of chattering, laughter, and
shouting grew louder and louder. It was like a swarm of
sparrows playing in the boughs. But the innocent gladsome game soon assumed a more serious aspect; the shouts
became angrier, and little hands were raised in passionate
expostulation : the merry concert turned into a quarrelsome
brawl—screams were heard and tears began to flow. A
rush was made for their parents, the assailants being eager
to justify themselves; the wronged pouring forth their
complaints \ one ran to his father for protection, the other
to her mother, to win her over as counsel for the defence.
Then, from an impartial spectatoi, Marko suddenly assumed
the role of judge. In true kadi fashion, and in defiance
of all known legal procedure, he would listen to neither
plaintiff nor defendant, but simply pronounced and executed his judgment—a slap here and there, as occasion
called for it; but, with the little ones—the pets—a kiss
usually met the requirements of the case.
So peace was restored; but the noise had woke up the
youngest, who was asleep in his grandmother's arms,
" Hush, darling, hush, or the Turks will come and carry
you off," crooned Grandma Ivanitsa, as she gently rockec
him. This roused Marko. " Mother/' he said, " why do
you always terrify them with the Turks ? You'll only make
cowards of them." " Well, well, that's my way," said the
grandmother. " Why shouldn't I ? Aren't the Turks terrible
enough? I've seen 'em now for over sixty years, and
they'll be just the same when I die." " A h ! grandma,"
said little Petr, " when I and brother Vassili and brother
Ghiorghi grow up, we'll take our scythes and kill all the
T u i k s ! " " Won't you leave a single one of them, dear ? "

A VISITOR.

1
" How is little Asen ? " asked Marko of his wife, as she
came out of the house. " He's quieter now—he's fallen
asleep," she answered. " There, again, what business had
he to be looking at that kind of thing ?" grumbled the
grandmother; "there he is now, ill in bed." Marko
frowned, but said nothing. It should be mentioned that
Asen had been taken with convulsions through looking out
of the school window while they were bringing in the headless corpse of Gencho, the painter's child, from the fields.
Marko hurriedly changed the conversation. " That will do,
Children ; I want your elder brother to tell us a story :
after that you shall all sing a song. Come along, Vassili,
tell us what the teacher taught you to-day." " A lesson out
of the History of the World." " Well, tell us all about it."
" The war for the Spanish Succession."
" What, them
Spanishers ? No, no, my boy, that's no good; tell us something about Russia." " W h a t ? " asked Vassili. "Why,
something about Ivan the Cruel, or Bonaparte when he
burned Moscow, or
" Marko did not finish his sentence. Something rustled at the dark end of the yard;
tiles fell with a clatter from the wall. Hens and chickens
woke up in terror, and rushed hither and thither with despairing cluck. The servant who was taking in the washing
hung out to dry shrieked " Thieves ! thieves ! "
The courtyard became the scene of the wildest confusion.
The women rushed to the house and hid themselves ; the
children vanished ; but Marko, who was no coward, rose to
his feet, and after peering into the darkness from whence
the noise had proceeded, ran into the house, from which he
immediately emerged with a pistol in each hand, and
hurried towards the stable.
This act—perhaps not the most prudent one possible—•
v/as effected so rapidly that his wife had no time to seek to
restrain him. All that she did was to raise her voice in
entreaty, but even this was drowned by the angry barking
of the house dog, who had halted, terrified and enraged, by
the fountain.
For there really was a stranger there in the shadow
between the stable and the fowl-house, but the darkness
was so thick that nothing could be seen, being still more
impervious to Marko's eyes owing to the haste with which
he had rushed from out of the light of the lantern.

8

UNDER

THE

YOKE.

Marko hastened to the stable, caressed the horse so as
to pacify him, and peered through the lattices of the
window. Whether his eyes had become used to the darkness, or whether it was fancy, he saw in the corner, by the
window itself, something upright, like a man, but quite
motionless.
Marko cocked his pistol, leant forward, and cried in loud,
stern tones, " Don't stir, or else you're a dead man." H e
waited a moment with his finger on the trigger.
" Gospodin* Marko," whispered a voice.
" Who's there ? " asked Marko in Bulgarian.
" Don't be afraid; it's a friend." And the stranger
approached nearer to the window. Marko could now see
his figure clearly.
" Who are you?" asked Marko suspiciously as he lowered}
his pistol.
" Ivan, son of old Manola Kralich, of Widdin."
" I don't know you. What are you doing there? "
" I'll tell you directly, sir," answered the stranger lowering
his voice.
" I can't see you. Where have you come from ? "
" I'll tell you, sir ; from far away."
" Where from ? What do you mean by far away?"
" From very far away, Marko," whispered the stranger
almost inaudibly.
" From where ? "
" From Diarbekir !"f murmured the stranger.
The word had an electric effect on Marko's memory.
H e remembered that one of old Manola's sons had been
transported to Diarbekir. Manola had long had business
dealings with him, and had rendered him many a service.
H e went out of the stable, approached his nocturnal
visitor in the darkness, took him by the hand, and led hmi
through the stable into the shed.
" What, Ivancho, is that you ? I remember you now,
my lad. You can stop here overnight, and we'll look after
you in the morning," said Marko, in a low tone.
" T h a n k you, Marko. You're the only person I know
here," whispered Kralich.
* Gospodin is Mr.
t The fortress of Diarbekir, in the heart of Asia Minor, was m u d
used as a place of transportation for political criminals.

A VISITOR*

9
Don't talk of it. Your father has no better friend than
me. Make yourself at home here. Did anyone see you ? "
" I don't think so ; there was no one in the street when
I came in."
" Came in—yours is a nice way of coming in—over the
wall! Never mind. Old Manola's son is always a welcome
guest here, especially when he comes from that distance.
Are you hungry, Ivancho ? "
" No—thanks, sir; I'm not hungry."
" Come, come, you must take a bit of supper. Let me
go and quiet my people down first, and then I'll come back
and we'll talk things over. God bless you, my boy, I might
have done you a mischief," said Marko, unloading his
pistols.
" Forgive me, Marko; I acted very foolishly."
"Stop there till I come." And Marko went out and
closed the stable door.
H e found his wife and mother fainting from fright, and
when they saw him safe and sound they shrieked and threw
their arms round him, as if to prevent him from going out
sigain. Marko re-assured them laughingly; he had seen
no one in the courtyard—probably some cat or dog had
knocked one of the tiles down, and that had frightened silly
Pena.
" A s it is, we've roused the whole neighbourhood," he
said, hanging his pistols up again on the wall.
The family calmed down once more.
Old mother Ivanitsa called out to the servant-maid :
" Pena, my girl, botheration take you ! You've given us a
proper fright. Go and put the children to bed at once."
Just then there came a loud knock at the door. Marko
went into the court and asked, " Who's there ? "
" Open, guv'nor," was the answer in Turkish.
" T h e on-bashi," * muttered Marko uneasily, " We musthide him in some other place." And taking no notice of a
fresh knock at the door, he hurried to the stable.
" Ivancho !" he called in the shed.
There was no answer.
" H e must have fallen asleep. I v a n c h o ! " he repeated,
louder.
No one replied.
u

* Lit. decurion, a corporal of Zapties (police).

10

UNDER THE YOKE.

" P o o r fellow! he must have run away," thought Marko,
noticing for the first time that the stable door was open.
"What will become of the lad n o w ? " he said to himself,
anxiously.
To make sure, he called again once or twice, and as no
reply came he returned to the door, the knocking at which
had become furious, and threatened to break it in.

CHAPTER II.
THE STORM.

IN truth, at the first knock at the door, and without knowing
why or how, Ivan Kralich had clambered hurriedly over the
wall and leaped into the street. For a few moments he
stood bewildered. Then he looked carefully round him,
but there was nothing save impenetrable darkness. Black
storm clouds were already covering the sky; the cool evening breeze had become a chill blast, which whistled shrilly
through the empty streets. Kralich turned down the first
of these and followed it hurriedly, guiding himself by the
walls. Every door and window was closed and dark. Not
a single light gleamed through the shutters—not' a sign of
life anywhere. The hamlet was as still as death, like all
country towns long before midnight. He kept on at random
for some time, hoping to find his way out into the open
country. Suddenly he started and stopped under a broad-j
spreading roof. His eye had discerned dark figures moving!
Kralich stood still and turned with precaution to the door
before which he found himself. A grow), followed by an
angry bark, made him start back. H e had woke up the
house-dog, who was asleep inside the porch. His movements and the barking betrayed him. The night patiol
stopped, weapons clashed, and " Halt!' 7 was cried in Turkish,
At moments of unavoidable danger a man's presence of mind
deserts him, like a coward, and only a blind instinct of selfpreservation takes the place of all his moral faculties. One
then has, so to speak, no longer a head, but only one's hands
for self-defence and one's legs for flight. Kralich had only to

THE STORM.

II

turn back and the darkness would at once have put its impenetrable barrier between him and the patrol. But he
rushed straight at it—ran like the whirlwind right through
the police—and fled. The patrol followed, and the streets
rang with shouts and footsteps. Amongst other exclamations was heard the loud voice of the Bulgarian constable (pandour), " Stop, confound you ! we are going to
lire!" But Kralich fled without turning back. A few
carbines were discharged after him, but without effect
—the darkness saved him. His flight was not so successful, for he soon felt some one grasp him by the
sleeve. He hurried on, managing to free himself of his
coat, which he left in the hands of his pursuers. Two
more shots were fired after him. Kralich continued to fly,
without knowing whither he was going: he scarcely knew
what he was doing: his legs tottered under him from
weariness. At every step he was ready to fall and remain
on the ground. Suddenly a blinding flash of lightning
illuminated the darkness, and Kralich saw that he was in
the fields and no longer pursued. Then he threw himself
down, panting, under a walnut tree, to rest for a moment.
The mountain blast was blowing hard, the rustling of the
leaves mingled with its roar and the dull rumbling of the
thunder. Soon the storm came perilously near ; the flashes
became more frequent, and more than one bolt fell close
by the fugitive. The short rest and cold breeze restored
Kralich's strength. He saw it would soon rain, and pressed
onward to find some refuge from the storm. The trees
round him soughed mournfully, their lofty summits bent
under the force of the wind, grass and weeds waved to and
fro, and all nature seemed on the alert and quivering with
terror. Big drops of rain fell here and there, and struck
the ground like bullets. Another flash of lightning lit up
the sky behind the Balkan, followed by a deep roll of
thunder that seemed" to rend the heavens in two. Heavy
rain poured from the leaden firmament; flash after flash
cleft the clouds and gave fantastic outlines to the trees and
rocks. Those momentary glimpses of scenery, at once
swallowed up in deep darkness, resembled some wonderful
arid fearful panorama. There was a wild beauty in the
strife of the elements—in the conflict of the horizons—the
infernal illumination of the abysses; a majestic spectacle, in

12

UNDER THE YOKE.

which the wonderful combination of the boundless with
the mysterious was blended in an unearthly demoniacal
harmony. In storms nature attains themes of sublimest
poetry.
Though dripping with water and blinded by the lightning, while the crashing thunder still rang in his ears,
Kralich wandered on at random among the fields, orchards,
and gardens, where no refuge was to be had. At last
the plashing of a waterfall overcame all other sounds and
reached his ears. It was a mill-stream. On a sudden a
new flash disclosed to him the roof of the mill, nestling;
among drooping willows. Kralich stopped under the eaves.
He pushed at the door, which opened. He entered. TIIQ
mill was dark and silent. Outside, the storm had calmed
down: the rain was slowly ceasing, and the moon began tc
appear behind the clefts in the clouds. The night had
cleared up. These rapid changes in weather are usual
only in May.
Soon steps were heard approaching from outside, and
Kralich hastened to hide in a narrow space between the
granary and the wall.
" There now—the wind has blown the door open," said
a rough voice in the darkness, and a petroleum lamp was at
once lighted.
Kralich, hidden in his corner, stooped and saw the
miller, a tall gaunt peasant, and with him a barefooted girl
in a short blue dress, probably his daughter, who was
closing and trying to bolt the door. She was about
thirteen or fourteen years old, but still quite a child, and
her black eyes peeped out with childish innocence from
under her long lashes. Despite her neglected dress, her
figure gave promise of future gracefulness. She seemed to
have come from some mill close at hand, for they, were
dry. The miller added :
" It's a good thing we turned off the channel, or this
storm would have smashed it. Old Stancho's stories
never come to an end. It's a blessing no robber came
in." He looked round him. " Now, Marika, you go off
to bed. I wonder why your mother sends you here?
Only for me to have the more anxiety," added the milleri,
hammering down the plank in the channel, and humming]
a tune to himself. Marika, without waiting any longer,

THE STORM.

l

3
went to the far end of the mill, said her prayers, shook
out some blankets and lay down to sleep : in a moment
she was slumbering peacefully.
Kralich watched the scene with lively curiosity. The
miller's rough but kindly face inspired him with confidence.
It was impossible that a traitor's soul could lurk behind
that straightforward and honest countenance. He decided
to come out and ask him for aid and counsel. But at that
very minute the miller stopped humming, drew himself up,
and listened to sounds of voices outside. A loud knock was
heard at the door.
" Open the door, miller," cried some one in Turkish.
He went to the door, fastened the bolt securely, and returned pale with terror.
The hammering at the door continued, and a fresh
summons was made, followed by the bark of a dog.
" Turks out hunting," muttered the miller, whose ear had
recognised the bark of a greyhound. " What do the brutes
want ? It must be Yemeksiz Pehlivan.',
Yemeksiz Pehlivan, the wildest of midday and midnight
marauders, was the terror of the neighbourhood. A fortnight before he had murdered the whole family of Gancho
Daghli in the village of Ivanovo. They said—and not
without some ground—that it was he who had cut off the
child's head which had been brought to the town the day
before.
The door shook under the knocking.
The miller remained for a moment plunged in thought,
clasping his head with both hands, in doubt as to what
course he should follow. A cold sweat broke out on his
forehead. Suddenly he moved to a dusty shelf from under
which he took an axe, and then went to the door, which was
nearly beaten in by the knocking. But his momentary
decision vanished as soon as he glanced at his daughter.
A terrible hopelessness, torture, suffering were depicted on
his face. The paternal feeling overcame his perturbed conscience. He thought of the Bulgarian proverb : " The
sword does not strike the bowed head," and decided, instead of resistance, to beg for mercy—from the merciless.
He hurriedly replaced the axe behind the granary, where
Kralich was hidden, covered up Marika carefully, and opened
the door,

14

UNDER THE YOKE.

On the threshold stood two armed Turks in hunting
costume. One held a greyhound in a leash. The first, who
was in truth the bloodthirsty Yemeksiz Pehlivan, cast an
inquisitive glance round the mill, and entered. He was
tall, lame, cadaverously thin, and beardless. His face was
not as terrible as his name and his deeds would imply ;
but his small, grey, almost colourless eyes twinkled with
evil cunning, like a monkey's. His companion was a short,
thick-set, muscular man, with a face of bestial expression,
in which the lowest animal instincts and ferocity were
apparent; this man followed with the greyhound, and stood
by the door.
Yemeksiz Pehlivan looked angrily at the miller.
The two men took off their dipping overcoats.
" Why didn't you open, miller ? " he asked. The miller
muttered some excuse, bowing to the ground, and casting an
uneasy glance at the end of the mill where Marika lay
sleeping.
11
Are you alone here? " and Yemeksiz looked round.
" Quite alone," was the hurried reply; then, thinking a
lie was useless, the miller added, " and the child is asleep
over there."
Just then Marika moved, and turned her face towards
them. The pale light of the lamp shone on her white
throat. The Turks cast eager glances at the sleeping girl.
A cold sweat moistened the miller's forehead.
Yemeksiz turned to him with an assumed kindliness.
"Guv'nor,"he said, "sorry to trouble you. Go and buy
us a bottle of raki."
" But, Pehlivan Aga, all the shops are shut now—it's midnight," answered the miller, trembling at the terrible idea
of leaving Marika alone in such company.
The cripple answered : " Go along with you ! no shop
will refuse to serve you if you say it's for me. I want you
to treat us—that's the way to make friends."
He said this in jest, being certain of obtaining his end.
He did not even seek to hide his intention from the unhappy
father.
Yemeksiz glanced at the sleeping child in her careless
and innocent attitude. Seeing that the miller did not move,
he began to grow impatient, but still retained his assumed
gentleness, and said quietly:

THE STORM.

IS

" Mashallah ! that's a pretty girl of yours, guv'nor. Off
you go; we're your guests, you know—you must treat us.
You fetch the raki, and we'll look after the mill." Then he
added in a threatening tone : " Don't you know Yemeksiz
Pehlivan?"
The miller had understood from the first the abominable
design screened by that shallow trick. His simple, honest
nature revolted at the thought. But he was caught in the
trap—he was alone against two armed men. To resist was
foolish and useless: his death, which was now a matter of
indifference to him, could not save his child. He tried
again by prayers to soften his enemies:
" Gentlemen, I'm an old man—take pity on my poor old
bones. I'm worn out by my day's work r let me sleep in
peace. Don't blacken my face." *
He was addressing deaf ears. The lame Turk exclaimed :
"Come, come, man, we're thirsty—you talk too much.
Don't you live in the mill ? Go for the raki!" And he
pushed him to the door.
" I won't leave my mill at this time of night! Let me
alone !" said the miller, hoarsely.
The two Turks then threw aside their feigned gentleness of manner, and their eyes flashed furiously on the
miller.
^
" What! he shows his tusks, the pig ! " cried Yemeksiz,
drawing his yataghan, while his eyes became bloodshot.
" You may kill me, but I won't leave my child alone,"
said the miller, humbly but decidedly.
Yemeksiz stood up. " Topal Hassan," he said, " throw
the dog out—I don't want to dirty my knife."
The other rushed at the miller, seized him, and forced
him to the door, whence he tried to spurn him with his foot.
The miller rose to his feet and sprang in again, crying
" Mercy ! mercy 1"
The noise woke Marika, who stood up in terror. When
she saw the Turk's drawn sword she shrieked and fled to
her father.
" Mercy, mercy, gentlemen!" cried the unfortunate father,
clasping his child in his arms.
At a sign from Yemeksiz the powerful Topal Hassan
* I.e;, "Don't bring disgrace upon me"—a common oriental expression,

i6

UNDER THE YOKE.

threw himself like a tiger on the miller, seized his hands,
and bound them.
" That's it, Topal Hassan; let's tie up the old rat of a
miller; since he wants to stop here, let him stay and see
the show—that's what a fool like that deserves. He shall
remain tied up, and v/hen we set fire to the mill it'll be our
turn to look on and enjoy ourselves."
And the two brigands, paying no attention to his cries,
forced the miller up to a beam and began to tie him with
ropes.
The miller, frenzied with terror at the thought of what
he was going to see, roared for help like a wild beast; but
no help was to be hoped for in that lonely place.
Marika opened the door and began to shriek and wail.
But only the echoes replied.
" Here, miss, you come in. We want you," cried
Yemeksiz, as he fetched her in. " Help, help !" cried the
miller in despair. " Is there no one ? Marika, come,
dear," he shouted in his frenzy—calling on his child for
help.
Kralich had all the while been watching the scene
motionless; his legs trembled unnaturally, his hair stood
on end, and the cold dew was on his face.
All that he had seen and undergone that evening, from
leaving Marko's house till that moment, was so strange and
fearful that it seemed to him like a dream. The whistling
of the bullets, the roar of the thunder were still echoing in
his ears. His thoughts were confused. At first he had
made sure the Turks had come for him, and that his fate
was sealed. The conviction of his utter helplessness had
quenched all his energy, and left him only enough to give
himself up to the Turks, so as to save the miller. But now
that he saw that he was to be a spectator of something far
more terrible, and when he heard the miller call Marika to
his assistance, a blind rage and despair fired his very soul.
He had never looked on blood before, but the Turks
seemed tc him like flies. Fatigue, weakness, doubt—all
disappeared. He stretched out his hand mechanically and
seized the axe; he passed along mechanically, stooping
behind the wheat-sacks; rose up, pale as death, rushed at
Yemeksiz, who stood with his back to him, and plunged the
axe into his body. All this he did as in a dream.

THE STORM.
17
The Turk fell to the ground without a groan.
At sight of this sudden and dangerous foe, Topal Hassan
left the rope with which he was fastening up the miller, drew
his pistol, and fired it at Kralich. The mill was filled with
smoke, the action of the shot put out the lamp and all were
plunged in darkness. Then in the dark began a terrible
struggle, with the hands, nails, feet, teeth. The combatants,
at first two, but soon three in number, rolled in the dark
with wild cries and groans, mingled with the loud bark of
the dog. Topal Hassan, as strong as a bullock, resisted
desperately his two antagonists, who on their part knew they
must conquer or meet a fate which was only too certain.
When the lamp shone again, Hassan was writhing in his
death-agony. Kralich had during the fight managed to get
hold of his knife and plunge it in his breast. The two
bodies were weltering in blood.
Then the miller rose and looked with wonder at the
unknown assistant who had come to his rescue. Before
him stood a tall young man, deadly pale, thin, with piercing
black eyes, long shaggy hair, covered with dust; his coat
was torn, stained with mud, and wet; his waistcoat had lost
its buttons, and showed that he had no shirt; his trousers
were in rags, and his boots scarcely held together. In a
word, it was a man either just out of gaol or on his way
thither. The miller took him as such. But he cast a look
of sympathy on him, and said earnestly:
" Sir, I don't know who you are or how you come to be
here. But as long as I live I can't pay you back for this.
You've saved me from death and from worse than death;
you've spared my grey hairs from shame. May God bless
and reward you. The whole nation will honour you for
what you've done. Do you know who he is ? (pointing to
Yemeksiz). He's made mother and daughter weep before
now. Now the world's free of the monster. God bless
you, my son !"
Kralich listened with tears in his eyes to these simple
and sincere words—then, much moved, he said:
" I haven't done much, father : we have killed two, but
there are thousands and thousands more such monsters. The
Bulgarian nation can only free itself and live in peace if all
seize their axes and cut down the enemy. But tell me,
where are we to bury these bodies, so as to leave no trace ?"
B

i8

UN&ER THE YOKE.

"I've got a grave ready for the unbelievers: only help
me to carry them out," said the old man.
Then the two men, between whom that night of blood
had placed an eternal bond of union, carried the corpses
out to an old pit behind the mill, and threw them in, covering them over carefully with earth so as to leave nothing
showing. On returning to the door with the pick-axe and
shovel, something white bounded round them.
" Ah, the dog !" cried Kralich ; " it will lurk round here
and betray us. I must knock it over the head/5 and he
struck it with the axe. The dog fell yelping by the water.
Kralich pushed it into the mill-stream with his axe, and it
sank there.
" We ought to have buried it by the other two dogs," said
the miller.
They removed the blood-stains from their clothes, and
covered the ground over with leaves.
" Why, what's that running from you?" asked the miller,
seeing that Kralich's hand was bleeding.
" Nothing ; only where the brute bit me while I was
stabbing him in the heart."
" Let me bind it up for you at once," said the miller,
tying it up with a rag. Then, leaving his hand, he looked
him straight in the face, and said :
" T beg your pardon, my son, but where do you come
from." And he cast another look of surprise at the
stranger.
"I'll tell you later on, father; and all I can say is that
I'm a Bulgarian, and a good Bulgarian. Have no doubts on
my score."
" My God ! I should think you were. You're a real Bulgarian and no mistake, and for such as you I'd give my life."
" Tell me now where can I get clothes and find a shelter
for the night?"
" Let's go to the monastery to Deacon Vikenti. He's a
relation of mine. That man has done no end of good.
And he's a real Bulgarian too. Come along; we'll all sleep
there. It's a good thing no one saw us." Father Stoyan
was mistaken : behind the wralnut-tree the mocn now showed
a tall human figure which had witnessed, motionless, the
burial of the two Turks. But neither he nor Kralich had
noticed it.

THE MONASTERY.

19

Soon after, the miller, Kralich, and Marika (who during
the struggle had hidden herself behind an elm-tree and was
sobbing piteously) started towards the monastery, the high
walls of which, standing out in the moonlight, shone forth
against the dark branches of the walnuts and poplars. Behind them the unknown figure also proceeded towards the
monastery.

CHAPTER III.
THE

MONASTERY.

THEY passed through a field, where great boulders of rock
were scattered here and there, under the branches of the
century-old walnuts, with their trunks worn and rotting
away with age: soon the high walls of the monastery came
clearly into view. In the mysterious softness of the moonlight it resembled an old Gothic castle, with fantasticallycarved gables.
Some years before, the old building had rejoiced in a
gigantic pine-tree, which sheltered the church with its high,
spreading branches—the home of a thousand feathered
songsters. But a storm had uprooted the pine and the
church tower, and a new tower, which had been erected in
its place, with a lofty new-fashioned cupola, made a strange
contrast to the dilapidated old remains of a past age: it
gave one the same shock that is produced by a piece of
fresh white paper stuck on a time-worn parchment. The
old church and tower have fallen under the assaults of time
and destiny, and henceforth the monastery has become
sombre : the eye no longer follows the towering pine to the
clouds: the soul no longer draws pious inspirations from
the paintings on the walls representing saints, archangels,
holy fathers, and martyrs, defiled and with their eyes put
out by the Kirjalis and Delibashis.*
Our trio passed behind the monastery and stopped by
the back wall: this was easier of access, and nearer to
Deacon Vikenti's cell* Moreover, there were no monastery

* Brigand bands that infested the Balkans early in the present
century.

20

UNDER

THE

YOKE.

dogs there to bark at them, nor servants to ask unnecessary
questions.
The mountain waterfalls plashed hard by and filled the
neighbourhood with a wild echo.
Some one had to climb over the wall, so as to fetch the
ladder from inside and pass it to the others. This duty
naturally fell to Kralich's lot, he having begun that evening
by scaling Marko's wall.
The three clambered quickly over the wall, at the risk of
a shot from the warlike higoumen,* in case he should happen
to see them from his window. They entered the small backyard, which communicated with the great quadrangle by a
door closed on the inside. The deacon's cell, which was
on the ground floor, looked on to the back-yard. They
stopped under the window, where a light was still burning.
" Vikenti's still reading," said the miller, raising himself
on tip-toe and looking in. He knocked at the window. It
was opened, and a voice asked :
" What, Stoyan, is that you ? Whatever do you want ? "
" Give me the door-key, deacon, and I'll tell you. Are
you alone ? "
" Yes ; everybody's asleep. Here you are."
The miller disappeared in the shadow, and in two or
three minutes reappeared and led Kralich and his daughter
into the inner quadrangle, locking the door behind him.
The great courtyard, when they entered, was quite still.
The silence was broken only by the monotonous and drowsy
gurgling of the spring, which resembled the last groan of a
dying man. Dark rows of covered verandahs, silent and
deserted, rose all round the quadrangle. Black cypress
trees soared high above, like gigantic phantoms. The
deacon's cell opened, and his nocturnal visitors entered.
The deacon, who was quite a lad, with a lively countenance, black intelligent eyes, and a sprouting beard, received
Kralich in a friendly manner, his cousin's hurried explanations having been enough to assure him of the stranger's
quality. Indeed, he gazed with surprise and respect at the
hero who had accounted for the two ruffians as easily as one
wrings the neck of a couple of chickens, and had saved the
old man and his daughter. The deacon's honest soul recog* The Higoumen (from the Greek yyov^bos) is the abbot of a
monastery.

THE MONASTERY.

21

nised at once in the stranger a nature as noble as it was
heroic. Old Stoyan had given him a hurried and confused
account of the affair in the mill, and had been loud in his
deliverer's praise. Vikenti observed his utter exhaustion
and pallor, and proposed to take him to a cell where he
might find shelter for the night. So they proceeded thither.
The deacon, with a bundle of blankets and clothes under
his arm, led the way through the slumbering courtyard;
they reached the staircase of the opposite building, consisting of three storeys of covered verandahs, and mounted
it. They passed through corridors and fresh flights of stairs
to the topmost storey. Though they stepped with precaution,
every stair creaked under their feet, as happens in all empty
wooden houses. Vikenti lighted a candle, and the cell into
which they had entered was exposed to view. It was bare
and cheerless enough to look at, containing only a bed with
a straw pallet and a jug of water. It was more like a prison
cell than a bedroom, but Kralich just then desired nothing
better. After some conversation as to the events in the
mill, Vikenti prepared to say good-night.
"You are worn out, and need rest as soon as possible;
so I will not weary you with any questions. There is no
need. The deed of heroism which you have accomplished
to-night tells me all. We shall meet to-morrow, and I will
only say now : don't worry yourself about anything. Deacon
Vikenti is at your entire disposal. Good night." And so
saying he stretched out his hand to take leave.
Kralich seized and held it.
"No," said he, "you have given me your hospitality
blindly, and have exposed yourself to danger for my sake.
You ought to know who I am. My name is Ivan
Kralich!"
"What, Ivan Kralich, the exile? Why, when did they
release you ? " asked the astonished deacon.
" Release me? I escaped from the fortress of Diarbekir.
I'm a runaway."
Vikenti pressed his hand, and greeted him:
" Welcome here, Kralich : you are a still dearer guest to
me now. Bulgaria requires her good sons. There is much
work to be done—much work. The tyranny of the Turks is
unbearable and the national dissatisfaction has reached its
utmost limit. We must get ready. Stay with us, Gospedin

22

UNDER

THE

YOKE.

Kralich, no one will know you here. Stay and work with us
—will you?" asked the deacon, much excited.
" With all my heart, Father Vikenti."
" To-morrow we will talk the matter over in detail. Here
you are in complete safety. I have hidden Levski * in that
cell before now. No one comes here—there is more danger
from ghosts than from human beings. Good-night," said
the deacon, in jest, as he left the room.
" Good-night, father," answered Kralich, shutting the
door.
He undressed quickly, lay down, and blew out the candle :
but he lay tossing on his bed for many an hour before sleep
came to his weary eyelids. Fearful memories troubled his
spirit. Before his fancy there passed one by one the various
scenes and forms of that night, with repulsive and savage
accuracy. This torture lasted for a long time. At last
nature conquered: his physical and moral strength, exhausted to the utmost, yielded to the imperious necessity of
repose. He fell asleep. But on a sudden he started and
opened his eyes in the darkness. He heard the slow and
heavy tread of some one walking in the passage. Then a
sound of singing was heard, which sounded almost like a
wail of sorrow. The steps came nearer, and the unfamiliar
singing became louder. It was at times like a loud wailing,
at others like a mournful dirge. Kralich thought that the
sounds came from somewhere else, and that it was the
surrounding silence which made them seem so near and
ghastly. But no—the steps were hard by, in the corridor.
Suddenly a dark figure appeared at the window and peeped
in. Kralich, startled, fixed his eyes on the apparition, and
with terror saw that it was making wild, weird gestures with
its hands, as if beckoning to him. All this was clear in the
semi-darkness. Kralich could not withdraw his eyes from
the window. He began to think that the figure was that
of Yemeksiz Pehlivan, whom he had killed. Then he
thought he must be dreaming, and rubbed his eyes. Again
he looked—and found the shadow still at the window,
peering in.
Kralich was not superstitious, but this deserted building,
with its deathlike silence and darkness, had inspired him
* A noted worker in the cause of Bulgarian liberty, who was eventually taken prisoner by the Turks, and hanged at Sofia in 1873.

BACK AT MARKO'S.

23

involuntarily with terror. He thought of the deacon's
jesting remark about ghosts, and the place seemed to him
doubly uncanny. But suddenly he felt ashamed of himself.
Groping for his revolver, he grasped it, rose, opened the
door quietly, and went oat barefoot into the corridor. The
tall mysterious figure was still walking and singing in its
strange fashion. Kralich approached it boldly. The singing
phantom, instead of disappearing as in stories, shrieked
with terror, because Kralich himself, in his night-shirt, was
far more like a ghost.
" Who are you?" asked the new ghost of the old, seizing
him by the garment.
Fear closed the unhappy being's lips. He could only
make the sign of the cross, gibbering, and shaking his head
like an idiot. Kralich at once understood that such he was,
and let him go.
Vikenti had forgotten to warn his guest of the nightly
wanderings of the harmless idiot Mouncho who had for
years lived in the monastery. It was he who, unobserved,
had witnessed the burial of the Turks.

CHAPTER IV.
BACK

AT

MARKO'S

Marko opened his door on the previous night, after
Kralich's escape, he encountered on the threshold the
on-bashi and his zapties, who entered with precaution.
" What's up here, Marko Chorbaji ?" asked the onbashi.
Marko quietly explained that nothing was the matter,
but that the servant had somehow taken fright. The onbashi at once expressed himself satisfied with this meagre
explanation, and went out in glee at having got off an unpleasant job.
Just as Marko was shutting his door, his neighbour
appeared. " All over, neighbour ? "
" What, Ivancho! Come in and we'll have a cup of
coffee."
WHEN

24

UNDER

THE

YOKE.

" Good evening, Marko. Is little Asen better ? " asked
a tall youth in the middle of the road, who was hurriedly
approaching.
" Come in, come in, doctor." And Marko led them into
the room, which was at once brightly lit up with two spermaceti candles fixed in shining brass candlesticks.
The guest-chamber into which they entered was a small
room, but bright and airy. It was furnished and ornamented
in the unassuming and original manner which even now
holds sway in some of our provincial towns. The floor was
covered with bright carpets, and the two divans with scarlet
rugs, all of home make. Against one of the walls stood
an iron stove, which was lighted only in winter, but was
not taken away in summer, as being one of the ornaments
of the room. Opposite it, on the eikonostasis,* where a
light burned continually, were nailed eikons, over which
hung sacred prints from Mount Athos, a pious gift from
pilgrims. The eikons were very old paintings, which made
them all the more precious to Grandmother Ivanitsa, as old
arms are to collectors. One of them, of great antiquity,
enjoyed the most reverential attention of the old lady, who
asserted with pride that it had been painted by her greatgrandfather, Father Hajji Arseni, who had accomplished
the miraculous work of art with his feet—an assertion no
one ever ventured to controvert, so confidently did she
make it. Behind the eikonostasis was fastened a bunch of
dried cornflowers, which had been sprinkled with holy
water, and a willow branch from the decorations of last Palm
Sunday. The presence of these in a house was an infallible
preservative of health and prosperity. Round the walls ran
shelves filled with porcelain dishes and cups—the inevitable
decoration of every house worthy of respect—and the
corners were furnished with triangular brackets on which
stood flower-vases. Chibouks, as an article of use, had
long since gone out of fashion, but these were ranged against
the wall, with their yellow amber mouthpieces and inlaid
bowls. Marko, for old tradition's sake, kept one chibouk
for his private use. The wall opposite the windows played
the important part of picture-gallery. In all, it contained
six lithographs, in gilt frames, brought from Wallachia.
* The place where the sacred pictures or eikons are placed against
the wall.

BACK AT MARKO'S.

25

Their strange selection bore witness to the easy-going taste
of the time in matters artistic. Some represented scenes
from the internal wars of Germany—one was a picture of
Abd-ul-Mejid on horseback, with his suite. The next
portrayed episodes of the Crimean War: the battle of the
Alma, of Eupatoria, the raising of the siege of Silistria in
1852. The last picture of all represented the Russian
generals in the war, all depicted down to the knees only.
Pope Stayri asserted that their legs had been cut off by the
English cannon, and on the strength of this Grandmother
Ivanitso always called them " the martyrs." " Who has
been touching the martyrs ? " she would ask angrily of the
children. By the side of the martyrs stood a large Dutch
clock, the chain and weights of which reached down to the
back of the divan. This aged timepiece had long since
become past work: its springs were worn out, its works
distorted, its face obliterated, and its hands broken and
twisted. It was like a living ruin. But Marko prolonged
its life at the cost of great efforts and much attention. No
one but he was allowed to touch it; he would mend it, take
it to pieces, wind it up, and clean it with a feather dipped
in oil, thus giving it a new lease of life for a few days, after
which it would again come to a standstill. Marko jestingly
called it his "consumptive patient," but he and all the
family were so accustomed to it that the whole house
seemed silent when its creaking pendulum stopped. Whenever Marko took hold of its chains to wind it up, the sufferer
vented from its inmost recesses such weird and wrathful
sounds that the cat fled in terror.
Two photographs of family groups on the same wall
completed the treasures of the picture-gallery, which with
the clock constituted a museum.
Doctor SokolofY was a young man of twenty-eight, lively,
with bright ruddy hair, and blue eyes, an open, simple
expression of countenance and a somewhat boisterous,
easy-going, and eccentric manner. He had served as
veterinary surgeon in a Turkish regiment on the Montenegrin frontier, and had acquired a thorough knowledge of the
language and customs of the Turks—he drank raki and
fraternised with the onbashi every afternoon, but at night
terrified him by firing a revolver up his chimney: at present
he was devoting much of his time to the education of a

26

UNDER

THE

YOKE,

bear. The better-class Bulgarians looked somewhat askance
at him, and placed their trust rather in the Greek apothecary
Yaneli; but he was a popular favourite with all the youth of
the town on account of his gay, open nature, and his fervent
patriotism. He was always the prime mover in social
festivities and " Committee "* plots, and, indeed, spent most
of his' time in these two occupations. He had never gone
through a regular course of medicine, but his younger
friends had given him the title of Doctor to place him on a
higher footing than the Greek chemist, and he had not
thought it necessary to protest against the calumny. As for
his treatment of his patients, he left them to the care of his
two faithful assistants—-the healthy Balkan air and nature.
Hence he rarely had recourse to his pharmacopoeia, which,
indeed, being in Latin, was a sealed book to him ; and all
his dispensary was contained on a single small shelf. No
wonder that he thus managed to take the wind out of the
sails of his rival.
Sokolorl was Marko's family doctor, and had come to
visit little Asen.
The other visitor was Ivancho Yotata. He, like a good
neighbour, had come to see what was the matter, and pass
the time of day. For a few minutes the conversation was
taken up with the event of the evening, and Ivancho
eloquently described his impressions and dismay.
" To tell you the truth," he rambled on, "just as our Lala
was clearing the table, I heard a most prodigious to-do
in your courtyard, Marko. Then the dog was making a
tremendous row. I was frightened—at least, I wasn't
exactly frightened, but I said to Lala: ' Lala,' says I,f whatever
is the matter next door ? Just look over the wall into their
courtyard.' Then it struck me that this was more a man's
business than a woman's. So I boldly climbed on to the
wall and looked over. Your courtyard was pitch dark.
What's all this to-do about ? thinks I, knowingly; let me
give notice to the police. But Lala was standing behind
me and catching hold of my coat. ' Where are you going,'
says she. 6 Not to Marko's, I hope?' 'No, no,' says I.
* The Revolutionary Committees, common in Bulgaria from about
1872 to 1876, had made a great impression on the Turks, and all Bulgarian insurgents were by them called " Koumitajis," or simply
"Koumita."

BACK AT MARKO*S.

27

There's nothing the matter: lock the gate into Marko's
yard."'
"There was no need, Ivancho—there was nothing the
matter," said Marko, smiling.
" Then," continued Yotata, " I said to myself: c We must
inform the authorities : M. Marko is my neighbour, and
mustn't be left in danger.' So I rushed downstairs, with
Lala screaming after me. ' Silence,' said I in a manly tone.
I went out of the door, and lo and behold ! all was as still as
the dead."
" Is little Asen asleep yet, Marko ? " asked the doctor, to
stay the flow of Ivancho's oratorical display. But Ivancho
hastened to continue :
" When I saw that the street was as still as the dead, I said
to myself : * Don't you trust it, Ivancho ' ; and I turned back
and came out by the back door—that is, I got out into the
blind alley, turned out of it past Petko's door, then past the
Mahmoud's, past Uncle Gencho's dung-heap, and then
straight to the Konak. I went in, looked round, and at
once boldly informed the on-bashi that there were robbers
in your house, and that the fowls were flying about the
yard."
" I tell you there was no one there ; your trouble was
quite unnecessary, Ivancho." Meanwhile the storm was
raging outside in all its fury.
" By-the-way, Marko, I had quite forgotten to ask you,"
said the doctor suddenly ; " did a young man call this
evening ? "
" What young man ? "
" A stranger, pretty badly dressed, but fairly intelligentlooking, as far as I could see. He was asking for your
house."
" Where did you see him ? No one called," answered
Marko, with evident confusion, which, however, his visitors
had no reason to observe.
The doctor went on quietly:
" A young man addressed me just at nightfall, near Hajji
Pavli's rose-field. H e asked me politely, ' Can you tell me,
sir, if Marko IvanofFs house is far ? I want to see him/
says he, ' it's the first time I have been here/ I happened
to be going the same way, so I offered to show him your
house. On the road I looked at him carefully: the poor

28

UNDER THE YOKE.

fellow was almost in rags—his coat was very thin and all torn,
as far as I could see in the dark. He was tired and weak,
and could scarcely stand on his feet, and in this awful
weather, too ! I didn't dare to ask him where he was
coming from or why he was in that state, but I was sorry
for the poor fellow. And when I saw his vest was in rags,
and, so to speak, falling to pieces, I couldn't resist asking
him, ' I hope you won't be angry with me, sir, if I offer you
my overcoat—you will forgive me, won't y o u ? ' H e said
'Thank you,' and took it. So we came as far as your
house, and then I left him. I wanted to ask you who he
was."
" I tell you, no one came to call."
" That's funny," said the doctor.
"Perhaps it was a robber, who climbed on to your roof,
M a r k o ? " asked Ivancho. " T h a t may have caused all this
to-do."
" It's impossible that that young man should have been
a robber," said the doctor, curtly; " anyone could see that
from his face."
The conversation was assuming an unpleasant tone, and
Marko, to change it, turned to SokolofT.
" Have you read the paper, doctor ? How's the revolt in
the Herzegovina getting on ? "
" It's all over, Marko. That heroic nation has achieved
miracles, but what can they do against such odds ? "
" Goodness m e ! A handful of men like that to hold
out so.long. Why can't we do something of the k i n d ? "
said Marko.
" We've never tried," said the doctor ; " we're five times
as many as the Herzegovinians, but we don't know our own
strength yet."
" Don't think of such a thing, doctor," said Marko.
" We're one thing and the Herzegovinians are another;
we're in the jaws of hell: we've only to move to be cut
down like sheep. There's nowhere we can look to for
aid."
" Well, well, I've got a gun, but I haven't cleaned it for
twelve years," said Yotata.
" I ask you, have we ever tried ? " repeated the doctor
impatiently.
" They kill us and cut us to pieces without our trying :

THE REST OF THE NIGHT.

29

the more submissive we are, the more they ill-use us.
What had that poor child of Gancho's done, that was brought
in yesterday beheaded? They threaten us with the gallows
if we venture to protest against their tyranny, and the
Yemeksiz Pehlivans are allowed to torture us to their heart's
content, unpunished. What kind of justice do you call
that ? The mildest would revolt against it. Even a worm
will turn, as the saying is."
Grandmother Ivanitsa entered.
" What do you think? " said she ; "Pena says before the
rain began she heard guns fired. Dear, dear ! I wonder
what is the matter. Holy Virgin, some poor Christian soul
has perished again, I suppose."
Marko started: his countenance changed. He had a
presentiment that something had happened to Kralich.
His heart overflowed with grief, which he was unable to
conceal.
"Why, Marko, what's the matter?" said the doctor,
feeling his pulse and scanning his countenance, which
showed only too plainly the signs of intense moral
suffering.
The rain had stopped. The visitors rose to take leave.
The news had disturbed them.
" Nonsense ! the maid must have fancied it all—most
likely some one shutting his shutters. Don't be afraid—
courage ! " said Ivancho Yotata, boldly. " Grandmother, is
your side-door open ? " And while Marko was showing the
doctor out, Ivancho hurriedly left by the side-door, opened
for him on the other side by his wife.

CHAPTER V.
T H E REST OF THE NIGHT.

knocked at his door.
It was opened by an old woman, whom he asked, as he
passed by her hurriedly : " How's Cleopatra ? "
" She's been asking for you/J replied the old woman with
a smile.
DOCTOR SOKOLOFF

30

UNDER THE YOKE,

The doctor passed through the long courtyard, and
entered his room. This apartment, which was at the same
time his receiving-room, study, dispensary, and bedroom,
was a broad bare room with cupboards in the walls and a
deep fireplace. On a small shelf were arranged all his
drugs; on the little table were scattered a small mortar and
pestle, a few medical books, and a revolver; a doublebarrelled matchlock hung over the bed. The only picture
with which the walls were adorned was a portrait of Prince
Nicolas of Montenegro, beneath which was the photograph
of some actress. Everything showed that the room was that
of an easy-going bachelor: it was dull, bare, and untidy. In
the corner was the half-opened door of the cellar, where three
years ago Levski had spent the night.
The doctor flung off his fez and coat carelessly, approached the cellar-door, clapped his hands, and cried out:
" Cleopatra, Cleopatra ! "
There was no answer.
" Come out, Cleopatra darling ! ,?
A sound was heard from the cellar.
The doctor sat down on a chair in the middle of the
room, and called, " Here, Cleopatra !"
A bear, or rather a bear-cub, came out.
It approached, dragging its massive paws along the
ground, and purring joyfully. Then it sprang up and
placed its forepaws on the doctor's knees, opening its
capacious jaws and displaying its teeth, sharp and glittering.
It fawned on him like a dog, while the doctor gently stroked
its head, and gave it his hand to lick.
The beast had been caught, while quite young, on the
Sredna Gora, by a peasant, who had given it to Sokoloff for
having cured his child of a serious illness. The doctor had
become much attached to it, and took the greatest pains to
procure proper food for it. Cleopatra flourished exceedingly under this sedulous care, took lessons in gymnastics
with the best grace possible, and her devotion to her master
increased daily.
Cleopatra now danced a bear's polka, carried the doctor's
hat for him, waited on him, and guarded his room like a dog.
But it was a real "bear's (i.e., doubtful) service/' for her
presence in the house kept away the doctor's patients:
however, he did not trouble himself about that.

THE REST

OF THE

NIGHT.

3i

When she got well into her polka, Cleopatra would roar
furiously, so that when she danced the whole neighbourhood knew it. On such occasions Sokoloff danced gaily
with her.
That evening he was altogether in the mood for dancing.
He threw Cleopatra a piece of meat, saying, " Eat it,
darling; they say a hungry bear won't dance, and I want
you to dance for me like a princess to-night/'
The bear understood, and answered with a growl, which
meant " I am ready." The doctor began to sing, beating
time on a brass dish:
Dimitra, dear, my fair-haired lass,
Go tell your mother, Dimitia,
You're the only lass I love
. . . .

Cleopatra stood up on her hind legs and danced with
frenzy, roaring all the time. Suddenly she sprang to the
window with an angry growl. The doctor looked out and
saw there was some one in the courtyard.
He seized his revolver. " Who's there ? " he asked forcing
the bear to be quiet.
" Doctor, you're wanted at the Konak I "
" Is that you, Sherif Aga? What the devil do you want
me for now ? Who's ill ? "
" Stop that bear's noise first."
The doctor made a sign to Cleopatra, who retreated unwillingly, and with an ominous growl, into her cellar, the
door of which he closed after her.
" My orders are to take you to the Konak. You're a
prisoner,'' said the on-bashi sternly.
" A prisoner ? I ? What for ? "
" You'll find that out soon enough. Come, let's get on."
And they went off with the doctor confused and dismayed :
he had a presentiment of trouble.
As they went out they heard a heartrending roar from
Cleopatra, which sounded almost like human lamentation.
At the Konak all was confusion. They took the doctor
to the Bey.
The latter was sitting in his usual place in the corner of
the room. By his side sat Kiriak Stefchoff, reading from
some paper, at which Necho Pironkoff— the Bulgarian

32
UNDER THE YOKE.
member of the Local Council—was peeping over his
shoulder. The Bey, who was about sixty years of age,
received the doctor coldly, but offered him a chair. Sokoloff
was the Bey's family doctor, and rather a favourite of his.
And the Turks usually treated their prisoners with a show
of kindness, to induce them to confess.
The doctor, in looking round the room, was astonished
to see on the divan the overcoat he had given to Kralich.
This discovery redoubled his dismay.
" Doctor, is that coat yours ? " asked the Bey.
The doctor did not dream of denying the fact, which was,
indeed, self-apparent. He answered affirmatively.
" Why is it not in your possession ? "
" Because I gave it to a poor man."
" Where ? "
" In the Hajji Shadoff street."
" At what time ? "
" At two o'clock (Turkish time)." *
" Do you know who he was ? "
" No; but I was sorry for him, because he was in rags."
" How the poor fellow lies !" said Necho contemptuously.
" Well, that's only natural—a drowning man catches at a
straw," replied his neighbour.
The Bey smiled ominously as having detected a manifest
lie. He was perfectly certain that the coat had been taken
from the doctor's back by the police, as the patrol, indeed,
assured him was the case.
" Kiriak ErTendi, give me the papers. Do you know
these papers ? "
The doctor looked. They were a copy of the newspaper
Nezavisimost t and a printed revolutionary proclamation.
He denied all knowledge of them.
" Then how do they come into the pockets of your
coat?"
" I have already told you that I gave the coat away to
some one. Perhaps he put them there."
The Bey shrugged his shoulders. The doctor saw that
things were getting serious—at best they made him out to
be connected with a revolutionary, as it seems the stranger

* I.e.) two hours after sunsetr.
t Independence^ the organ of the Bulgarian Revolutionary Committee
at Bucharest.

THE REST

OF THE

NIGHT.

33

was. If he had only known that, he would have been more
careful, and might have saved them both from trouble.
" Call the wounded Osman," ordered the Bey.
A zaptie came in with his arm bound up above the elbow.
It was he who had seized the coat from Kralich's shoulders,
and at that moment had been wounded by a shot fired by
one of his comrades. He was, or pretended to be, fully
convinced that it was the fugitive " Koumita" * who had
fired at him.
Osman advanced towards the doctor : " That's the man,
sir."
" Is that the man from whom you took the coat ? Do
you recognise him."
" That's the man, and it's he who fired at me."
The doctor looked at him bewildered : he was struck dumb
by the grave and unfounded charge brought against him.
"The zaptie lies in the most barefaced manner," he
said.
"You may go, Osman Aga. Well, sir," added the Bey, in
a serious tone, " do you deny all this ? "
" The whole thing is a fabrication. I never carry a
revolver, and I didn't go through the Petkanchofif Street this
evening."
The on-bashi approached the lamp, examined the doctor's
revolver which he bad taken off his table, and said significantly : " There are four chambers loaded, but one cartridge
is missing." The Bey nodded attentively.
" I tell you that's another mistake of yours—I never
took my revolver this evening."
" Tell us, doctor, where were you at three o'clock when
all this affair happened."
This unexpected question fell like a thunderbolt on
Sokoloff. He reddened with confusion, but managed to
reply in a confident manner:
" At three o'clock I was at Marko Ivanoff's—his child
is ill."
" It was nearly four o'clock when you went in to Marko's
—we were just coming out," said the on bashi, who had met
the doctor on his way thither.
* The insurgents were by the Turks called " Koumitaji" or simply
" Koumita," the nearest approximation to the word " Committee," with
which they were supposed to "be connected,
C

34

UNDER THE

YOKE.

The doctor remained silent: appearances against him
were too strong. He saw he was in a fix.
" Well, then, tell us where you were from the time you
gave away your coat in the Hajji Shadoff Street, until you
went to Marko's house," said the Bey> thus skilfully putting
a simple question which could only be met with a simple
answer. But Dr. Sokoloff did not reply. His face gave
signs of a sharp internal struggle, accompanied by moral
suffering.
His confusion and silence were clearer than a confession.
They completed the other proofs. The Bey was convinced
he had the real culprit before him; however, he asked yet
once more:
" Tell us where you were at that time, doctor."
" I cannot tell you," said the doctor, in quiet but decisive
tones. This answer struck everybody. Necho, the member
of Council, winked ironically at Stefchoff, as if to say, " The
poor fellow is done for."
" Come, doctor, tell us where were you ? "
" I can't possibly tell you that; it's a secret which my
honour, both as a man and a doctor, forbids me to reveal.
But I was not in the Petkanchoff Street," said the doctor,
firmly and resolutely.
The Bey pressed him to answer the question, pointing
out the dangerous consequences if he should continue to
refuse to speak. But the doctor seemed quite calm, like a
man who has said all he has to say.
" Won't you say ? "
" I have no more to say."
"Then, sir, you will be my guest to-night. Take the
doctor down to the cells," said the Bey, sternly. The
doctor went out, bewildered by the crushing accusations
which he was not in a position to refute; for, as he said
himself, he could by no possibility reveal the place where
he was at three o'clock that evening.

THE

LETTER.

35

C H A P T E R VI.
THE LETTER.

MARKO slept badly that night. The events of the evening
had disturbed his peace of mind. He got up earlier than
usual, and when he went to Ganko's for his morning cup of
coffee the proprietor had only just taken down his shutters
and was lighting his fire. Marko was his first customer.
Cafe-keepers are great chatterboxes, and Ganko, after the
usual obligatory jokes, which he always produced with
Marko's morning coffee, at once proceeded to give him an
account of the doctor's adventure in the Petkanchoff Street,
and its consequences, interlarding his story with a number
of coarse and silly jests. Ganko told his tale with much
excitement. In general the misfortunes of others invariably
produce a threefold impression on small minds: first,
surprise; next, an internal satisfaction that the misfortune
has happened to some one else; and thirdly, a secret and
malicious joy. Such are the hidden instincts which human
nature conceals. As for Ganko, he had even greater cause
for wishing evil to the doctor, the latter having once
deducted twelve cups of coffee from his score as payment
for one professional visit. Ganko had never forgiven him
this exorbitant and unheard-of charge.
Marko could not contain himself for surprise. H e had
conversed with the doctor on the previous evening, and
neither his countenance nor his conversation had led him
to suspect anything extraordinary. Besides, why should the
doctor have concealed such a thing from him ?
The entry of the on-bashi into the cafe afforded Marko
an opportunity for further enlightenment. H e saw that the
doctor was the victim of some strange blunder on the part
of the police, as also that Kralich had escaped from their
grasp : this latter thought gave him much satisfaction. H e
turned to the on-bashi: " I will stake my life on the doctor's
innocence," said he.
" God grant it," answered the on-bashi; " but I don't
see how he's to prove it."
" He'll prove it, only they may ruin him first. At what
time does the Bey come to the Konak ? "

36

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THE

YOKE.

" In about an hour; he comes early."
" You must release the doctor; I'll go bail for him : I'll
stake my house and my children on it, that he's innocent."
The on-bashi cast a glance of surprise at him.
"There's no need of bail—they've sent him away
already."
" When ? Where to ? " cried Marko.
" We sent him off to K. last night, with a police escort."
Marko was unable to conceal his disappointment.
The on-bashi, who had a regard for him, said in a confidential tone: "Marko Chorbaji, if I were you I wouldn't
interfere in an ugly business like this. What is it to do
with you ? These are times when every one keeps himself
to himself."
The on-bashi drank his coffee, and said:
" I must go in half an hour, to take a letter from the Bey
inclosing the doctor's revolutionary papers. If you want to
know, they're the only proofs against him, and quite enough,
too. As for the other thing—Osman's wound—that's all
a mistake, he didn't fire at him—it was one of us—it's a
wound from a rifle-bullet. Well, the bigwigs will see to it.
Ganko, give me an old bit of paper to wrap the letter in or
it'll get dirty."
So saying, he took from his sash a large envelope with a
red seal which he wrapped up in the paper the cafe-keeper
gave him. Then, lighting another cigarette, the on-bashi
saluted Marko and went out.
Marko remained for a moment deep in thought. The
cafe-keeper (who was at the same time the town-barber) was
already lathering Petko Buzzouniak's head. Marko rose
and went out,
" Good-day to you, Marko. You're off very early," cried
the barber, dashing the lather about in soapy waves on his
victim's head, " so you want to go bail for the doctor ! As
a man sows, so shall he reap. Why don't they come and
haul off Petko Buzzouniak to prison ? Eh, Petko, what do
you say ? "
An inarticulate murmur was heard from among the lather,
but it was unintelligible. In a few minutes the barber had
shampooed his customer, wiped his head and face dry with
a towel of very doubtful cleanliness, handed him the lookingglass, and said, " There you are."

HEROISM.

37
As he was ushering his customer out, Ganko met Marko
on the threshold.
" I forgot my tobacco-pouch," said he, and went hurriedly to the seat where he had left it.
Buzzouniak laid his piastre on the looking-glass, and went
out. Ganko turned back.
'•By-the-by, Ganko, tell me what my account is. I
settle up at the end of the month, you know," said Marko.
Ganko pointed to the ceiling which was covered with
hieroglyphics in chalk. " There's the ledger," said h e ;
" you've only to reckon it up and pay."
" I don't see my name there."
" That's the way I put 'em down, a la franga." *
" You'll soon have the brokers in, if that's the way you
keep your accounts, Ganko," said Marko, chaffingly, as he
took out his purse. " Well, if that fellow hasn't left his
letter behind !" he added, pointing to the shelf.
" My eyes ! the on-bashi's letter," cried Ganko, surprised,
and casting a glance of interrogation at Marko, as if to ask
what was to be done.
" Send it him—send it him at once," said Marko, hastily
— " there you are, twenty-eight piastres and thirty paras—•
you've taken my last farthing, you rogue." Ganko went out,
dumfounded, thinking " what a curious man Marko is.
He's ready to go bail with his house for that bear-trainer,
and yet he won't throw the letter in the fire—it might have
been done in a minute and no one the wiser."
Meanwhile new customers were arriving, and clouds of
smoke soon filled the cafe, whilst conversation was busy
with the doctor's mishap.

C H A P T E R VII.
HEROISM.

T H E sun was already high in the heavens, and its rays
lighted up the green vines at the foot of the courtyard of
the monastery. The courtyard was now as bright and gay
* I.e., in " Frank " or European fashion.

38

UNDER THE YOKE.

as it had been dark and dreary at night, when every object
assumed a ghostly appearance. The merry chirp of birds
filled it with joyous sounds: the transparent ripples of the
stream murmured pleasantly on their way down the hill;
the leafy cypresses and elms rustled softly to the morning
mountain breeze. Everything was clear and peaceful. Even
the surrounding verandahs with their dark cells had a more
welcome aspect, and rang with the twittering of the swallows
as they flew in and out of their nests.
In the courtyard by the vines was a majestic-looking old
man, with long white beard reaching to his waist, dressed in
a long blue gown. This was Father Yerote, an old man of
eighty-five, the relic of a former century, almost a wreck, yet
a hale and honourable wreck. He was living out, quietly
and simply, the last years of his protracted life. Every
morning he would walk there, breathing in the fresh mountain
air, and enjoying like a child the sun and the heavens,
towards which he was already far on the road.
Close by, against one of the vine-props, as a contrast to
this relic of the past, stood Deacon Vikenti, book in hand
(he was preparing for his admission to a Russian seminary).
His juvenile face beamed with youth and hope : strength
and life shone in his eager gaze. He represented the future,
towards which he looked with the same confidence as did
the old man towards eternity.
It is only the untroubled life of the cloister that can give
this restful quiet to the soul.
On the stone steps leading to the church sat the rotund
Father Gedeon, a deeply learned man : he was gazing attentively at the peacocks as they walked about the yard with
tails outspread, fan-like. H e compared them to the selfsatisfied Pharisee in the Gospel, and their screams reminded
him of wise King Solomon, who understood the language
of birds. Plunged in these pious reflections, Father Gedeon
was quietly awaiting the grateful sound of the summons to
breakfast, as he sniffed the savoury odours proceeding from
the refectory kitchen which announced the preparation of
the meal.
Mouncho's colleague, the cross-eyed idiot of the monastery, was standing on the threshold in the sun. H e was
examining with an attention no less profoundly philosophical the domestic habits of the peacocks—indeed, to say

HEROISM.

39

this scarcely gives the true state of the case, for the glance of
the idiot embraced not only the peacocks, but also the
entire horizon; since while one eye pointed due west, the
other took in at the same time the east.
Erect beside him, Mouncho was clasping his hands, while
with head upturned he anxiously scanned the windows on
the top-story, for reasons known only to himself.
If we add the higoumen, who was out, and some few layassistants, we have before us the whole population of the
monastery.
Just then the higoumen trotted up on his horse, dismounted, and ,handed the reins to the cross-eyed brother,
saying as he did so to Vikenti: "I have come from town,
and bring bad news."
Thereupon he told them the story of Sokoloff 's mishap :
" Poor Sokoloff, poor Sokoloff!" he sighed.
The higoumen Natanael was a tall, powerful man, with a
virile face and a bold, dashing manner. Remove his
monk's garb, and little of the monk remained in him. The
walls of his cell were hung with guns; he was a first-rate
shot, swore like a trooper, and was as skilled in healing
wounds as he was in dealing them. Chance had made him
the higoumen of a monastery instead of a voivode in the
Balkans. Moreover, rumour had it that he had once been
the latter, but was now repentant.
" Where is Father Gedeon," asked the higoumen, looking
round.
" Here am I," answered Father Gedeon, in a shrill
voice, emerging from the monastery whither he had gone
to see if breakfast would soon be ready.
" In the kitchen again, Father Gedeon : don't you know
that gluttony is a deadly sin?" So saying, the abbot
enjoined him to fasten the saddle-bags on the donkey, and
proceed to the village of Voinyagovo, to inspect the haymakers who were mowing the monastery's fields.
Father Gedeon was round, bloated, and puffy as a sheep's
bladder when blown out. The slight movement he had
made in coming to the door had brought the dew of suffering to his forehead.
" Father Higoumen," he murmured in tones of agonised
entreaty, clasping his hands before him, and appalled at the
idea of a journey in this sinful world; " Father Higoumen,

4o

UNDER THE YOKE.

were it not better to remove this bitter cup from the lips of
your lowly brother ? "
" What bitter cup, man ? Do you mean my sending you
to the mowers? Why, you're going to ride the donkey,
and as for the labour, all you've to do is to hold the reins
with one hand and give your benediction with the other,"
said the higoumen, smiling.
(t
Father Natanael, it isn't for the labour; we come into
the world for a life of labour and suffering. But the times
are evil."
" Evil ? In May ? Why, the trip will do you good."
" The times, father, the times," murmured Father Gedeon.
" You see they have taken the doctor, and may send the
Christian to destruction. The race of Hagar is merciless.
God forbid, if they accuse me of stirring up the people to
revolt, the whole monastery may suffer. The peril is
imminent."
The higoumen burst out laughing.
" Ha I ha ! ha ! " he cried, in uncontrollable mirth, with
arms akimbo, as he looked at the rotund form of Father
Gedeon. " And do you think the Turks will suspect you !
Father Gedeon a political emissary! Ha ! ha! is it not
written, ' thou shalt make the sluggard to work, that he may
learn wisdom.' Your besetting sin of idleness has made me
laugh when I was but little disposed to do so. Deacon
Vikenti! Deacon Vikenti! Come and listen to Father
Gedeon. Mouncho, go and call Vikenti; I want to make
him laugh."
In truth, the boisterous merriment of the higoumen made
the walls ring again.
When he heard the order, Mouncho shook his head still
more strangely, his eyes staring with terror.
" The Russian!" he cried, trembling, and pointed to
the staircase up which the deacon had gone. And to
avoid the errand, he fled hurriedly to the opposite side of
the quadrangle.
il
Russian ! What does he mean by that?"
" He means the ghost, your reverence," said Father
Gedeon.
" And how long is it since Mouncho has become such a
coward? Why, he used to live all alone, like an owl in
the wilderness."

HEROISM.

41

" Of a truth, father, a spirit walks nightly on the verandah.
Last night Mouncho came to my cell in a paroxysm of
terror. He had seen a ghost in white garments coming out
of the cell with the windows. He also told me of other
things, from which may the Lord deliver us. We must
sprinkle the top story with holy water."
Mouncho had stopped some distance off, and was staring,
terrified, at the top story.
" What can he have seen ? Come, father, let's inspect
the premises," said the higoumen, who fancied that perhaps
a thief might have concealed himself there.
" The Lord forbid," said Gedeon, crossing himself. The
higoumen went upstairs alone.
In truth, when the higoumen called the deacon, the
latter had gone to Kralich's cell.
"What's the news, father?" asked the latter, seeing his
disturbed countenance.
" There's no danger," said the deacon at once reassuringly,
"but the higoumen has brought very bad news. Last
night Sokoloff was arrested and carried off to K."
"Who is this Sokoloff?"
"He's a doctor in the town—a very decent youth. It
seems they found revolutionary books or papers on him. I
know him to be a fervent patriot," said the deacon, sorrowfully ; then, after a moment's pause, he added, " When the
police were pursuing him last night he fired and wounded a
zaptie, who had laid hold of his overcoat. Poor doctor !
I'm afraid he's done for. Thank God, you got off safe, and
nothing seems to have been heard of you in town."
As the deacon stopped talking, he observed with surprise
that Kralich had taken his head between his hands, and was
pacing up and down the room like a madman, sighing
deeply. These signs of a despair, as inexplicable as it was
sudden, greatly astonished the deacon.
" Why, what's the matter, man ? Thank God, you're all
right," cried Vikenti.
Kralich stopped in front of him, with a face distorted by
moral suffering, and exclaimed almost angrily:
" All right! all right, am I ? That's easily said ! " and he
struck his forehead. " What are you thinking of, Vikenti ?
Don't you understand ? My God! I forgot to tell you
that the overcoat was mine. Last night, at the outskirts of

4

2

UNDER

THE

YOKE.

the town, some kind young man, who showed me Marko's
house—evidently this Dr. Sokoloff—gave it to me, seeing what a state I was in, and that's the coat I left in the
zaptie's hands. I took some papers out of an inner pocket
and put them in the pocket of the coat: they were a copy
of the Nezavisiniost and a proclamation which they gave me
in a hut at Troyan, where I spent the night. That's not
enough, but they must go and say he fired at a zaptie, when
I never touched the revolver! Ah ! the scoundrels ! Now
do you see ? that man has sacrificed himself for me ! It is
my accursed fate to bring misfortune on all those who do
good to me !"
" It's a great misfortune," said Vikenti, pityingly;
" especially since you can't help him, as matters stand."
Kralich turned on him with a burning countenance.
" What do you mean, I can't help him ? Am I to leave
a generous benefactor, and, as you say, a fervent patriot,
to perish on my account? That would be baseness
indeed!"
The deacon looked at him bewildered.
" No, I shall rescue him from this mishap, even if it
costs me my life ? "
" How ! what's to be done ? tell me : I am ready to do
anything," cried Vikenti.
" I alone will save him !"
"You!"
"Yes, I ; I'll rescue him. I am the only one who is
able and bound to rescue him," cried Kralich, excitedly, as
he paced up and down the cell, with an expression of
utmost decision and courage.
"Are we to make an assault on the prison?" asked
Vikenti, who was lost in astonishment and half afraid lest
Kralich had taken leave of his senses.
" Mr. Kralich," he continued, "how do you mean to save
him?"
" What! don't you understand ? I shall give myself up !"
" You—give yourself up ?—alone ? "
" Do you think I should entreat them to release him?
Listen, Father Vikenti! I'm an honest man, and I won't
owe my life to the sufferings of others. I haven't come
1500 miles to commit an act of baseness. If I can't sacrifice
my life nobly, at least I can do so honourably. Do you

HEROISM.
43
understand? Unless I give myself up to the Turks this
very day, and say ' this man is innocent—I have never had
any dealings with him—the coat was taken from my back—
the papers are mine—I'm the culprit—I'm guilty—if you
like, I fired at the zaptie—do what you please to m e ' —
unless I do this, Dr. Sokoloff is lost—especially as he was
unable or unwilling to say where he was ? Tell me, can I
do otherwise ? "
The deacon was silent. In his heart he recognised, as
an honest man, that Kralich was right. This self-sacrifice
was imposed on him by feelings of justice and humanity,
and he could not wait for others to point out to him the
course he should take. The man seemed to him to become
greater and more dignified in his eyes. His figure assumed
that calm, noble, heavenly brightness with which only a
great and sudden flash of valour can inspire the human
countenance. Kralich's earnest, simple, and ringing words
echoed in his ears with a soft and majestic sound. H e
would have liked to be in his place, to say such words—
ay, and carry them out. His eyes filled with tears.
" Show me the way to K.," said Kralich. Suddenly the
great bearded head of the higoumen appeared at the window;
they had not heard his footsteps in the heat of their discussion. Kralich started, and glanced inquiringly at the
deacon.
Vikenti hurriedly pointed to the door, took the higoumen
aside to the corridor, and whispered to him long and
passionately, with excited gestures, and side-glances at the
cell where Kralich was waiting impatiently. When the door
opened and Vikenti and Natanael returned, Kralich advanced towards the higoumen and sought to kiss his hand.
" No, no, I'm not worthy that you should kiss my hand,"
cried the higoumen, in tears; and placing both arms round
his neck, he kissed his lips affectionately, as a father kisses
a beloved and long-absent son.

44

UNDER THE

YOKE.

CHAPTER VIII.
AT CHORBAJI YORDAN'S.

T H E R E was a great family gathering that day at Chorbaji
Yordan's, given in accordance with the old Bulgarian custom, in honour of a recent wedding in the family. All
his relations and the friends of the family had been
invited.
Yordan DiamandiefT was now an old man, somewhat
feeble, of a morose and nervous disposition: he belonged
to that section of the Bulgarian bourgeoisie—the Chorbajis—
who have done so much to make the whole class odious.
His wealth went on increasing, his numerous family
flourished, and he was universally feared, but no one liked
him. Certain old stories of iniquitous acts of oppression
and wrong, in which the poor had suffered and the connivance of the Turks been obtained by fawning, flattery, or
still worse means, kept up his unpopularity, even now that
he was unable or unwilling to injure any one. H e belonged
entirely to the past generation.
The only acts of oppression he now permitted himself
to carry on were exercised at the cost of the schoolteachers—or of such as refused to bow before his will.
The wolf may change his skin, but not his teeth, says the
proverb.
In spite of Yordan's surly disposition, the meal was a
merry one. Mother Ghinka, his married daughter, still
fairly good-looking, loquacious, quick at repartee, and very
lively, who did not scruple to box the ears of her thoroughly
subdued husband whenever necessary, kept the guests in
fits of laughter by the jests and stories which her indefatigable tongue scattered hither and thither.
Those who
enjoyed her wit most were the three nuns. One of these,
Sister Hajji* Rovoama, Yordan's sister, who was lame,
malicious, and a thorough mischief-maker, was no less
talkative than Ghinka, and had many a bitter jest at the expense of absent friends. Hajji Simeon, the host's son-in-law,
* The word " Hajji" implies that the person to whose name it is
prefixed, whether Christian or Mussulman, has performed the pilgrimage to Jerusalem or Mecca respectively.

AT CHORE A JI YORDAN'S.

45

laughed loudly with his mouth full; Hajji Pavli, the lately
married bridegroom, carried away by his mirth, was eating
with the spoon of Alafranga Mikhalaki, who, annoyed at this
inadvertence, cast reproving glances round him. Mikhalaki
bore the well-deserved nickname of " Alafranga," because
thirty years ago he had been the first in the town to wear
European trousers and stammer a few words of French.
Unfortunately his efforts had stopped short there. The
coat he wore to-day was of the fashion prevailing at the
time of the Crimean War, and his slender French vocabulary had not received a single addition. But his renown
as* a man of learning, and with it his flattering nickname, had come down to the present day. Mikhalaki
fully realised his own importance, and was very proud of
it; he was stiff in manner, spoke with a pompous air, and
would allow no one to call him simply Mikhal, so as to
avoid being taken for the policeman, who also rejoiced in
that name. Indeed, Mikhalaki was very susceptible with
respect to names. He had had a feud of many years' standing with his neighbour, Ivancho Yotata, because the latter
had twice in one evening mispronounced his name, in his
usual blundering fashion.
Opposite Alafranga sat Damiancho Grigoroff, a man of
fifty years of age, of moderate height, thin, dark, with a
look of intense cunning, and thin mobile lips of ironical
expression, but with an extremely serious countenance; he
also had a reputation for wisdom, but of an entirely different
kind from Alafranga's. He was a loquacious and fluent
story-teller, of inexhaustible resource, as deep as a well, and
with a very powerful imagination, rich as the treasury of
Halim Aga : with him a drop became an ocean, and a
molehill a mountain—indeed, he would often begin by
inventing the molehill. The most remarkable feature was
that he believed his own stories—the surest means of making
others believe them. In other respects, Damiancho was
one of the principal tradesmen, a patriot, and a man of sage
counsels.
Mother Ghinka's husband was eating his dinner in a
subdued manner, for he knew that if he ventured to say
anything his wife would at once transfix him with a look
of piercing severity, so that he dared not open his mouth
before her. He was a weak man of no character, and was

46

UNDER

THE

YOKE.

of so little account that instead of his wife being called
Ghinka Ghenkova, after him, he was known as Ghinka's
Ghenko. By his side Necho Pironkoff, the member of
Council, sat whispering with an air of importance to Kiriak
Stefchoff, who was dressed in the height of fashion, and
nodded now and then absently in response without noticing
what his neighbour was saying, his attention being taken up
by Yordan's daughter, Lalka, on whom he kept casting
admiring glances. But his inattention did not go unpunished, for Necho raised his glass to clink it against his,
and meeting no response the wine was spilt over StefchoiFs
white trousers.
This youth, whom we have already met at the Bey's, and
who will reappear in the course of our story, belonged by
birth and breeding to the Chorbaji class : he was the son of
a man of the same stamp as Yordan Diamandieff. H e was
young, but his ideas were old-fashioned: the new and
absorbing current of liberal thought had left him untouched.
It was, perhaps, for this reason that the Turks viewed him
with favour—this, however, made him unpopular with the
younger men, who considered him as a Turkish spy. And
his unpopularity was heightened by his haughty, spiteful
character, and his deceitful and cowardly nature. In spite
of this, however—or, perhaps, on that very account—Chorbaji Yordan had a weakness for Stefchoff which he did not
seek to conceal. Hence rumour had, rightly or wrongly,
fixed on him as Yordan's future son-in-law.
Dinner was over and coffee was served by a tall, slender,
dark-eyed girl, dressed in black, to whom no one paid any
attention. The conversation went on briskly, for Ghinka
was anxious to amuse the guests with her inexhaustible
verbosity and wit. Soon the topic of the day—SokolofTs
arrest—came on the tapis. This subject at once attracted
the general notice, and gave a new and agreeable impulse
to the after-dinner chat.
" I wonder what's become of the doctoress ?" sneered
Mother Seraphina.
" What doctoress ?" asked the bride.
" Why, Cleopatra, of course."
" We must go and call on her, and get her to write to him
—he must be fretting after her," said Mother Ghinka.
"Mikhalaki," asked the bride, turning to Alafranga,

AT CHORBAJI

YORDAN'S.

47

"what kind of a word is Cleopatra? Mother Kouna can't
pronounce it at all."
Mikhalaki frowned, remained for a moment deep in
thought, and then delivered himself pompously : " Cleopatra
is a Hellenic—that is to say, Greek word. It comes from
K\ala), I weep for, and . . . . I weep for . . . ."
" I weep for the doctor," laughed Hajji Simeon, fumbling
in his pockets.
"Well, well, what signifies a name?" said Sister Hajji
Kovoama; " there's some one else, though, weeping for the
doctor as well." So saying, she bent towards Mrs. Hajji
Simeon and another lady, and whispered something. The
three laughed slily. The laughter spread to all the guests*
" What do you mean, Ghinka ? The Bey's wife ? " asked
Machovitsa, astounded.
" Mind your own business—the wolf eats the heifer in the
stall sometimes," said Mother Ghinka.
And they all laughed at this sally.
" Kiriakj what were the papers they found on SokolofT? "
asked Yordan, who did not understand what they were all
laughing at.
" Rank treason from beginning to end. The Bey sent
for me at midnight to translate them for him. Such wild,
insensate rubbish, as only lunatics can invent. Another of
these proclamations from the Bucharest Committee, calling
on us to rise and put the country to fire and sword, so that
it may be freed."
" Get yourselves massacred, all of you, so that we may be
freed," sneered Necho PironkofF.
" These scoundrels are ready enough to put the place to
fire and sword—why not ? It's not their property they want
to destroy. They haven't a foot of ground, or a stick, in
the place. It's easy for them to talk—a set of ruffians ! "
said Chorbaji Yordan, angrily.
" Thieves, the whole lot of them !" muttered Hajji
Simeon.
Damiancho GrigorofF, who had been impatiently awaiting
his opportunity for introducing one of his stories, caught at
Simeon's last words, and began :
" You say they're thieves, Hajji: that reminds me of a
story—but there are thieves and thieves. I was once going
to Ishtip in Macedonia—it was in 1863, in this very month

48

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of May, on the 22nd, at three o'clock, after sunset on a
Saturday, and a cloudy night." With which Damiancho
proceeded to relate an interminable story of an encounter
with brigands, in which there figured the Ishtip innkeeper,
two Pashas, a Greek captain, and the sister of Prince Couza
of Wallachia.
Everybody listened with the utmost attention, if not with
perfect faith, to the absorbing story told by Damiancho,
while they sipped their coffee with much satisfaction.
" Dear, dear—they talk of fire and sword—they'll be
burning our convent down next," said Sister Serafima.
" May the fire of heaven consume them," murmured Sister
Hajji Rovoama.
" Just think of it," said Stefchoff, " the very dissemination
of such stuff is high treason. It's that which perverts the
minds of the youngsters, and either makes idle dreamers of
them or else brings them to the gallows ! Look at Sokoloff
—there's a sad case!"
" Ay—a sad case !" acquiesced Hajji Simeon.
Mikhalaki Alafranga added:
" Only yesterday I had a conversation with the doctor,
and it was easy to see what his ideas are. H e was regretting that we hadn't got a Lioubobratich !"*
" What did you answer."
" I answered that there might be no Lioubobratiches, but
that gallows were plentiful enough."
" And a very good answer too," said Jordan.
"Whoever are them Lioubobratiches?" asked the inquisitive bride.
Ghenko Ghinkin, who was a regular reader of the Pravo
and well-posted in politics, was just going to answer, when
he was quelled by a glance from his wife, who replied:
" H e ' s the leader of the rebels in Herzegovina, Dona dear.
Ah! if we had a man like him, I'd volunteer to be his standardbearer myself—and then we'd go and cut cabbages !" f
" A h ! if we had a man like him—that would be another
matter altogether—I'd join under his command too," said
Hajji Simeon.
* Lioubobratich was the heroic leader of the Herzegovinian revolt
of 1875.
f An allusion to the green turbans worn by Turks claiming descent
from Mohammed,

AT CHOREAy I YORDAN'S.

49

Yordan cast a stern glance at them. " What's that you're
saying? such things are not even to be jested about. As
for you, Hajji, you're talking nonsense." Then turning to
Alafranga, " What will become of the doctor ? "
" The law," answered StefchofT, with a look of triumph,
" punishes an assault on a servant of the State by death, or
Diarbekir for life."
"Serve him right," grunted Hajji Rovoama; "whatharm
has the convent done to him that he should want to set fire
to it ? "
"Well, he's brought it on himself," said Necho, the
member. "Last night's thunderstorm struck some one,
anyhow."
" Talking of thunderstorms reminds me that about the
time of the Crimean War, Ivan BoshnakofF and I were on
our way to Bosnia. I can call it to mind as if it was yesterday : it wanted only a day or two to the feast of St. Nikola.
We were snowed up at Pirot, when there was the most tremendous thunderstorm I ever saw." And GrigorofF began
to explain how the bolts had fallen round them, set fire to
a walnut tree, killed fifty sheep, and cut off his horse's tail,
which he had to sell afterwards at a very low figure in
consequence.
Grigoroff told his story with such sincerity and eloquence
that his audience listened with unflagging attention to the
very end. Stefchoff and Necho, the member, smiled at
one another. Mikhalaki sat stiff and pompous as ever, and
Hajji Simeon was struck dumb by the extraordinary fierceness of Damiancho's thunderstorm in mid-winter.
While Damiancho was still busy with his story, Mother
Ghinka began looking round for Lalka, " Rada, what has
become of Lalka ? Go and call her at once," said Hajji
Rovoama in an authoritative tone to the young girl in
black.
Lalka, on hearing StefchofTs words as to the probable
fate of the doctor, spoken with such ferocious calmness, had
quietly withdrawn to her own room : there she had flung
herself on the divan, and lay sobbing piteously. A flood of
tears, long pent up, poured from her eyes.# As she lay, the
poor girl shook with the violence of her sobs and was powerless to restrain herself. Her face reflected her passionate
grief and the torture she was undergoing. Her whole soul
D

50

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revolted at the cruelty with which these people gloated over
the doctor's misfortune. " My God—my God—have they
no pity ? " she thought.
But tears can soften even the most desperate sorrow ; and
the doctor's fate being yet unknown, there was at least still
ground for hope.
Lalka rose, dried her pretty pale face, and sat by the
open window for the fresh air to remove the traces of her
tears. She looked out listlessly on the unheeding passersby in the street, but all was a blank to her. For her this
cruel world did not exist: she wished to see only one
face, to hear only one voice—they were all the world to
her.
Suddenly the rapid trot of a horse attracted her attention.
She looked up and could not believe her eyes. There was
Doctor Sokoloff galloping gaily back on a white horse. He
bowed politely to her as he passed under her window. In
her delight, she never thought of answering his bow, but
rushed, as if impelled by an irresistible force, into the guestchamber, and cried joyfully:
" Doctor SokolofT is back again! "
A feeling of astonishment and displeasure was depicted
on the faces of most of those present. Hajji Rovoama
clenched her teeth viciously, and Stefchoff. grew pale, as he
said with an air of indifference :
" They've probably remanded him for further inquiry.
He won't escape Diarbekir, or else the gallows, so easily."
At that moment he encountered the contemptuous glance
of Rada, which wounded him so deeply that his face flamed
with mortification and anger.
" No, no, Kiriak. I hope the poor fellow will get off,
when I think how young he is," said Ghinka, feelingly.
Her previous jests at the doctor had been from the lips
merely; but her heart was sound. The bright spark of
humanity can always be struck from the heart by the blows
of suffering, if only it be there to begin with.
To Hajji Simeon's honour, also, be it said, that he was
equally delighted at the doctor's escape, but dared not say
so before Yordan.

EXPLANATIONS.

51

C H A P T E R IX.
EXPLANATIONS,

T H E doctor was no sooner at home than he went out
again, passed rapidly by Ganko's cafe, where many greeted
him with a " Glad to see you back, doctor "—the heartiest
welcome being Ganko's—and proceeded straight to Marko's
house. On his way he espied Stefchoff on the other side
of the road, coming out of Yordan's house.
" My best respects, Terjuman * Effendi," cried the doctor
with a contemptuous smile.
Marko, who had finished dinner, was taking his coffee on
the bench beneath the ivy.
H e was overjoyed at seeing the doctor. After various
greetings, Sokoloff said : " Listen, Marko, while I tell you
something that will make you laugh."
" How did it all go, my lad? "
" That's what I can't make out myself. It seems to me
like a fairy tale—I can't believe it all. Here am I arrested
at night, the moment I had got home after leaving you,
and taken off to the Konak. You've heard all about my
examination and the charges they brought against me. Who
would have thought my poor old coat would raise such a
bother. Well, I was locked up. An hour afterwards, in
come two zapties. 'Doctor, s iip you g e t ! ' e What f o r ? '
' You're to be taken to K
; it's the Bey's orders.' ' Very
well.' So we start, one zaptie in fronJ of me, another behind, with loaded rifles. We got to K
at dawn. There they
locked me up again, as it was too early for the Court to sit.
Four mortal hours I waited in prison—they seemed to me
like four years. Finally I was taken before the Court. There
were several Members of the Council and other notables,
and they read, out a protocol of some kind, of which I didn't
understand one single word. More silly questions about my
unfortunate coat, which was lying on a green table and seemed
to be eyeing me piteously. The judge opened a letter—evidently from our Bey—took some papers out of it, and asked
me, * Are these your papers?' ' I know nothing about them.'
4
Then how did they get into your pocket ?' ' They were
* Dragoman, or Interpreter.

52

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not put there by m e / He went on reading the letter. The
Bulgarian member, Tinko Balta Oghlou, takes up the newspaper and examines it. ' Beg pardon, your worship,' says
he to the judge ; ' there's nothing wrong in this newspaper,
it's printed at Constantinople.' And he cast a smile at me
as he said it. I couldn't understand what he meant, and
stood like a log of wood. The Kadi asks, ' Isn't that the
newspaper issued by the Revolutionary Committee in
Roumania ? ' * No, your worship,' answers Balta Oghlou;
' this paper doesn't treat of politics—it's a religious * paper,
published by the Protestant missionaries.' I couldn't trust
my own eyes ! It was the Zornitsa. Tinko Balta Oghlou
takes the proclamation, glances at it, looks at me, and smiles
again.
' There's nothing seditious in this either, your
worship ; it's a prospectus !'—and he began to read aloud :
6
Try Doctor Ivan Bogoroff's patent medicines.' The Kadi
looked at him in astonishment; every one began to laugh;
even the Kadi smiled; as for me, I roared—who could have
helped laughing ? How in the world did this miraculous
transformation take place ? That's more than I can tell.
Anyhow, after a short discussion with the Court, the Kadi
turned to me and said, ' Doctor, there's some mistake. I
am sorry you've been put to inconvenience' (he calls several
hours spent in prison, and being dragged at night from one
Konak to another, an inconvenience !); ' if you can find
bail, I'll let you go at once.' There I stood, utterly
bewildered,"
" But how about the wounded zaptie ? "
" They didn't say a word about him. As far as I can
make out, our Bey, either by himself or at some one else's
suggestion, has found out there was some mistake, and
must have put in his letter that he didn't consider I was
guilty of that. Perhaps the zaptie himself admitted he was
lying."
Marko beamed with satisfaction. H e thought that old
Manola's son really had fired, and was anxious about the
consequences.
" Well, thank God, you're free now."
" Yes, as you see. But wait a bit—there's something yet
stranger to come," said the doctor, looking carefully round
* The Zornitsa, the Bulgarian organ of the American Missionaries?
published at Constantinople since 1858.

EXPLANATIONS.

53

to assure himself that none of the family were within hearing.
" Chorbaji Nikolcho lent me his horse to come home with;
he also went bail for me. Well, as I was coming out of the
town, just by the Jewish cemetery, I noticed two people
coming towards me from the Balkan. One of them was
Deacon Vikenti, and he called out to me to stop. ' Where
are you bound for, doctor ?' he cried, surprised at seeing
me at liberty. ' I'm going home,' I said; ' there was nothing
the matter.' You should have seen him open his eyes ! I
told him the whole story. Suddenly he throws his arms round
my neck, and begins to kiss and hug me. ' Why, what's all
this, deacon ?' says I. ' I must introduce you to—to Mr.
Boicho Ognianoff,' says he, taking me to his companion. I
looked at him. What do you think ? It was the man to
whom I had given my coat the night before !"
" What—old Manola's son ? " cried Marko involuntarily.
" Why—do you know him too ?" asked the doctor
astounded.
Marko shrank back. " Go on—we'll see," said he.
" Well, we shook hands and made friends. H e thanked
me for my coat and begged my pardon most humbly.
' Don't mention it, Mr. Ognianoff,' I said, ' I never like to
talk about any little thing I may do for anybody. But
where are you going to, if I may ask ?' < Mr. Ognianoff
was going to look for you,' answered Vikenti. ' For me ?'
' Yes, he wanted to rescue you ? ' ' T o rescue me ?' ' Yes,
by giving himself up to the authorities and confessing that
he alone was guilty.' ' Do you mean to say that that's why
you came here ? Ah, Mr. Ognianoff, what were you
intending to do ? ' I asked, almost angrily. ' My duty,' he
replied simply. Well, I couldn't help it. I burst out crying
and put my arms round his neck, as if he had been my
brother, there, in the middle of the road. There's a noble
nature for you, Marko—there's real chivalry. That's the
kind of man Bulgaria requires."
Marko made no reply. Two tears flowed slowly down
his cheeks. He was proud for old Manola's sake.
The doctor remained silent a moment, then went on
again. " We separated—they struck back across the fields,
and I came straight o n ; but I am still upset by the meeting, and especially by the changing of the papers. I tell
you I saw with my own eyes the JVezavisimosf, and the

54

UNDER THE YOKE.

proclamation. How can they turn into the Zornitsa and
Bogoroff's prospectus ? Who changed them ? Was it a
mistake of the Bey's ? I've been puzzling over it for hours.
What do you think of it, Marko ? "
And the doctor clasped his hands and awaited the reply.
Marko puffed at his chibouk thoughtfully, and then said,
with an uncontrollable smile on his lips:
"Don't you understand that some friend must have
done it ? How can it be a mistake ? Do you suppose the
Zornitsa and Bogoroff's advertisements are likely to be found
at the Bey's ? "
" But who is the unknown benefactor who has saved me
from peril, and Ognianoff from certain death? Help me
to find him—I must thank him—I must kiss his hands and
his feet."
Marko turned to the doctor, and said to him, in a low
tone :
" Doctor—listen. You must never breathe a word of
what I am going to tell you as long as you live."
" I give you my word of honour."
" It was I who changed the papers."
" You, Marko," exclaimed the doctor, with a start.
" Sit down, and listen quietly. This morning, very early,
I went to Ganko's cafe, and it was from him that I heard
you were arrested: this astonished and grieved me very
much. As luck would have it, in came the on-bashi and
told me you had been sent during the night to K
, and
that he was just going there too with the Bey's letter in
which the fatal papers were enclosed. I didn't know what
was to be done. The on-bashi stayed for some time, and
then went out. Well, to my surprise, I noticed he'd left his
letter behind. Ganko was busy shaving some one. It came
into my head to take the letter and destroy it, but that
wouldn't have helped you much—the suspicion would always
have remained. What was to be done? There was no
time to think. Well, something occurred to me which I'd
never even thought of all my life. See here, doctor; I've
grown grey in business, but I never yet opened a letter
belonging to any one else before : I've always considered it
the most dishonourable thing a man can do. God forgive
me, but I did it this morning, for the first and last time. I
rushed home, • locked myself in the office, unfastened

EXPLANATIONS.
55
the red seal on the letter carefully, and put in the first two
papers that came to hand—you know the Turks are not
over sharp in these matters. Then I brought back the
letter and left it in the place where I'd found it, without the
cafe-keeper noticing me. Thank God, the thing came off
all right—my conscience is easier now."
The doctor listened, gasping, and then said with
emotion:
" Marko, my gratitude to you is eternal. What you call
dishonourable is noble—it's glorious. You have saved two
lives from destruction at the risk of your own. There are
few fathers who would do as much for their children."
The doctor's emotion would not let him continue.
Marko added: " Last night old Manola's son did come
to see me, but he climbed over the wall, and that made all
the noise and brought the police."
"What, Boicho Ognianoff?"
. " Is that what you call him ? Yes, yes, that's the man.
His father's a great friend of mine; and he, poor fellow,
not knowing any one else, came to me for shelter: it was you
who directed him here. I didu't want to tell you this before Ivancho; but he ran away the moment the police
came."
" Where was he coming from ?" asked the doctor completely overcome by these successive revelations.
" Didn't he tell you? From Dia.tbekir."
" From Diarbekir! "
" Not so loud—and where is he now ? "
" He's at the monastery, where the deacon has undertaken to keep him hidden. I'm to go and see him there.
Will you let me tell him—only him—what you've just told
me ? He ought to know who it is to whom he owes his life,
for he would certainly have given himself up if they hadn't
released me."
"No, no; you've given me your word; you're never to
reveal it—on the contrary, try to forget it. I only told you
as a kind of confession, to relieve my own conscience. As
for old Manola's son, you can give him my best wishes, and
say I shall be glad to see him here—only let him come in
by the front door next time."

56

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C H A P T E R X.
T H E NUNNERY.

T H E women's convent at Bela Cherkva * (white church) was
the complete antithesis of the monastery already described
as being entombed in the rocks of the Balkan and eternally
silent and deserted.
Here, on the contrary, were sixty or seventy sisters, young
and old, gadding about all day in the quadrangle and
galleries, and filling with mirthful sounds the broad enclosure
which was the barrier between them and the vanities of this
sinful world. They were perpetually on the move from
morning till night.
The convent had the reputation of being the most fertile
hotbed of scandal in the whole city. It was the cradle of
every bit of tittle-tattle which made the round of and scandalised the hearths of the erring laity of the town: it was
there that betrothals were whispered of and prepared; and,
sometimes, impending marriages broken off too. From
thence innocent little tales would set out on their way round
the town, and return, well and hearty, but magnified a
hundredfold, or else completely metamorphosed; naturally
such a centre of gossip attracted troops of lay-friends,
especially on feast-days, when these were regaled by the holy
Sisters with stories of the town and morella-cherry preserves.
Sister Hajji Rovoama, whose acquaintance we have
already made at her brother Yordan's, was renowned as the
most skilful pryer into all the secrets of the town, and the
most inveterate scandal-monger in it. She had at one time
been the abbess—but a revolution in the little state had
deposed her—none the less was she still, morally, the moving
spirit of the community. Her advice was appealed to in
every matter. She vouched for the accuracy of truthful
rumours and exposed the incorrect: she had the prerogative
of starting fresh tales, which afforded mental pabulum for
the little republic for some days, after which they spread
beyond the confines of the cloister.
* Better known under the name of Sopot, a little town about two
miles fiom Karlovo, which is probably the town alluded to as " K "
thioughout the work.

THE

NUNNERY.

57
Sister Hajji Rovoama had been for some days enraged at
the liberation of Dr. Sokoloff, the sworn foe of the convent.
She cherished her malice in secret, asking herself who could
possibly have come to his assistance ? Who could it have
been who had robbed her of the satisfaction of listening to
and inventing every day new stories as to his fate ? The
thing was disgraceful. Indeed, so much did she fret about
it that for the last four or five nights she had not had a wink
of sleep. She was continually cudgelling her brains to discover firstly, why the Doctor had refused to tell the Bey
where he had been at three o'clock on the eventful night of
his arrest; and, secondly, who had changed the papers.
At last a brilliant idea flashed across her mind at the very
moment when she was saying her prayers before going to
bed. She clapped her hands for joy, like Archimedes when
he discovered his great law of physics. She went straight
to Sister Serafima, whom she found already undressed, and
said in a voice that shook with excitement.
" Sister, do you know where the doctor was that night,
when he refused to tell the B e y ? "
Sister Serafima pricked up her ears.
" H e was with the Bey's wife, my dear."
" D o you think so, H a j j i ? "
" Of course, Serafima—else why shouldn't he say so ? Is
he mad? Holy Virgin ! and to think that I've only just
found it o u t ! " said Hajji Rovoama, crossing herself before
the eikonostasis. " A n d do you know who released the
doctor ? "
" Who, Sister ? " asked Serafima.
" Why, she did, of course—the Bey's wife."
" Really—you don't mean i t ! "
" My God ! Holy Virgin ! what can I have been thinking
about all this t i m e ? " And, having relieved her excited
feelings, Sister Hajji Rovoama went off, finished her prayers,
and slept with the clear conscience of one who has done
her duty.
Next morning the whole convent was acquainted with the
secret. The history of the doctor and the Bey's wife grew
and assumed alarming proportions.
Each Sister, as she heard it, asked:
" W h o told you s o ? "
" Why, Sister Hajji Rovoama."

58

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The name disarmed the most sceptical: every one rushed
to Hajji Rovoama for a detailed account.
In two hours the story had spread all over the town.
But every scandal, however interesting, grows stale in
three days. Society was beginning to yawn and to clamour
for more gossip. The appearance in the town of Kralich,
whom hardly any one knew, was a godsend to the convent,
which was at once busy with him. Who is he? Where
does he come from ? What is his business ? No one could
answer these questions, though the most curious tales were
current respecting him : but the only point in which these
agreed was his name; in all other particulars they were of
the most contradictory nature.
Sister Sofia alleged that he had come there for his health.
Sister Ripsimia averred that he was a dealer in attar of
roses.*
Sister Nimfidora was sure he had come after an engagement as schoolmaster.
Sister Solomona and Sister Parashkeva asserted that
neither of these reports was correct; that he had come
there to look out for a wife; and that, as a matter of fact,
they knew on whom his choice had fallen.
Sister Apraxia was ready to swear that he was a Russian
prince in disguise, who had come to inspect the old fortress
and distribute funds for their church. But less faith was
attached to what Sister Apraxia said, because she was not
on visiting terms with the best houses, but drew her information from the wife of Petko Buzzouniak or Fachko
Dobiche's family.
Sister Hajji Rovoama listened to all these confident
assertions, and smiled behind her moustachios (of which
Nature had been very prodigal to her). She knew all
about it, but wanted to enjoy the efforts of the Sisters to
find out the truth. The oracle declared itself only late at
night.
The next morning the whole convent knew that the
stranger Ognianoff was a Turkish spy.
One of the chief reasons—perhaps the only one—why
Hajji Rovoama launched this unflattering rumour touching
Ognianoff was the fact that he had not yet paid his respects
* The scene where the story is laid is in the heart of the " Valley
of Rose?," where the famous attar is produced.

THE NUNNERY.
59
to her : this was a mortal affront to her vanity, which gained
for Ognianoff a relentless enemy.
It was Sunday. Service was nearly over in the convent
chapel, which was thronged with worshippers. Crowds stood
outside under the chapel windows, beneath the spreading
branches of the great pear tree. Most of these were young
girls or married women from the town, all decked with
flowers and arrayed in their brightest Sunday frocks, like
dolls. They prattled merrily together, turning from time to
time to the door to inspect the Sunday dresses of the other
representatives of the fair sex who were continually flocking
into the convent. The rest were nuns, mostly young, who
were engaged, with no less merriment, in looking about
them, giggling and laughing perpetually. From time to
time they would rush forward in swarms to pick up the ripe,
golden pears as they fell from the tree, and occasionally a
battle royal would ensue for the possession of the fruit, after
which they would return heated and flushed to the rest of
the worshippers, crossing themselves.
Service was over. A stream of people emerged from the
chapel and flowed into the ceils.
Hajji Rovoama's cell, though somewhat richly furnished,
was small and could scarcely contain her guests. The nun
received them with a gratified smile, whilst Rada, in a clean
black frock and hood, went round serving preserves and
coffee on a red tray. After an hour the stream began to
decrease. Hajji Rovoama rose frequently to look from the
window, as if she expected some special visitor. Soon a fresh
batch came in, among whom were Alafranga, Stefchoff, Pope
Stavri, Necho Pironkoff, and a young schoolmaster. Evidently it was these whom she was expecting. She gave a
friendly greeting to her new visitors, who all shook hands
also with R a d a ; Stefchoff, indeed, gave her hand a prolonged pressure, accompanied with a wink ; this threw the
girl into a state of confusion, and she blushed rosy-red.
" Kiriak, I want to ask you again about that business of
the doctor's," the nun inquired after the usual greetings;
" there are all sorts of stories about it."
" What stories?" asked Stefchoff.
" They say that you purposely tried to make the Bey
believe the papers were treasonable, so as to injure
Sokoloff."

6o

UNDER THE

YOKE.

StefchorT flamed up. " Whoever says that is a fool and a
liar. The papers taken from his pocket were a copy of the
Nezavisimost—No. 30—and a proclamation. Necho was
there; he can tell you if I am speaking the truth."
Necho promptly assented.
" We don't require to ask Necho. What can Necho tell
us ? " declared Pope Stavri. " We know the whole business.
Wherever the doctor goes he carries the gallows with him.
I said so only last night to Selamsiz., I went to his house
to taste his new raki—he knows just how much aniseed to
put in. But how are you, Sister; are you all right?"
" As you see, Father. I feel as young as the youngest of
them," said the nun, who at once turned again to Stefchoft.
" But don't you really know who changed the papers ? "
Hajji Rovoama could scarcely keep her tongue from
revealing her discovery.
" The police will find out."
" I wouldn't give a farthing for your police. Shall I tell
you who it is—shall I ? " she grinned; then bending over
to his ear, she whispered a name. But the secret was in so
loud a whisper that the whole party heard it. Necho, the
member, tossed his rosary up to the ceiling in glee; the
little schoolmaster looked meaningly, first at one, then at
another; and Pope Stavri interposed a pious " Good Lord,
lead us not into temptation !"
Rada fled in shame to the cellar.
" There he is—there he is ! " cried StefchoiT, noticing
Sokoloff as he passed through the courtyard with two
friends. One was Vikenti and the other Kralich. All
crowded to the window.
This gave the nun an opportunity of disclosing her second
discovery. " Do you know who he is ? "
" What, the stranger ? He's a certain Boicho OgnianorT,"
answered Stefchoff; " but he looks to me as if he had something to do with the Committee too."
Hajji Rovoamo shook her head in sign of dissent.
" Don't you think s o ? " asked StefchorT.
" N o , no ; he's another sort altogether."
" He's a revolutionary, I'll be bound."
" Not he—a spy," answered the nun authoritatively.
Stefchoff glanced at her in amazement.
" Everybody knows it but you."

THE

NUNNERY.

61

" Anathema upon him," cried Pope Stavri.
Hajji Ravoama watched jealously to see where they would
go in.
" They've gone in to Sister Christina's cell," she cried.
Sister Christina had an evil reputation. She passed for a
patriot, and was connected with the Committees. Levski
had once spent the night in her cell.
"It's curious how fond the deacons are of Sister
Christina," added Hajji Rovoama with a bitter smile.
" Do you know that Vikenti's going to throw up the frock ?
And quite right too, poor boy—he became a monk too
young."
" H e did right—you must either marry early or else
become a monk early," affirmed Pope Stavri.
" Well, I agree with you as to the first."
" Hush ! hush ! for shame !"
" He's going to send an offer of marriage to Orlianko's
daughter. If she accepts him, he'll throw up the frock
and they'll be married in Roumania. But I think she'll
have nothing to say to him," and the nun cast an attentive
and protecting glance at the little schoolmaster, for whom
she was preparing the girl just alluded to. The schoolmaster blushed with confusion.
Just then fresh visitors arrived.
" A h ! there's brother !" cried Hajji Rovoama, running to
meet Yordan DiamandiefT.
The visitors rose and followed her out. Stefchoff
remained a little behind the rest, seized Rada's hand to
say goodbye and pinched her blushing cheek. She slapped
him on the face and recoiled from him.
"Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" she murmured,
choking, and fled with tears in her eyes to her own cell.
Stefchoff, who was as unmannerly with women as he was
conceited and pompous with men, adjusted the tassel of
his fez which had been disarranged by the blow, gazed
menacingly after Rada, and left the house looking vexed.

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YOKE.

CHAPTER XL
RADA'S TRIALS.
RADA GOSPOJINA, as she was called to show that she be-

longed to the "Gospoja" (Sister) Hajji Rovoama, was a
tall, slender, and pretty girl, with regular features, and a
frank and simple countenance; her face looked still whiter
and prettier from under the black hood she wore.
Rada had been an orphan from her earliest years, and
had lived nearly all her life under the roof of Hajji Rovoama, who had taken charge of her while yet a baby. H e r
protectress had made a " probationer" of her—that is to
say, a girl who is preparing to become a nun, and obliged
her to wear the regulation black. At present Rada acted
as teacher in the lowest class at the girls7 school, for which
she received a salary of ten pounds a year.
The lot of all orphan girls is a hard one. Too soon bereft
of a father's love and protection, as well as the tender care
of a mother, exposed to the kindness or cruelty of the world,
they grow up without ever an affectionate encouraging smile
being bestowed on them, surrounded by the indifferent faces
of strangers. They are like plants which have sprouted and
bloomed in some dark cellar, joyless and unscented. Let
but a gladdening ray of kindly light fall upon them, and
their hidden perfume scents the air.
Rada had grown up in the pernicious and suffocating
atmosphere of convent life, under the severe, unsympathetic
supervision of the old mischief-maker, and in the power of
that stony-hearted woman, who had never experienced the
holy feelings of maternal love : her young soul had pined
in the foul and marshy soil of conventual malice and talebearing. It never for a moment occurred to Hajji Rovoama
that she might have behaved more humanely to the orphan ;
she was too busy with her intrigues to see that her despotism
was daily becoming more felt and more insupportable to
Rada, in proportion as the girl's nature developed and her
self-respect increased. That is how Rada, though a schoolmistress, was to be seen waiting at table at the house of
Hajji Rovoama's brother Yordan.
For some days Rada had been very busy, because the

RADA'S

TRIALS.

63

annual examination-day was approaching. The eventful
morning arrived. The girls began to flock into school quite
early, all decked out and arrayed in their best by their
mothers. They flitted about like a swarm of bees, conning
their lessons over yet once more before the examination.
Church was over arid people began to crowd into the
schoolhouse, according to the custom, to be present at the
examination. The doors, windows, and platform, were
tastefully decorated with flowers, and the picture of Saints
Kiril and Metod * was half hidden by a gorgeous frame of
roses festooned with garlands of ivy. The front benches
were soon filled up by the pupils, and the rest of the floor
was occupied by the spectators, the most important being in
front, and some of these were even provided with chairs,
amongst the latter being several of our acquaintances. But
a few empty seats still remained for such distinguished
visitors as might yet come. Meanwhile, Rada was busily
marshalling her pupils along the benches, and whispering to
them a few last instructions. Her sweet face wTas flushed
with excitement on this momentous day, and her great
moist eyes made her look prettier than ever. Transparent
rosy clouds flitted across her cheeks and showed the agitation
of her simple soul. Rada felt that a hundred curious looks
were directed towards her, and the thought made her shy
and uncomfortable. But when the head schoolmistress
began her speech, and everybody's attention was fixed on
her, Rada felt a great relief, and began to pluck up her
courage. She even ventured to look round her; with delight
she noticed the absence of Kiriak StefchofT. The speech
ended in solemn silence, the custom of applauding not
having yet been introduced. The examination began, as
appointed in the programme, with the little ones in the lowest
class. The kind pleasant face of the head teacher and her
encouraging speech had inspired the children with confidence.
Rada followed the children's replies with the closest attention, and every little blunder they made was reflected by a
painful contraction of her features. But their clear, ringing
little voices, their tiny red lips which seem to attract kisses,
decided their fate. She caressed them with her glance,
* The pioneers of Slavonic civilisation, who introduced Chiistxanity
into Bulgaria, in the tenth century, and were the authors of the Cyrillic
alphabet.

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UNDER THE YOKE.

encouraged them with a heavenly smile, and tried to instil
her whole soul into their faltering little lips.
At that moment the crowd standing at the door divided
and made way for two belated guests, who passed along
quietly and sat down in the empty seats. Rada looked up
and saw them, The elder of the two was the chairman of
the School Committee—Chorbaji Micho—the other was
Kiriak Stefchoff. Involuntarily she grew pale with dismay.
But she tried hard not to see his face, which filled her with
aversion and terror.
Kiriak Stefchoff exchanged a few nods of recognition,
without, however, greeting his neighbour, Sokoloff, who did
not look at him : he crossed his legs and assumed a haughty
and defiant air. He listened carelessly, glancing every now
and then towards a corner where Lalka, Yordan's daughter,
was standing with her friends. Once or twice only he
scanned Rada from head to foot, sternly and contemptuously. His face expressed only self-conceit and ferocity.
From time to time he sniffed at a carnation which he held
in his hand. The teacher, Clement, handed the book to
Alafranga Mikhalaki, who, however, waved it away, saying he
would examine the children in French. The teacher
turned to the right and offered the book this time to
Stefchoff, who took it and moved his chair'forward.
A dull murmur arose from the crowd. Everybody stared
at Kiriak. The subject for examination was the abridged
history of Bulgaria. Stefchoff laid the book on the table,
passed his bands through his hair as if to refresh his
memory, and propounded a question aloud. The child
remained silent. The cold, repellent look of the examiner
froze her very soul to ice; she became confused, and did
not even remember the question, but glanced piteously at
Rada, as if to implore her aid. Stefchoff repeated his
question, but only a fresh silence followed.
" Let the child go and call another," he said coldly to the
teacher.
Another child appeared, and the question was put to her.
She heard it without understanding a word, and remained
speechless. Silence reigned also among the spectators,
who began to experience a painful sensation. The little
girl stood as if transfixed, but her eyes filled with tears
of mortification, which she was even too frightened to

R A DA'S

TRIALS.

65

shed. She tried to speak, but the effort was too much
for her.
" T h e subject appears to have been very carelessly taught
indeed. Please call another pupil."
Rada sadly uttered the name of a pupil.
The third child answered quite at random ; she had not
understood the question. Seeing a look of disapproval on
StefchofFs face she lost her self-control, and began to
look round her in despair. Stefchoff put another question. This time the child did not answer at all. Her
confusion was apparent • her lips quivered, bloodless;
suddenly she burst into tears, and ran to hide herself
where her mother was sitting. Everybody seemed to feel
oppressed. The mothers whose daughters had not yet
been called up looked on in doubt and fear, ,each one
trembling lest she should hear her daughter's name.
Rada stood like one thunderstruck.
Not a drop of
blood remained in her face; her cheeks quivered and her
bosom heaved with agitation. She did not dare to raise
her eyes. She seemed to herself to be sinking into the
ground; a feeling of intense oppression seized her, and it
was all she could do to restrain her tears.
The audience was unable to endure this extreme tension
any longer, and murmurs of disapproval were heard.
People looked at each other astounded, as if to ask, What
does all this mean? Everybody was anxious to put an
end to this impossible state of things. Only StefchofFs
triumphant countenance expressed satisfaction. The murmuring grew louder. Suddenly an ominous silence reigned;
everybody turned to Boicho Ognianoff, who had risen and
walked up to Stefchoff.
" Excuse me, sir," he said firmly. " I have not the
pleasure of your acquaintance, but your questions are so
abstract and so obscure that they would puzzle fifth-form
pupils. It is not fair to these poor children."
Then turning to Rada, he asked:
"Will you allow me, miss?" Then, as he stood, he
begged her to call up one of the children who had
failed.
A general feeling of relief followed.
A murmur of
sympathy and approval greeted OgnianofFs proceeding.
In a moment he had drawn all eyes to himself and gained
E

66

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YOKE.

the good wishes of all. The calumny launched by Hajji
Rovoama fell to the ground.
His open countenance,
pale with suffering and illuminated by a manly and
energetic look, won over all hearts irresistibly. The faces
of the spectators brightened ; they breathed again. Every
one saw with satisfaction that Ognianoff was master of the
situation.
Ognianoff asked the child, in simple words, the very same
question which StefchoiT had put to her. This time she
answered correctly. The mothers revived, and cast grateful
glances at the stranger. His name, which was new and
strange, passed from mouth to mouth, and remained
engraved on their hearts.
Another child was called up. She, too, answered as
satisfactorily as could be expected from a child of her
age.
Then all these children, who a moment ago had been in
a state of wild terror, began to cast friendly glances at
Ognianoff.
Their spirits rose; each was anxious to be
called first so as to go and talk with that kind man, whom
they all liked now.
Rada passed from one emotion to another. Dumfoundered, despairing, moved to tears but a moment
ago, she now looked gratefully at the kind and courageous
stranger who had come to her assistance at so critical a
moment. It was the first time she had ever met with such
warm and brotherly sympathy—and from a stranger too.
H e a spy! As he stood there he seemed to her a guardian
angel. H e had crushed Stefchorf like a worm. She was
triumphant; she breathed freely, and looked proudly and
happily on every side : on every side she met sympathetic
glances. Her heart melted with a grateful emotion, and
her eyes filled with tears.
Ognianoff addressed the third child in these words :
" Raina, my dear, can you tell me what Bulgarian Tsar
introduced Christianity among us—made us Christians ? "
And he looked kindly and gently into the innocent
little eyes turned up to him, which still bore traces of
tears.
The little girl hesitated for a minute, faltered with her
lips, and then in a clear ringing treble, like the morning-note
of the lark, she answered :

RADA'S

TRIALS.

67

" King Boris introduced Christianity among the Buigarians."
" Bravo, Raina ; quite right. Now can you tell me who
invented the Bulgarian alphabet ? "
The question puzzled the child a little. She tried to bring
herself to speak, but her timidity overcame her and she
nearly broke down.
Ognianoff came to her assistance. " I mean our A B C ,
dear—who found it out ? "
The child's countenance lighted up. Raina stretched out
her little arm, bare to the elbow, without uttering a word,
and pointed to SS. Kiril and Metod, who were looking
down on her approvingly.
" That's right, darling; SS. Kiril and Metod," exclaimed
several of the spectators in the front row.
" Well done, Raina. May SS. Kiril and Metod protect
you and grant you to become a queen," cried Pope Stavri,
much moved.
" Bravo, Raina ; you may go," said Ognianoff kindly.
Raina, proud and triumphant, ran to her mother, who took
her in her arms, pressed her to her heart, and covered her
with fond and foolish caresses and tears.
Ognianoff turned to the teacher Kliment and handed back
the book to him.
" Won't you examine my Subka, sir ?" asked Chorbaji
Micho of Ognianoff.
A bright-looking, fair-haired little girl was already in front
of him, watching him with an air of pleased expectation.
Ognianoff thought for a moment, and asked:
" Subka, can you tell me what Tsar it was that freed the
Bulgarians from the Greek yoke ? "
" The Bulgarians were freed from the Turkish yoke by
. . . ." the child began erroneously.
"No, no, Subka," cried her father. "You're to tell
us by what Tsar they were freed from the Greek yoke.
We all know what Tsar is to free us from the Turkish
yoke."
"What God has decreed no man can prevent," said Pope
Stavri.
Chorbaji Micho's simple remark caused much laughter in
the audience.
Subka cried eagerly; "The Bulgarians were freed from

68

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YOKE.

the Greek yoke by Tsar Asen, but they will be freed from
the Turkish yoke by Tsar Alexander of Russia."
She had misunderstood her father's words.
The schoolroom rang with the child's words.
But annoyance and disapproval were depicted on many
faces. All glanced mechanically at Rada, who blushed and
hung her head. Some of the glances cast on her were of
reproof, others of approbation. But every one felt uncomfortable. Stefchoff had recovered from his temporary downfall; he raised his head and looked round triumphantly.
Every one knew of his intimate relations with the Bey, and
his habit of fawning to the Turks; and they tried to read
from his face what he thought. Public feeling, which but a
moment before had been warmly in favour of Rada and
Ognianoff, cooled down and was replaced by a dull sense
of dismay. StefchofFs connections began to murmur their
disapproval in audible tones, and those who were welldisposed to the poor teacher remained silent. Poor old
Pope Stavri was overwhelmed with confusion. H e was
afraid for what he had said, and in his heart uttered a
fervent " Good Lord, have mercy upon us," But the two
camps were more sharply defined on the women's side.
Hajji Rovoama, especially, enraged at StefchofFs previous
discomfiture, looked daggers at Rada and Ognianoff and
blamed them aloud. She even called the latter a rebel,
forgetting that only a few days before she had proclaimed
him to be a spy. But there were others who were just as
loud in their defence. Mother Ghinka cried so that all
could hear her:
" W h a t ' s everybody making such a fuss about?
The child hasn't blasphemed, has she? She's only said
the plain truth. There, I don't mind saying so myself,
that Tsar Alexandri will liberate us, and no one
else."
" Be quiet, you stupid," whispered her mother.
As for Subka, she was quite bewildered. She had only
said what she had heard her father or his visitors say every
day, and she could not conceive why her words should have
caused such a commotion.
Stefchoff got up and turned to the spectators in the front
rows :
" Gentlemen," he said, " revolutionary ideas are being

BOICHO

OGNIANOFF.

69

expressed against the Government of H.I.M. the Sultan.
I cannot stop here and listen to such language."
H e went out, followed by Necho PironkorT and three
or four others. But his example found no other imitators.
After a minute's excitement people began to see that the
incident did not deserve special attention. A child had in
her innocence spoken a few misplaced words—but what
of that? Calm was restored, and with it the previous
feeling of sympathy towards Ognianoff, who from every
side of the room received friendly glances. He was the
hero of the day; he had on his side all the honest- minded
and all the mothers.
The examination proceeded and came to an end in
perfect quiet.
The pupils sang a song and the people dispersed satisfied.
When Ognianoff approached Rada to take leave of her, she
said to him earnestly, " Mr. Ognianoff, I thank you heartily
both for myself and my little girls. I shall never forget
your kindness;" so saying she gave him a look in which
deep gratitude was expressed.
" My dear young lady, I have been a teacher myself,
and felt for you—that's all. I congratulate you on the
success of your pupils," said Ognianoff, with a warm and
friendly grasp of the hand. After he had gone, Rada noticed
no one of all the visitors who came to congratulate and shake
hands with her.

CHAPTER XII.
BOICHO

OGNIANOFF.

T H E appearance in the town of Boicho Ognianoff (for
Kralich had definitively assumed the name by which
Vikenti had introduced him to Sokoloff at their first meeting
in the cemetery at K — ) naturally enough drew upon him
general attention. There had been a long discussion as
to what he should do, in which his three friends Vikenti,
Dr. Sokoloff and the Higoumen had taken part. At first
they were of opinion that he ought not to show himself in

70

UNDER THE YOKE.

public; but Ognianoff was able to disarm their apprehensions with ease. H e assured them that he was from
distant Widdin, where nobody from Bela Cherkva, except
Marko Ivanoff, had ever been—that he had been so long
absent that no one, even from there, would recognise him,
the sufferings of eight years' exile in Asia, coupled with the
climate, having aged him so much and changed him so
completely.
But so far from his enthusiasm for the ideas for which
he had suffered having been calmed down by exile and
suffering, they had made him a still more fervent idealist—
bold to madness, frenzied in his love for his country, and
chivalrous to the degree of self-sacrifice. Fateful occasions
have already shown him to us at work. Aye, he had come
to Bulgaria to work for its liberation. Such a man, who had
escaped from exile and was living under an assumed name,
who was bound by no family or social ties, exposed at
every minute to be betrayed or discovered, without any
future or purpose in life, could have been brought to
Bulgaria, or have been kept there after the double deed of
blood he had committed, only by some such great purpose
as this. How could he work so as to bring about some
result ? What was the field afforded for his labours ? What
could he do ? Was his aim possible of attainment ? H e
could not tell. All that he knew was that he would
encounter great difficulties and dangers, which indeed
began to beset him at the very beginning of his labours.
But, for such chivalrous natures as his, difficulty and
danger are but the anvil against which their strength is
hardened and welded. They are strengthened by opposition,
attracted by persecution, nourished by danger; for these
constitute a struggle, and every struggle fortifies and
ennobles. It is beautiful in the worm which raises its head
to bite the foot about to crush i t ; it is heroical when undertaken by a man for self-preservation; it is divine, when it
is on behalf of humanity.
In the first few days Hajji Rovoama's calumny had
averted from him many with whom his friends wished him
to become acquainted. But his triumph at the examinations,
occasioned by StefchofFs baseness, had in a moment closed
the mouths of his traducers, and opened to him all doors
and all hearts. Ognianoff became the favourite guest of the

BOICHO

OGNIANOFF.

7i

whole hamlet. He gladly accepted the offer by Marko
Ivanoff and Micho Beyzade of a situation as teacher, so as
to have some ostensible grounds for remaining there. His
colleagues were: Climent Belcheff, the head teacher;
Frangoff; the pupil-teacher Popoff; and the chorister Stefan
Merdivenjieff, who was the teacher of the Turkish language.
The first named was a Russian seminarist, and as such an
agreeable, unpractical visionary; when the superintendents
called on him he recited to them lines from Khomiakoff
and Derjavin's " God." Chorbaji Marko would have preferred stones on the greatness of Russia, or about Bonaparte.
The third was a hot and excitable youth, a former friend of
Levski's, who dreamt only of committees, revolutions, and
insurgents. He hailed with delight his new colleague, to
whom he at once became passionately devoted. The only
uncongenial person was Merdivenjieff, with his devotion to
the psalter and his love for the Turkish language. The first
showed a mind gone to rust; the second, one who bows
beneath the lash. For a Bulgarian who likes the Turkish
language must either love the Turks themselves or expect
some reward from them. Naturally this coincidence of
tastes united him with Stefchoff.
In accordance with the duties he had undertaken,
Ognianoff taught both in the boys' and in the girls' school,
consequently he "met Rada every day. Every time he saw
her he discovered fresh charms in the young girl, and one
fine morning he awoke to find himself deeply in love with
her. Need it be said that she already loved him in secret ?
From the day when he had so chivalrously come to her
assistance she had been filled with that potent feeling of
warm gratitude, which in a moment gives way to love. Her
poor little heart, thirsting after sympathy and affection, was
at once seized with an ardent, pure, and boundless love for
Ognianoff. In him she saw realised the dim ideal of her
dreams and her hopes, and under the beneficent influence
of this new emotion Rada bloomed and flourished like a
rose in May.
Two such pure and honest natures were fated to understand each other without need of a lengthy acquaintance, or
much preliminary intercourse. Every day Ognianoff found
a greater joy and relief in her conversation. His love for
her grew and flourished in his heart by the side of that

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UNDER THE YOKE.

other great love he had for his country. The one was a
giant pine, ready to withstand the furious storm-blast, the
other, a lowly flower, thirsting for sun and d e w ; both grew
on the same soil, but the rays which the sun shed on the
one did not reach the other.
Yet his heart was often oppressed by sad thoughts which
fell on it like lead. What would become of this innocent
creature, whose fate was becoming entwined with his own
uncertain destiny. Whither was he leading her? What
would be their end ? He, the combatant, the man of perils
and adversity, was he to draw towards his terrible path this
pure, loving child, whose life was only now beginning to
expand under the kindly fostering of love ? She sought for
and awaited from him a secure and happy future, joyful and
untroubled bliss beneath the new heavens his love had
created for her. Why was this poor girl to share the cruel
blows fate was preparing for him alone ?
No, it was his duty to disclose all to her, to pluck from
her eyes the veil of blindness, and to show her with what
manner of man she was uniting her lot. These thoughts
weighed heavily on his mind, and he determined to seek
relief in a full and open confession of the truth.
H e sought out Rada.
She had now left the convent and was living in one ol
the rooms of the school, modestly and even poorly furnished.
The only ornament the room boasted was its occupant.
OgnianofT knocked at the door and went in.
Rada received him with a smile on her tearful face.
" Rada, you've been crying? What is it, darling?" and
he tenderly clasped her head and caressed her blushing
cheeks.
She drew back, wiping her eyes.
" What's the matter, dear? " asked OgnianofT surprised.
" Sister Hajji Rovoama has just been here," answered
Rada in a broken voice.
" Has she been vexing and ill-treating you again ? Tell
me all about it. Why, some one has been trampling on my
songs!"
"You see, Boi'cho, the Sister threw them down and trampled on them—she found them on the table—* Revolutionary songs/ she called them, and then she abused you in such
terrible words. How can I help crying ? "

BOICHO

OGNIANOFF.

73

OgnianofT became serious.
" What terrible things did she say of me ? "
" What didn't she say ? She called you a rebel, a bandit,
a murderer ! My God, how can she be so merciless ! "
OgnianofT looked thoughtfully at Rada, and said :
" Listen to me, Rada, you and I are friends, but we don't
know each other y e t ; or rather you don't know me. The
fault is mine. Do you think you could love me if I really
was the kind of man they say l a m ? "
" No, dear; I know very well you're the most honourable
man in the world—that's why I love you; " so saying she
clung to his neck like a child, and looked lovingly into his
eyes.
H e smiled bitterly, moved by her simple faith.
" And don't you know me well enough ? Else how could
we have fallen in love with each other ? " whispered Rada,
still clinging to him.
OgnianofT kissed her affectionately, and said :
" Rada, my darling, if I am to be an honourable man, as
you call me, I must tell you things you know nothing about.
My love for you has kept me back till now, for fear of paining you, but my conscience impels me to speak. You must
know to whom you are binding yourself. I have no right
to remain silent any longer."
" T e l l me all—you'll always be the same to me," she
said, with emotion.
OgnianorT made her sit down, and seated himself beside
her.
" Rada, Hajji Rovoama says that T am a rebel. She
doesn't know what she means—she calls every decent youth
a rebel."
" Yes, dear, she's a very wicked woman."
" But I really am a rebel, Rada."
Rada looked at him astounded.
" Yes, Rada, and a real rebel, too, busy preparing an insurrection."
She sat motionless without uttering a word.
" We intend to begin the insurrection next spring. That's
why I came here." Rada remained silent.
" T h a t is my future—a future full of uncertainty and
danger."
Rada looked at him in dumb surprise, but said nothing.

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UNDER THE YOKE.

OgnianofT saw his fate in her cold silence. At every word
he said the, girl's devotion to him was dissolving into air.
He made an effort to keep calm, and proceeded with his
confession.
" That is my future ; now I must tell you my past life."
Rada fixed her troubled glance on him.
" I t is still darker, if not more terrible, Rada. Do you
know that for eight years I was imprisoned in Asia for a
political offence, and that I am a fugitive from Diarbekir,
Rada!"
Rada made no reply.
" Tell me, Rada, did the Sister say anything of all
this?"
" No ; she knows nothing of it," answered Rada faintly.
Ognianoff remained deep in thought for a moment, and
added:
" She called me a murderer and an assassin. She knows
nothing of that either, Rada ! She called me a spy only a
few days ago—but listen."
This time Rada felt something terrible was coming. She
grew deadly pale.
" Listen! I killed two men—and not very long ago."
Rada recoiled from him involuntarily.
Ognianoff did not dare to look at her; he was addressing
the wall 'j his heart seemed as if being crushed in an iron
vice.
" Yes, I killed two Turks—I, who had never harmed a
fly before in my life. I was bound to kill them, or they
would have violated a girl before my eyes—before me and
her father, whom they had bound. Yes, I'm a murderer,
and Diarbekir again awaits me, if not indeed the gallows !"
Rada turned and looked strangely at him.
" Go on—go on," she murmured wildly.
" I've told you all; you know who l a m now," answered
Ognianoff in a quivering voice. He waited to hear the
terrible sentence he could already read in her face.
Rada flung herself into his arms.
"You're mine!" she cried. "You're the noblest man
living—you're my hero, my beloved, beautiful hero ! "
And the two young lovers clasped each other in a fond
and passionate embrace, frenzied with love and happiness.

THE ROAD TO SILISTRIA.

75

CHAPTER XIII.
T H E ROAD TO SILISTRIA.

SUCH was the name given to a delightful grassy meadow in
the valley of the monastery, surrounded by branching
willows and tall walnuts and elms. Though it was already
late autumn, this sweet and shady spot still preserved intact
all its greenness and freshness, like Calypso's isle where
eternal spring reigned. Through the spreading branches
could be seen, north of this happy valley, two peaks of the
Stara Planina—the Crooks and the Point. Between these
stretched the main ridge of the Balkans, with its sharp
precipices and jagged rocks, below which murmured and
sparkled the rill. The cool mountain breeze softly fanned
the leaves, and brought the scent of the Balkans as well as
the murmur of the mills nearer. On the other side gleamed
the dry, bleached beds of the torrents which the winter
floods had scooped and hollowed out. The sun was at its
highest, and its rays, darting through the trees, rained on
the grass a shower of quivering flakes, round and golden.
A marvellous coolness and quiet reigned in that poetic spot,
which bore nevertheless so prosaic and inaccurate a name.
For no road, either to Silistria or anywhere else, had ever
passed through the lonely meadow, which nestled so gracefully beneath the hereabouts inaccessible Stara Planina. It
owed its designation not to its geographical situation, but to
a totally different and, so to speak, historical circumstance.
The pleasant coolness of this retired spot had made it for
many years past the favourite rendezvous for all picnics,
merrymakings, and orgies. It was in this Capua that many
a merry tradesman of Bela Cherkva, many a spendthrift
heir had made their money fly in a too prodigal conviviality:
when all was spent the decave, as a matter of course, took
the road to Silistria, where, thanks to the fertility of the
country and the backwardness of its inhabitants, an easily
earned livelihood—sometimes even a fortune—was to be
found: and the success of the first emigrants from Bela
Cherkva had attracted others to the promised land—the
Plains of Silistria.
In this manner Silistria and its surrounding villages had

76

UNDER THE YOKE.

received quite a number of the roysterers of Bela Cherkoa,
who acted as the pioneers of civilisation in that benighted
country; for, amongst others, they had supplied it with a
round dozen of popes and upwards of twenty school-teachers.
So that for the inhabitants of our hamlet it was the most
direct road to Silistria.
In spite of its fatal significance, the glory of the " Road to
Silistria" continued to flourish and to attract all who had
a taste for jaunts and merrymaking ; nor were these few in
number, for with all its hardships bondage has yet this one
advantage : it makes a nation merry. Where the arena of
political and scientific activity is closely barred, where the
desire of rapid enrichment finds no stimulant, and farreaching ambition has no scope for its development, the
community squanders its energy on the trivial and personal
cares of its daily life, and seeks relief and recreation in
simple and easily obtainable material enjoyment. A flask
of wine sipped beneath the cool shade of the willows by
some clear murmuring rivulet will make one forget one's
slavery ; the native guvech (stew) with its purple egg-plants,
fragrant parsley, and sharp pepper-pods, enjoyed on the
grass under the spreading branches overhead, through which
peeps the blue distant sky, constitutes a kingdom, and if
only there be a gipsy piper present, is the height of earthly
bliss. An enslaved nation has a philosophy of its own
which reconciles it to its lot. When a man is irretrievably
ruined, he often puts a bullet through his head or ends his
life in some equally rapid and decisive manner. But a
nation, however hopeless its bondage, never ends its own
existence : it eats, drinks, begets children. It enjoys itself.
If one but look at the poetry of a nation, one finds clearly expressed the national spirit, the nation's life, and its views of
existence. There, amid cruel torments, heavy chains, dark
dungeons, and festering wounds, is yet interwoven the mention of fat, roasted lambs, jars of red wine, potent raki,
interminable marriage feasts, and mazy dances on the green
sward beneath the shade ; these form the subject of a whole
anthology of national songs.
By the time that Sokoloff and Ognianoff arrived, the
" Road to Silistria " was already echoing with the shouts of
the gay company. There were present, amongst others,
Nikolai Netkovitch, an educated and enlightened youth;

THE ROAD TO SI LI

STRIA.

11
Kandoff, a student at a Russian university, who had come
to the Balkan for the benefit of his health, a man of wide
reading but a thorough idealist, imbued with all the Utopias
of Socialism; Fratio-Frangoff, the teacher, a hot-headed
youth ; Popoff, an exalted patriot; Pope Dimcho, also a
patriot, and at the same time a drunkard; and Blind Kolcho.
The latter, who was completely blind, was a shrivelled-up
little fellow with a thin and wizened but intelligent face ; he
played the flute with much skill, and was accustomed to
wander over the length and breadth of Bulgaria, his powers
as a wit and story teller rendering him an indispensable
guest at all festivities.
The meal was already laid out on a bright rug on the
grass. Two great demi-johns—one of red wine, the other
of white—were cooling in the mill-stream which flowed
below the meadow. A party of gipsies were merrily fiddling
away and singing Turkish love songs lustily. A clarionet
and two cymbals completed the noisy orchestra. The meal
was a merry one. Toasts followed fast, being drunk sitting,
as was then the custom.
The first toast was proposed by Ilicho the Inquisitive.
" Here's a health to all of us, boys ! To all of us God
grant whatever most we want. May H e His fear instil in
those who wish us ill, and send His wrath on those who
fain would be our foes."
Glasses clashed gaily.
" Long live all of us ! " cried Frangoff.
" I drink to the ' road to Silistria' and its pilgrims ! "
declared Pope Dimcho.
PoporT raised his glass, and cried :
" Brothers, to the Lion of the Balkans ! "
The music, which had ceased, now struck up again and
interrupted the toasts: but Fratio, who had not yet proposed
his, beckoned to the gipsies to stop, rose to his feet, and
said enthusiastically, glass in hand :
" Gentlemen, I propose the health of Bulgarian liberte.
Vivat!" And he emptied his glass. But the company,
who did not quite understand what he meant, kept their
glasses full, thinking from his excited air that he meant to
make a speech. Fratio was astonished at meeting with no
response, became confused, a,nd sat down again.

73

UNDER THE

YOKE.

" What is it you mean, sir?" asked KandofT coldly, turning
to Fratio. Fratio frowned.
" I thought I had made myself quite intelligible, sir," he
said : " I drank to Bulgarian Liberty !" The last word he
spoke low, with a look of suspicion at the gipsies.
" But what do you understand by liberty ? " insisted the
student.
Sokoloff turned to them.
" I think we ought rather to drink to Bulgarian bondage.
Bulgarian Liberty does not exist."
"Not yet, but we will get it."
" How will you get it ? "
" By drinking its health," said some one ironically.
" No, by fighting for it," cried Fratio, in excitement.
" All right, Fratio, you try, then—an ox is bound by the
horns, but a man by his word."
" The sword, gentlemen, the sword!" and Fratio shook
his fist frenziedly.
" Then I drink to the sword, the God of slaves," said
Ognianoff, raising his glass.
This electrified the assemblage.
" Agoush," cried some one, " play ' Proud Nikifor* determined/ " which was then the Bulgarian Marseillaise.
The music struck up and the whole party began to sing;
when they came to the line " Strike, slay, until the land be
freed!" the excitement became intense, and knives and
forks were brandished in frenzy.
Fratio had seized a huge knife, with which he was slashing
the atmosphere. With one wild gesticulation he struck a
large glass of red wine that the boy was taking to some one.
The wine was split, and Fratio's light summer coat and
trousers were drenched.
"Fool! "cried Fratio.
" Don't be angry, Gospodin Fratio," said Pope Dimcho ;
" don't you know that where there is striking and slaying
blood will be spilt ? "
At this stage every one was shouting his loudest, and
each was inaudible to the other, for the musicians were
playing a Turkish march, with a deafening accompaniment
of cymbals.
* An allusion to the defeat of the Byzantine Emperor Nikifor
(Nicephorus) by the Bnlgaiians in A.D. 811.

THE ROAD

TO

SILISTRIA.

79

OgnianofT and Kandoff had separated from the others and
were carrying on a discussion under a tree. Nikolai
Netkovitch had also joined them.
"You tell me that we must prepare for the struggle,"
said Kandoff, continuing the discussion, " because its
object is freedom. But what is this freedom ? We are to
have a prince—that is to say, a petty Sultan—of our own;
we're to be oppressed by officials ; monks and priests are
to fatten on our toil; and the army will sap the very lifesprings of the nation. Is this your freedom ? I would not
sacrifice a drop of blood from my little finger for it."
" B u t listen to me, Mr. Kandoff," answered Netcovitch.
" N o one respects your principles more than I do, but they
have no place here. What we want is political freedom—
that is, to be masters of our own land and our own
destinies."
Kandoff shook his head in dissent.
" Well, then, explain this to me. You will appoint new
masters in place of the old ; you don't want the Sheikh-ulIslam, but you will set up another, whom you call the Exarch
—that is to say, you replace one tyrant by another. You
impose rulers on the nation, and annihilate every idea of
equality; you consecrate the right of the strong to despoil
the poor, of capital to oppress labour. Give to your
contest a more humanitarian, a more modern object; make
it a struggle not only against the Turkish yoke, but also for
the triumph of modern principles—that is, the destruction
of those foolish distinctions, consecrated by the prejudices of
centuries, such as the throne, religion, the right of property
and of the stronger, of which human brutality has constituted unassailable principles. Read Herzen, Bakounin,
Lassalle. Leave this narrow, animal patriotism, and raise
the standard of rational modern humanity and sober science.
Then I am with you."
" The ideas you express," answered Ognianoff sharply,
" show your erudition, it is true, but prove only too clearly
how ignorant you are of the Bulgarian question. Under
the standard you speak of you would find yourself alone—
the nation would not understand it. You must bear in
mind, Mr. Kandoff, that through the nation we can attain
only one rational and possible object—that is, the destruction of the Turkish rule. We see before us only one

So

UNDER THE YOKE.

enemy—the T u r k ; and it is against that enemy that we
will rise. As for the principles of Socialism to which you
have treated us, we cannot stomach them. Bulgarian
common sense rejects them, and they will never find a
field in Bulgaria, either now or at any other time. Your
high-sounding principles and standards of ' modern thinking humanity and the sober science of reason' only serve
to confuse the subject. What we have to do is to protect
our homes, our honour, our lives from the lowest zaptie
who may choose to assail them. Before solving general
problems of social science—or, more correctly, obscure
theories—we must free ourselves from our chains. Those
writers whose teachings you have mastered neither know
nor care about us and our sufferings. We can rely only
upon the nation, in which we cannot but include the
Chorbaji class and the clergy : they represent forces which
we must make use of. Abolish the zaptie, and the nation
attains its ideal. You may have another ideal, but it is not
that of the nation.''
Just then the music stopped and the noise ceased. The
blind boy was playing on his flute, from which issued
sounds of astonishing sweetness.
" Come here, you fellows. What are you philosophising
about there ? " cried some to the three disputants.
These, however, did not even turn round; the discussion
continued to rage hotly.
Blind Kolcho continued to play for some time amid
solemn silence, the whole party, though some were more or
less excited by their potations, enjoying the soothing
melody of his flute. Suddenly he stopped and said :
" What do you think I can see ? "
There was a general laugh.
" Will you guess ? ;? asked Kolcho.
" What will you give us if we guess right ? " asked some.
" My astronomical telescope."
"Where is i t ? "
" In the moon."
" Y o u can see the rosy cheeks of Todorich's daughter
Milka," said Pope Dimcho.
" Not I ! I'd rather kiss them than see them—it's more
in my line."
" Well, you can see Mr. Fratio," said PopofF, for Fratio

THE ROAD TO SILISTRIA.

81

was standing in front of the blind man and waving his arms
about."
" How can one see the wind ? "
" The sun, then ! "
" No, you're wrong again—the sun and I fell out long ago,
and I've sworn I'll never look at him as long as I live."
" Well, you see the night," said the doctor.
" No, no ; what I see is the glass of wine you're going to
give me-—confound it, you've forgotten me."
At once a number of glasses were poured out and brought
to him.
" Your health, everybody," he said, and emptied his
glass.
" But what am I to have, as you couldn't guess ? "
" The other glasses we poured out for you."
" How many of them are there ? "
" Seven—the same number as the deadly sins."
a
Well, I'd rather have the forty holy martyrs, if I were in
his place," remarked Pope Dimcho.
" Well said—here's luck 1"
u
Vive la Bulgarie, vive la Republique des Balkans," cried
Fratio in French.
Dusk, however, broke up the revels, and a move was
made towards the town.
" Boys, don't forget the rehearsal at the school to-morrow,"
cried Ognianoff.
" What are you going to act ? " asked the student.
u
Genevieve,
" Why did you choose that old piece ? "
" For two reasons—first because it's not of a seditious
character—the Chorbajis insisted on that; and, secondly,
because every one has read it and wants it. We had to consult their tastes ; what we want is large takings ; we have to
buy newspapers and books for our reading room, as well as
" other things."
The band, merry and boisterous, made for the town^ and
was soon lost among the gardens which the evening twilight
was already enveloping. In a quarter-of-an-hour they
made their victorious entry in the already dark streets of the
town, lustily singing revolutionary songs. This seditious
demonstration brought the women and children in crowds to
their thresholds
F

82

UNDER THE

YOKE.

Ognianoff, however, was not among them. While yet in
the fields a little boy had brought him hurriedly some
message, and he had left his companions without being
noticed.

CHAPTER XIV.
AN UNFORESEEN MEETING.

OGNIANOFF struck towards the north, and made his way in
the direction of the ridge of the Balkans. It was already
dark. The sun had set peacefully and majestically. Its
last rays that gilded the lofty summits of the Stara Planina
were vanishing. Only a few clouds, with golden fringes to
the westward, still smiled at the sun from their height in the
pure, ethereal atmosphere. The valley was now quite
wrapped in gloom. The white torrent-beds in the west
were plunged in the dim shade which was stealing,
darker and darker, over the monastery meadows, the rocks,
and the walnuts, willows, and pear trees, whose outlines
were gradually becoming faint and blurred. Not a single
flutter or chirp from that world of birds that all day long had
made the valley gay—they were silent in their nests,
securely perched on the branches or hidden under the eaves
of the monastery. Jointly with the darkness reigned the
weird and melancholy quiet of the night; the only sound
that broke the utter solitude was the roar oi the mountain
torrents. Now and again the wind would carry the distant
tinklings of some belated herd scampering home to the
town. Soon the moonlight shone forth and enhanced the
charm of that idyllic hour. A golden flood poured over
plain and trees, which cast marvellous shadows on the
ground. The dry water-courses showed out more clearly
against the dark background of the old ruins; the new
cupola towered white and tall above the gables and poplars
of the monastery, and behind it, high in the heavens, soared
the summits of the Stara Planina till they were lost in the
dark blue depths above.
Ognianoff passed behind the monastery and followed up
the mill-stream, which issued from beneath a dark copse of

AN UNFORESEEN MEETING.
83
thick-branching walnuts ; he passed under this rustling roof,
crossed the stream on the huge blocks of stone that
sprawled across its course, and soon appeared on the ridge
of the Balkan whence the stream flowed.
There the scene changed : it became wilder and more
majestic. On either side of the stream the rocks rose steep
and bare, broken here and again by the torrents, and above
the jagged crags peered down in fantastic shapes. The
moonlight reached only the topmost peaks of the rocks; all
the rest was plunged in gloom. Here the noise of the
waterfalls became deafening, and reverberated with the
echoes of the wall of rock on either side. The wind sighed
and sobbed out its autumnal plaint through the bushes : the
valley became gradually wilder and more desolate.
Ognianoff pushed his way perilously along the stormworn path, which was indeed only used by day, being too
treacherous to venture along by night. H e remembered
that some six months before he had passed there when he
had come down from the mountain and made his entry over
the wall into Marko's yard. Soon the path was quite
hidden from view in the increasing darkness. H e could
scarcely pick his footing through the sharp-pointed rocks
that strewed the way before him. Had any one seen him
at that moment and in that wild place, now crawling, now
leaping from crag to crag, he would have taken him for a
wild beast rather than a human being. Suddenly a new
sound struck his ear : it was the rumbling of the mill. H e
advanced bolder and more confidently towards it. • Soon
in the dark depths of the valley he discerned the roof of
Father Stoyan's mill, and in a moment he had reached it.
Father Stoyan met him outside the door.
" What is it ?" asked Ognianoff hurriedly and anxiously.
" Nothing, thank God ! "
This answer relieved Ognianoff at once. H e had begun
to fear that something had been found out concerning the
adventure with the two Turks, and that this was the reason
why old Stoyan had sent for him.
" What did you want me for ? " asked Boi'cho again.
"Nothing. Forgive me, Master, for having given you
the trouble of coming here, but as it was — "
And old Stoyan, lowering his voice, added :
" I'd have sent for our Vikenti, only he's down with fever

84

UNDER THE YOKE.

just now; and as our Christo told me he'd seen you near
the monastery, thinks I, < Let's send for the Master, that'll
be better still' But you'll forgive me, won't you, Master ? "
Boicho began to grow impatient.
" Well, but what is it ? "
" What, didn't you ask the boy ? "
" No."
" Well, that's odd. Bother the boy! I told him that if
you asked him he was to whisper it in your ear. This is
what's happened, master "—and he lowered his voice still
more—" a friend's come."
"What friend?"
"Why, one of us."
"One of us?"
" Why, yes, a Nationalist."
"Who is he?"
" I don't know. He came down from the mountain last
night, and made straight for me. He frightened me at first;
I thought he was a brigand. You'll see what a state he's
in; his legs are like broomsticks. But he turned out all right."
" Did he say who he was or where he was coming from ? "
asked OgnianofT, deeply interested.
" I asked him, but all he answered was that he was flying
from the Turks and had come down the mountain."
" Didn't he ask for anything ? "
" Yes ) he asked for a piece of bread—hadn't eaten for
four days, he said. And he asked me to send for some
good friend—some Nationalist—to come and have a talk
with him. First, I thought of the deacon, but this confounded fever of his hasn't left him ; so then I sent for you."
" Quite right, Father Stoyan."
" Forgive me, Master, for the trouble I've given you."
" Not I ; I'm glad of it. Where's your guest ? "
" I've got him carefully stowed away. Come with me."
And Father Stoyan led him into the mill.
It was in complete darkness.
He lighted a petroleum lamp, guided Boicho between the
wall and the mill-stones, past two corn-bins, and stopped
before a little door, over which were still hanging great
cobwebs half torn away, showing it had long been kept closed.
<' What, is he in there ? "

AN UNFORESEEN MEETING.

85

" Rather! The cat doesn't steal the milk that's put
away—isn't that so, Master ? "
And Father Stoyan knocked at the door, and called out:
" Now, sir, come out, if you please."
The door opened, and a young man appeared, glancing
cautiously round him. He was short and weakly in
appearance, with a very diminutive face, long unshaven : his
countenance wore a bright, eager look, and his movements
were lithe and active; but what struck Ognianoff was his
utter weakness and emaciation. He was dressed in the
coarse white clothes usually worn by Macedonian peasants,
and trimmed with the traditional braiding, knobs, and tassels
on the back, breast and knees, but completely worn out, so
that the naked skin showed through many a rent
At the first glance both he and Ognianoff exclaimed with
surprise :
" Mouratliski!"
"Kralich!"
And they rushed into each other's arms and embraced
warmly.
" What ? You ? Where have you come from ? " asked
Ognianoff, who recognised in Mouratliski a comrade from
the band of insurgents to which he had belonged.
"Never mind me. Where have you been all this time ?
Is it really you, Kralich ? "
Kralich turned back with a start, pointed to the mill, and
addressed Stoyan, who stood motionless in front of them
holding the lamp:
" Father Stoyan, put out the light and shut the door—or
rather never mind—we'll go out. There's too much noise
here to talk."
Father Stoyan led the way with the lamp, and shut the
door behind them, saying :
" There, you have a good talk together. I'm going to
bed. When you feel sleepy come in and lie down."
The valley was completely obscure, but the opposite side
of the rocks was brightly lit up by the moon. Ognianbff
and his companion went into the darkest part of the valley,
and seated themselves on a broad ledge of rock, by the side
of which the torrent foamed past.
" Let's shake hands again, brother," said Ognianoff,
feelingly.

S6

UNDER THE

YOKE.

" Why, Kralich, whatever brought you here? I last
heard of you in the paradise of Diabekir."
; "And you, Dobri? haven't you gone to the gallows
yet ? " asked Boi'cho in jest.
They were very old and intimate acquaintances. A common fate and common sufferings will unite the most
divergent of characters : how much more then two such
as Boicho and Mouratliski, who were brothers in arms and
in ideas.
" Well, tell us all about it," added Mouratliski, "your story
dates further back, so you take precedence. When did you
come back from Diarbekir ? "
" You mean, when did I escape?"
" What ? did you escape ? "
" Yes, last May."
" And you managed to get here unmolested ? What road
did you take ? "
" I went on foot from Diarbekir to Russian Armenia:
from there through the Caucasus to Odessa, thanks to the
assistance of the Russians. At Odessa, I got a steamer
to Varna, and from there over the mountains to the
shepherd's huts near Troyan, then over the Stara-Planina
to Bela Cherkva."
" But what made you pick out Bela Cherkva ? "
" I was afraid to go anywhere where I didn't know anyone ; on the other hand, I fought shy of former friends, not
knowing what might be their views now. I remembered
that my father's best friend, a very worthy man, lived at
Bela Cherkva : no one else could possible know me there;
indeed, he wouldn't have known me if I hadn't told him
who I was."
" Well, I recognised you at once. So you stayed on ? "
" Yes, that friend of my father's got me a situation as a
schoolmaster, and till now, thank God, everything has gone
well."
" So now you've become a schoolmaster, Kralich ? "
"Ostensibly—a schoolmaster; but, in reality, the same
old trade."
" What—preaching ? "
" Yes, revolution."
"Well, how are you getting on? We made a mess of
our business."

AN UNFORESEEN

MEETING.

87

" For the present things are going well. The people's
minds are much excited, the soil is volcanic : Bela Cherkva
was one of Lqvski's nests."
" And what's your plan ? "
" As yet we haven't any. We're preparing the rebellion
theoretically, so to speak, and waiting for something to
turn up. But the movement grows stronger every day, not
only here but round about, and we shall have a rebellion
sooner or later."
" Bravo, Kralich! Well done ! You're a marvellous
fellow."
" Come, let me hear about your trials, now."
" Oh, you know all about that business. We made
such a mess of it at Stara Zagora that we daren't look any
one in the face."
"No, no; begin from the beginning, from where our
band was routed and we all separated. Remember, I've
had eight years of Diarbekir, and I've heard nothing of you
or any of my friends all the time."
Mouratliski stretched himself out at full length on the
rock, placed his hands under his head, and in that position
of repose told his story in detail. He had taken part in the
Sofia conspiracy under Dimitr Obshti,* and in the attack on
the Orkhanie mail. He had been betrayed, arrested, and
flung into prison, and had only by some miracle escaped
the gallows or Diarbekir. Later he had gone to Roumania,
where he had wandered for a year and a half, struggling
against famine and misery; from thence he had returned to
Bulgaria on a mission, to fight against the terrors and perils
which encompass an agitator. That spring he had appeared
at Stara Zagora, and had laboured with enthusiasm to
prepare the insurrection.f After the lamentable failure of
the movement, during which he had been slightly wounded
by the Turks at the short engagement at Elkhovo, he had
made for the Stara Planina, pursued by the Turkish patrols
and even by the Bulgarian shepherds to whom he had
applied for a piece of bread or a change of clothes.
For ten days he had wandered over the Balkan, exposed
* In 1873.
t This abortive movement (the chief leader of which was M. Stamboloff, now Bulgarian Prime Minister), bioke out on the 16th (28)
September, 1875, and was at once suppressed by the Turks.

88

UNDER THE YOKE.

to a thousand dangers and sufferings. His terrible hunger
had forced him to come down from the mountains and beg,
revolver in hand, for a piece of bread from the first living
man he should meet. Fortunately, he had come upon
Father Stoyan. He related with gratitude how kindly the
miller had received him ; he was, he said, the first man who
had treated him with humanity since he had been wandering
on the Stara Planina.
Mouratliski stopped. The river rippled past their feet.
Around all was still. The moonlit rocks opposite them
were soundless. Only on the peaks of the hills the night
breeze rustled among the wild lilac and other low shrubs.
Ognianoff had followed eagerly Mouratliski's recital of his
adventures and dangers. He seemed himself to be passing
through all those emotions and sufferings, to feel the same
bitter disenchantment and shame at the baseness and
cowardice of the people, by which the repression of a revolution is usually followed. Now, with a brother's interest,
he was pondering how to assist Mouratliski.
" Well, what do you think of doing now ?" asked Boi'cho.
" I shall go back to Roumania, if you can only get me
clothes and a passport."
Ognianoff became thoughtful.
a
What are you going to do there?"
" I shall bide my time, and when the revolution breaks
out I shall be there—I can't help it—what's born in the
flesh, you know."
" That's no good; you're not fit to travel till you've recovered a little. Stay here !"
" What, and hide ? No, I can't do that. I don't want a
voluntary imprisonment."
"Yes, but you won't want to hide," cried Ognianoff, after
half a minute's reflection.
"Why not?"
" You'll go about the town as freely as I do, and we shall
work together."
"With all my heart. But are you mad, Kralich? I
should be caught the very first day. They're looking for
me behind every tree."
" They're looking for insurgents and Bulgarians."
" Well, and what do you think I am ?" he said laughingly.

AN UNFORESEEN

MEETING.

89

" You will be a respectable and peaceful photographer,
and, what's more, an Austrian."
" I don't understand you."
Ognianoff smiled and continued, trying to see Mouratliski's face in the dark.
" Your hair and beard are as long as a dervish's. Tomorrow night I shall take you to my rooms, and we'll get
rid of this thatch. We'll leave you only your whiskers.
You won't mind ? "
" All right; what next?"
" Next, we shall shave off your moustache."
"Well, I suppose that must go too," said Mouratliski,
smiling.
" After that, we'll Europeanise you a little. A friend of
mine, who arrived yesterday from Roumania, will give us
an old velvet suit. I've got a railway guard's cap with a
gold band; and then ' Goot morgen, main Kherr.'"
" Very well. I shall become an Austrian; but how am
I going to make out that I'm a photographer ? "
"You'll have a photographic apparatus. Three years
ago the photographer Christoff lived at Bela Cherkva as an
agitator. When he went away he left behind his apparatus,
which was out of order, with a very good friend of mine,
called Netkovitch. We'll have the camera mended as best
we may, and buy you all the plates, acids, and cards you
want, and then you can start off photographing our worthy
townspeople."
" But I've never ever dreamt about photography."
" Oh, you'll learn it fast enough. You'll twist their eyes,
knock off their noses, distort their mouths, and mutilate their
faces a little at first, but you'll soon be a master in the art."
" Well, you shall be my first victim."
" All right."
"And I'm not to talk Bulgarian."
" Not a word, you're to avoid it carefully. All that
you'll talk is German or Bohemian. Czech is very similar
to our language, and people will understand one word in
ten ; then as time goes by you may begin with a little
broken Bulgarian. I suppose you haven't forgotten your
Czech."
" I was only in Pisek for a year, after your time, but I
remember enough to ask for bread, water, and so forth."

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"So much the better, because the passport I have is
made out in Czech for a certain Yaroslav Brzobegounek."
" What ? Yaroslav Brzobegounek ? "
" Yes, a glorious Czech name, and not unfitting for you;
you're a real Brzobegounek; * haven't you gone over half the
Balkan Peninsula on foot ? So, then, Dobri Mouratliski,
from to-morrow you will be Pan Yaroslav Brzobegounek,
an Austrian Czech, born with a photographic apparatus on
his back !" .
And Ognianoff took off his hat with mock solemnity.
" Good morning, Pan Yaroslav, will you take my photograph ! " he asked, in Czech.
"With pleasure, Pan Yane," answered Mouratliski, in the
same language.
" Stop, I'm no longer Ivan Kralich \ here I'm known as
Bo'icho Ognianoff, don't forget."
" Well, you have the advantage of me, you haven't to get
into a completely foreign skin—ah, Pan Yane, Pan Yane."
" Pan Boicho, didn't I tell you," cried Ognianoff, " you're
quite likely to betray me through your carelessness. You
must remember your part well, Pan Yaroslav."
Half an hour later they went back to the mill, locked the
door carefully, and stretched themselves out to sleep on
the sacks of grain, to the deafening and monotonous sound
of the mill.

CHAPTER XV.
A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE.

IN the morning Ognianoff started for the town. He crossed
the ridge of the Balkan and emerged at the monastery. In
the field by the monastery, under the great walnut trees, the
Higoumen was pacing up and down, bareheaded. He was
enjoying the morning beauty of that romantic spot, and was
breathing in deep draughts of the sweet health-giving
mountain air. The autumnal nature had a new charm in the
russet leaves of the trees, the yellow, velvety summits of the
Balkan, and the general tokens of melancholy and decay.
* Le.} Swift in flight,

A VOICE FROM THE GRA VE.

9i

OgnianofT and the higoumen greeted one another.
"These are charming spots, father," said OgnianofT;
"you're lucky in being able to live in the midst of Nature,
and to enjoy, peacefully, her divine charms. If I ever feel a
vocation to take up your calling it will be out of love for
nature and her eternal beauty."
"Take care, OgnianofT; you would be coming down in
the world if you became a monk after being an apostle.
No, no; stay as you are. Besides, I wouldn't have you in
my monastery; you'd peivert even Father Yerote, you're
such a godless atheist," said the higoumen in jest.
"What kind of an old boy is he?" asked Boicho
irreverently.
" A very respected and honourable brother, whose only
failing is that he's too fond of his money; I think he plants
it in the ground so that it may grow. Whenever we ask him
for any, for common expenses, he grumbles so much that
we've made a proverb out of him—he grumbles like Father
Yerote, we say. But where are you coming from so early ? "
" I spent the night at Father Stoyan's mill."
"Why? did you have a scare?" and the higoumen
looked at him with some surprise.
" No, no—but a friend has turned up."
^ Upon which OgnianofT related to him briefly his meeting
with Mouratliski.
" Why ever didn't you bring him to the monastery ? " said
the higoumen, reproachfully. "You must have slept on
the sacks of corn ! "
" We ' Koumitajis' * can put up with a good deal."
" Well—well—God bless you. What did you say you had
christened him ? "
"Yaroslav Brzobegounek."
Father Natanail laughed.
" You apostles are a funny lot; but take care your waterpot isn't upset for the third time."
"Never you fear; there's a God for us Koumitajis as
well as for brigands," said Boicho, smiling significantly.
" Why, you've brought your rifle with you," noticing Father
Natanail's rifle leaning against a willow-tree.
* All insurgents or suspected insurgents were supposed by the Turks
to be connected with the Revolutionary Committees at Bucharest or
Belgrade, and were hence'called *' Koumitajis'' or Committee-men.

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"Yes; I thought I'd try it this morning. It's a long
time since I had it in my hand. You fellows have
excited the whole population, and we have music now
every day in front of the monastery—nothing but shooting:
enough noise to stir up the dead, let alone an old sinner
like me."
" Well, it's a good thing to try your hand again, Father
Higoumen."
As they walked on the two came to the mill of the
terrible night. The mere sight of it brought deep furrows
to Ognianoff's brow.
The mill was now closed. Stoyan the miller had left it
and taken another, situate, as we have already seen, on the
monastery stream.
The mill, deserted and covered with moss, resembled a
grave in that beautiful spot.
At that moment Mouncho had stealthily approached ; he
stopped and fixed his eyes on Ognianoff. A strange smile
played over. his idiot's countenance. In that look, bereft
of reason, could be read the mingled affection, fear, and
surprise which Boicho had awakened in his mind. Years
before he had cursed Mohammad before an on-bashi, who
had beaten him till he lay senseless on the ground. From
that time his obscured conscience had retained only one
feeling, one thought—a terrible, demoniacal hatred of the
Turks. He happened to witness the slaughter of the two
ruffians in the mill and their burial afterwards", and had
conceived an unbounded admiration and reverence for
Ognianoff. This feeling amounted almost to worship. He
called him the Russian for some inexplicable reason. The
first night he had been terribly scared by confronting him
on the verandah, but he had since become accustomed to
Ognianoff's frequent visits to the monastery. He seemed
fascinated by him—could not take his eyes off him, and
regarded him as his protector. Whenever the servants
teased him he would threaten them with the Russian. " I
shall tell the Russian to kill you too," drawing his fingers
across his throat. But nobody understood what he meant
by these words, fortunately, for he would repeat them in the
town when he went there. The higoumen and Boicho paid
no heed to Mouncho, who continued shaking his head and
smiling amiably.

A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE.

93

" Look! there's the on-bashi coming this way," said the
higoumen.
In truth, the on-bashi was approaching with his gun on
his shoulder and a knapsack slung round his back. He
was going out shooting.
The on-bashi was about thirty-five years of age, with a
yellow, bloated face, a high projecting forehead, small grey
eyes, and an inert, sleepy look. He was evidently an
opium-eater. After a few words of greeting and a little
talk on the prospects of sport that year, the on-bashi took
the higoumen's rifle, examined it carefully, as every sportsman does, and said:
" That's a good rifle, your worship—what are you going
to fire at ? "
"Well, I was just thinking, Sherif Aga. I haven't had it
in my hand for a year, and I thought I'd have a shot this
morning."
" What's to be the mark ? " asked the on-bashi, eagerly
taking his Martini from his shoulder and evidently
desirous of showing his skill.
"Well, that great thistle on the bank, near the clay-pit
there," said the higoumen.
The on-bashi looked surprised.
" That's a very long way off," he said : however, he
walked to a rock in the field, steadied his rifle on it, aimed
for about ten seconds, and fired. The bullet struck some
paces distant from the mark.
Sherif Aga reddened and showed some uneasiness.
" Let's have another shot," he said, again leaning against
the stone and aiming for nearly a minute. When the gun
went off he rose and ran towards the bank, but the thistle
was still towering above it.
" Confound the thing," he said angrily, " it's no good
aiming at a mark so far off. You fire now, Higoumen
Effendi, only I warn you that you're wasting your cartridge. However, try and hit the thistle!" he added
ironically.
The higoumen raised his gun to his shoulder, ran his eye
along the barrel, and fired.
The weed had disappeared.
"The good old gun hasn't played me false," said the
higoumen.

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" It's a fluke," cried the on-bashi, " try again."
The higoumen now aimed at the next thistle and fired.
The bullet again struck the mark. The on-bashi grew pale
with rage:
"Your eye's wonderfully true, Higoumen EfTendi, but I'd
lay a wager it's not a year since you fired that rifle. Well,
you might give a few lessons to these youngsters of yours
who're here firing all day long." Then he added maliciously,
" They seem very excited about something. But in the end
they'll get a devilish good hiding—mark my words." And
the on-bashi's look became fiercer and more ominous, as he
turned to Ognianoff.
All this time Mouncho had stood at a respectful distance,
but his features were distorted out of all shape with abject
terror accompanied at the same time by bestial hatred.
H e now cast a threatening look at the on-bashi, gnashing
his teeth and clenching his fists like a man about to attack
some one. The on-bashi mechanically turned towards him
and glanced at him contemptuously. The idiot thereupon
became still more fierce of aspect, and cried, foaming with
rage:
" The Russian'll kill you, too! " cursing him and his
mother. The on-bashi understood a little Bulgarian, but
could make nothing of Mouncho's gibberish.
u
What's the matter with the fool ? " he asked of the
higoumen.
" H e means no harm, poor fellow ! "
" What's Mouncho so excited about now when he's here ?
In town he's always quiet enough."
"Why, every cock crows on his own dunghill!"
Just then a huge greyhound, with a leather collar round
its neck, from which hung the fragments of a leash, ran
towards them across the field.
They all turned to look at the dog.
" The dog's run away from somewhere," said the higoumen.
" There must be some sportsmen near."
Ognianoff trembled involuntarily.
The hound had run to the mill and sniffed at the door,
after which it wandered round the house, whining piteously.
" Why, that's poor Yemeksiz Pehlivan's dog ! " cried the
on-bashi.
The dog, which Ognianoff recognised only too well, was

A VOICE FROM THE GRA VE.

95

wandering round and round the mill, sniffing suspiciously,
and every now and then scratching with its paws. Finally,
it raised its head in the air and began to howl piteously.
The sound struck on OgnianofFs ear like a knell. He
glanced anxiously at the higoumen. The on-bashi watched
the scene with surprise, and his face was expressive of doubt
and suspicion.
Suddenly the dog rushed at Ognianoff. He recoiled,
growing deadly pale. The dog made a wild spring at him,
growling desperately.
He drew his knife mechanically to defend himself against
the infuriated animal, which the higoumen was unsuccessfully trying to frighten away.
The on-bashi watched the scene in silence, casting
suspicious and evil glances at Ognianoff and his glittering
knife. But seeing that Ognianoff would perhaps in selfdefence wound the dog, he interposed and drove it away.
Then he turned to Ognianoff, who was red and heated by
his efforts and anxiety.
" That's odd! How comes this dog to be so furious
against you ? "
" I think I must have hit it with a stone once," replied
Ognianoff with assumed unconcern.
The on-bashi looked at him incredulously and inquisitively.
He was evidently not satisfied with the reply. An undefined
suspicion formed in his mind. But he determined to look
into the matter, and, in order to show that he thought
OgnianofFs answer quite satisfactory, added : " That breed
of dog is very vindictive." He saluted the higoumen and
proceeded on his way, soon disappearing in the Balkan
ridge.
The greyhound was already beyond the field on its way to
rejoin its new master.
" Didn't you kill the brute? " asked the higoumen.
" I threw it half dead into the stream to drown, but here
it is alive again, worse luck," muttered Ognianoff, angrily.
" Old Stoyan was quite right in saying we ought to have
buried it with the other two dogs. Just my luck for that
lout of a Sherif to come to this very spot, too. Trouble
comes when you least expect it."
" Are you sure you killed them thoroughly, and that they
won't rise again like the dog ?" asked the higoumen

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severely. " When a man undertakes a business of this kind
he ought to carry it out to the bitter end, and leave nothing
undone. You're a novice at the trade as yet, Boicho. However, there's no cause for dismay. The rumour we spread at
the time calmed people down. But I shall keep my eyes
open."
Meanwhile QgnianofT was carefully inspecting the place
where the two Turks were buried. To his surprise he saw
that a considerable heap of stones was now on it. Neither
he nor the miller Stoyan had put the stones there. He expressed his astonishment to the higoumen, who tried to calm
him by suggesting that they had probably been put there by
chance. They did not know that Mouncho went there every
day, stone in hand, to fling at the grave of the Turks, so
much so that quite a heap had by this time been raised
there.
OgnianofF stretched out his hand.
" Where are you
going?"
" Good-bye, I'm in a hurry; I've a lot to do for these
theatricals—that infernal dog has driven my part clean out
of my head."
" What part are you taking ? "
" The Count."
" The Count—and what are you Count of, I should like
to know ? " asked the higoumen in jest.
" The Castle of Diarbekir—which I'm ready to make a
present of to any one who likes."
And Ognianoff went on his way.

C H A P T E R XVI.
T H E THEATRICALS.

THE drama " Suffering Genevieve," which was to be given
that evening at the boys' school, is probably unknown to
the youth of the present generation. But thirty years ago
it had acquired the most extensive popularity and enchanted
the whole population of the day: its only rivals in the
public favour were " Alexandra," " Berthold the Wily," and

THE

THEATRICALS.

97

" Michaela." The plot is, in a few words, as follows : A
certain German count, Siegfried, goes to the wars against
the Moors in Spain, and leaves his wife, the youthful
Countess Genevieve, inconsolable in her grief. No sooner
has he gone than his steward, Golos, appears before the
countess with insulting proposals, which she rejects with
scorn. The vindictive Golos then slays her faithful attendant, Drako, and throws her into a dungeon : at the same
time he informs the Count that he has surprised the countess
in a guilty intrigue with Drako. The Count's anger knows
no bounds: he sends orders to put his faithless spouse to
death. But the ruffians whom Golos has charged with this
duty take pity on the countess and leave her to her fate,
with her child, in a mountain cave, falsely assuring Golos
that his orders have been carried out. Seven years elapse.
The count returns from the wars, heart-broken: in his
castle he finds a letter left for him by Genevieve, establishing clearly her innocence: he can but weep over her untimely death. Golos is loaded with chains, and loses his
reason under the stings of conscience. Soon the Count
proceeds to the chase for recreation, and by chance comes
upon the Countess in her cave, together with her child and
a doe who has nourished them with her milk. All become
reconciled and return joyfully to the castle. This naive
and moving conception has at various times brought te^rs
to the cheeks of every old woman and young bride in
Bulgaria. At the time the scene of this story is laid, every
one knew the plot, and many had the whole play by heart.
This is why the forthcoming representation had caused
such excitement among the townspeople. It was impatiently awaited as a great event, which would be a pleasant
change in the monotonous life of Bela Cherkva. Everybody was looking forward to it. The richer housewives had
got out their best finery, the poorer had sold their yarn
in the market and at once invested the proceeds in tickets,
instead of making their usual purchases of salt or soap.
Nothing but the theatricals was talked of at family and
social gatherings. Old women asked each other at church,
" Ghena, are you going to Genevieve to-night ? " and prepared to weep over the long-suffering Countess. At home
the conversation ran on the names of the actors who had
taken the various parts—universal satisfaction was expressed
G

98

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when Ognianoff was cast for the Count. The wily Golos,
who eventually goes mad, was to be played by Fratio, who
was fond of emotional parts (in order to increase the effect
Fratio had let his hair grow for a month). Ilia the Inquisitive was the servant, Drako, and rehearsed twenty
times a day how he should fall when Golos pierces him with
his sword. H e was also to bark later on in the piece as the
Count's dog : and practised this part with equal assiduity.
For Genevieve Deacon Vikenti had at first been suggested, on
account of his good looks and long hair; but it was thought
unsuitable for a person in holy orders to take part in the
piece, and the role was given to another, together with a.pot
of white pomatum to cover his moustache. The secondary
parts were also distributed,
A greater difficulty was presented by the decorations,
which had to be provided as economically as possible. The
only outlay was for a curtain: for this a piece of red stuff
was purchased, and to make it look more artistic a housepainter from Debra was commissioned to paint a lyre on
i t : he, however, produced something which looked more
like a haymaker's fork than anything else. For the decorations of the Count's castle all the best furniture in the town
was laid under contribution. Hajji Ghiouro supplied his
lace curtains for the windows ; Karaghieuz Oghlou lent two
Persian rugs; Micho Beyzade his handsome glass vases;
Micho Saranoff a large carpet; Nikola Netkovitch prints of
the Franco-Prussian war; Bencho Oghlou a worn-out old
sofa—the only one in the place; Marko Ivanoff a large
mirror and the picture of the " Martyrs;" the'convent lent its
embroidered cushions; the school a map of Australia and
the globe; the church its small chandelier, which sufficed
to illuminate the stage, spectators and all. Even the prison
of the Konak supplied the fetters for Golos. As for the
costumes, they were the same that had been worn three
years before when " Princess Rai'na " had been given. Thus
the Count wore Svatoslav's clothes, and Genevieve Raina's.
Golos added a few extra ornaments, such as epaulets and
high patent leather boots. Gancho PoporT, who acted
Huns (one of the two ruffians), carried the long knife he had
prepared against the rebellion. Drako proudly donned
Mikhalaki Alafranga's tall silk hat, somewhat battered
though it was* In vain Boicho protested against this as an

THE

THEATRICALS.

99
anachronism. Most of the actors insisted that the scene
would be more effective, and it was allowed to pass in spite
of his objections.
The theatre began to fill at sunset. The front rows were
reserved for the notabilities, including the Bey, who had
been specially invited. At his side sat Damiancho Grigoroff,
who had been put there to amuse him. The general public
filled the rest of the room, and soon began to clamour
eagerly for the curtain to rise. The noisiest of all was
Mother Ghinka, who knew the play by heart, and was
telling her neighbours right and left all about it, and what
were the first words the Count had to say. Hajji Simeon,
in the next row, was explaining how much larger the
Bucharest theatre was, and what was the meaning of the
pitchfork on the curtain. The orchestra consisted of the
local gipsy musicians, who played chiefly the Austrian
National Anthem, doubtless in honour of the German
Countess.
At last the solemn moment arrived. The Austrian hymn
ceased, and the curtain rose amid murmurs of admiration.
The first to appear was the Count. Perfect silence ensued.
One would have thought the theatre was empty. The Count
began to speak, and Mother Ghinka prompted him from in
front. Whenever the Count left out or altered a word, she
cried, " That's wrong !" A trumpet sounds, and the envoys
of Charlemagne enter and summon him to the Moorish wars.
The Count takes an affectionate farewell of Genevieve, who
falls fainting, and goes out. When she recovers her consciousness and finds the Count gone, she weeps. The weeping
aroused general hilarity. Mother Ghinka screamed " Cry,
you booby, can't you ? " The countess groaned still louder,
and the audience answered with loud laughter. Mother
Ghinka cries, " Let me come there, and I'll cry for you
something like ! " Hajji Simeon remarks to the audience
that crying is a special art, and that in Roumania women
are hired specially to cry at funerals. Some one shouts to
him to be still, and he motions in turn to his listeners to be
silent. But the appearance of Golos changes the situation.
H e tries to tempt Genevieve's chastity, but she replies to
his offers with disdain, and calls for Drako to send him with
a letter to the Count. Drako appears, and there is a general
roar of laughter at his tall hat, which confuses him. Mother

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UNDER THE YOKE.

Ghinka calls out, " Drako, take off Alafranga's saucepan-—
off with it, man! " He takes off the chimney-pot—more
laughter. But the scene assumes a tragical character. The
enraged Golos draws his sword to run Drako through, but
before he stabs him Drako falls like a log to the ground, and
remains motionless. The audience is dissatisfied with this
foolish kind of death, and some clamour for Drako to get
up and go through it again. Servants come in and drag
him away by the feet, bumping his head along the ground.
But Drako bears his pain heroically, and remains true to his
part as a corpse. The countess is flung into a dungeon.
The act ends, and the Austrian hymn begins afresh. The
room resounds with laughter and criticisms. The old women
are dissatisfied with Genevieve, whose acting is not pathetic
enough; on the contrary, Golos had acted his ungrateful
part fairly well, and had reaped the deserved hatred of
several old grandmothers.
One of them called to his
mother, " My word, Tana, fine doings your Fratio's been up
to ! Whatever has that poor girl done to him ? "
In the front row Damiancho Grigoroff was explaining
quietly to the Bey the plot of the first act. H e surpassed
himself in eloquence, telling a long story of some French
Consul whom he had once known, and who had repudiated
his wife through a similar intrigue. The Bey listened attentively, and the upshot was that he became convinced that
the Count was the French Consul, and considered him as
such ever after.
" T h i s consul seems to me to be a great fool," he said
sternly, " or else why does he order his wife to be killed
without even cross-examining her? Why, I never have a
street drunkard put in gaol without making Maikhl the
constable smell his breath first."
" B u t it's written like that on purpose, Bey Effendi, to
make it more interesting/' said Damiancho.
" Well, sir, the author's a fool, and the consul a still
greater one."
Close by Stefchoff was also criticising the Count.
" It's pretty plain," said he pompously and authoritatively, " that Ognianoff never saw a theatre before in his
life."
" Why not ? H e acts well enough," ventured Hajji
Simeon,

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101

"Acts well!—-he acts like a monkey; doesn't pay the
slightest respect to the audience."
"No; that's true enough, he doesn't. Did you see how
he sat down on that sofa of Bencho Oghlou's ? One would
think he was own brother to Prince Couza," said Hajji
Simeon severely.
" We must hiss him," said Stefchoff, spitefully.
" Yes, we must," concuired Hajji Simeon.
" Who's going to hiss ?" asked some one in the same
row. Both turned round. It was Kableshkoff.
Kableshkoff had not yet become an "apostle." He
happened to be on a visit to a relative at Bela Cherkva.
Hajji Simeon was dismayed by the fiery look of the future
" apostle;" he recoiled a little, so as to allow the real
culprit, Stefchoff, to appear.
" I am," answered Kiriak, boldly.
" You're at liberty to do so, sir, but you'll go out into the
street first."
" And who asked your leave, I should like to know ? "
" This performance is given for a charitable purpose, and
the actors are amateurs. If you can do it any better go on
the stage and try," said Kableshkoff, warmly.
" I've paid for my seat, and don't require any advice
from you," replied Stefchoff.
Kableshkoff flamed up. The quarrel was taking an unpleasant turn, when Micho Beyzade hurriedly intervened.
" Come, come, Kiriak, don't be a fool. That'll do,
Todor."
Just then the Austrian hymn stopped, and the curtain rose.
This time the scene represented a dungeon lighted by a
single candle. Genevieve, with her child in her arms,
bewails her fate piteously, and weeps. She now acts more
naturally. The midnight hour, the gloomy cell, the sighs
of an unhappy and powerless mother have a powerful effect
on the spectators. Tears trickle down many of the
women's faces. Tears are contagious, like laughter.
The number of those weeping increases-^-even some of the
men shed tears when she writes to the Count. Kableshkoff,
much moved, claps his hands at a pathetic passage. His
applause, however, dies out in the complete silence and
finds no echo. Indeed many an indignant look is levelled
at him for his noisy interruption at the best place. Ivan

102

UNDER THE

YOKE.

Selamsiz, who was sobbing loudly, gives him the angriest
glance. Genevieve is carried off to the forest for execution.
The curtain falls. Kableshkoff again applauds, and again
his example remains unimitated. The custom of clapping
one's hands had not yet been introduced at Bela Cherkva.
"They seem a thorough-paced set of scoundrels in that
country," remarked the Bey to Damiancho. " Where did
you say all this took place ? "
" In Austria."
"Austria? I don't think I've ever seen any of those
Ghiaours yet ? "
" Oh, yes, your Excellency, you must have. Why, there's
an Austrian living in the town now."
" What, do you mean a little fellow, with double whiskers,
and blue spectacles ? "
" Yes, sir, the photographer."
" Oh, he's a good little Ghiaour enough. He always
takes off his hat to me, a lafranga> in the street. I thought
he was a Frenchman."
" No, sir, he's an Austrian from Drandaburg."
The third act followed. The scene again represented
the castle. The Count has returned from the wars, careworn and gloomy now Genevieve is no longer there. A
servant gives him Genevieve's letter written in the dungeon
at the hour of death. In it she tells him that she is the
victim of Golo's baseness, that she died innocent, and that
she forgives him. The Count reads this letter aloud—he
bursts in despairing sobs. The spectators share his sufferings : they also weep, some of them sobbing loudly;
amongst these is the Bey, who requires no Damiancho to
explain the scene to him. The general effect on the audience
is heightened still more when the Count orders the treacherous Golos—the author of all his misfortune—to be brought
in. Golos appears ragged, repulsive, tortured by remorse,
and loaded with chains, from the Konak prison. A hostile
murmur from the spectators greets him. Fierce glances are
cast upon him. The Count reads to him the letter in which
the Countess forgives him too. The Count groans, tears
his hair, beats his breast; the audience cannot restrain its
emotion; even Mother Ghinka is in tears, but she tries to
console the others by exclaiming :
" Don't cry, good people, Genevieve's safe in the forest."

THE

THEATRICALS.

103

Some old ladies who don't know the piece show eager
surprise.
" Is she really safe, Ghinka ? Then, for pity's sake, tell
the poor fellow to stop crying/' said grandmother Netkovitsa; and mother Hajji Pavlovitsa cannot restrain herself,
but calls out amid her tears to the Count:
" Don't cry, my lad, don't cry, the girl's not dead."
Meanwhile, Golos goes mad. He looks round him
strangely, with staring eyes and dishevelled hair, beckons
wildly and gnashes his teeth in despair. His conscience has
driven him out of his senses: but his sufferings are a relief
to the spectators. A malicious satisfaction appears on many
faces. " Serve him right," cry the women. They are even
angry with Genevieve for forgiving him in her letter. Fratio's
mother, seeing her son in that desperate state, crushed
simultaneously by the weight of his fetters and of public
detestation, lost her own self-control:
" They've destroyed my son," she cried, " they've driven
him out of his senses." And she was on the point of
rushing on to the stage, but her neighbours held her
back.
The act was a brilliant success. Shakespeare's Ophelia
never called forth so many tears in one evening.
The last act is in the forest. A cave is seen. At its
mouth appears Genevieve, dressed in the skins of animals,
with her child. A goat, for whom dried leaves had been
provided so that it should not run away, represented the doe
who was supposed to feed them with her milk. Genevieve
sadly talks to her child of its father, but hearing the bay of
a hound retires hurriedly into the cave, dragging in by the
horns the goat, which resists vigorously. The barking grows
louder, and the audience is of opinion that Ilia the Inquisitive is more successful in that part. He barks so energetically that he arouses a reply from some of the street-dogs
outside. Upon this the Count appears in hunting costume
with his train of huntsmen. The spectators hold their
breath: they are eagerly waiting to see his meeting with
Genevieve. Mother Ivanitsa begins to be afraid lest he
should pass by the cave and suggests that he should be told
that his wife is in there. But the Count has seen it. He
stoops at the mouth of the cave, and exclaims:
" Come forth, I charge ye, be ye man or beast!"

104 .-

UNDER THE YOKE.

The reply came, however, not from the cave but from the
audience, in the shape of a loud hiss.
Every one turned in surprise towards StefchofT, who had
become very red.
"Who's that hissing?" asked Selamsiz, angrily. The
audience murmured dissatisfied.
Ognianofif was trying to see who it was who had hissed.
When he saw StefchofT, who met his glance without flinching,
he whispered to him.
" I'll pull your long ears for you presently."
Then came a fresh hiss, still louder. The audience was becoming excited; the dissatisfaction increased every minute.
" Let's catch hold of this fellow, and I'll throw him out
of the window," roared Anghel Yovkoff, a giant seven feet
in height. And shouts were heard : " Turn him out! Go
out, StefchofT."
" We haven't come here to listen to clappings and hissings,"
cried Selamsiz, who had misunderstood Kableshkofi's applause just before.
" Kiriak, be quiet," cried even Mother Ghinka angrily, as
Rada sat by her side in tears.
Hajji Simeon whispered to StefchofT:
" Kiriak, didn't I tell you just now not to hiss ; don't you
see they're common people and don't understand."
"What's the gentleman hissing for?" asked the Bey of
Damiancho.
Damiancho shrugged his shoulders; the Bey whispered
to a zaptie, who went straight to StefchofT: " Kiriak," he said
quietly, "the Bey thinks as you don't seem comfortable,
you'd better go and smoke a cigarette outside."
StefchofT rose and went out with a bitter smile, delighted
at having spoilt the effect of OgnianofT's act.
The tumult at once ceased. The play proceeds. The
Count discovers his long-lost Countess; they embrace—
more sobs and tears. The spectators recover their spirits.
Virtue's triumph over wickedness is complete. The Count
and the Countess relate to one another their past sorrows
and their present joys. Mother Petkovitska advises them :
" Go home, dears, and be happy together, and don't trust
these confounded Golosses
"
lr
Confound you yourself," cried Fratio's mother to her,
infuriated at this abuse of her son.

THE

THEATRICALS.

IOS

The Bey gave the same advice as Mother Petkovitsa, only
in a lower tone. The general feeling was one of pleasure
and satisfaction. The piece terminated with a song, in
which the Count, Countess and their suite take part—" Count
Siegfried, now rejoice in peace."
But after the first two stanzas of the song had been gone
through, suddenly on the stage broke out the revolutionary
song: *
u

Blaze forth, fond love of fatheiland,
Till 'gainst the Turk arrayed we stand ! "

The sound fell like a thunderbolt upon the audience.
At first only one voice had begun, one by one the whole
troupe joined in, and it spread gradually till the entire
audience took it up. A sudden and patriotic enthusiasm
filled all those present. The bold and stirring air spread
like some unseen wave, filled the hall, passed the threshold,
and was wafted abroad into the night: it overcame every
other sound, and sent a hot and fiery emotion through the
blood. Its powerful notes awoke a new chord in the
audience. Every one who knew the song sang it in chorus
—men and women. It drew all hearts with it, united the
actors and the audience, and rose to heaven like a prayer.
"Sing out, boys. God bless you! Sing o u t ! " cried
Micho.
But some of the older people present murmured, considering this foolish excitement misplaced.
Even the Bey, who did not understand a word of the song,
listened to it delightedly. H e asked Damiancho Grigoroff
to interpret it to him one line after another. Any one else
would have lost his head. But Damiancho was not a man
to be puzzled by a difficult question. Besides, this was an
opportunity for him to exhibit his powers. He explained it
all to the Bey with an air of the greatest simplicity and
veracity. The song, he said, expressed the ardent love the
Count and Countess felt for one another. The Count says
to her, " I love you a hundred times more than before;" to
which she replies, " And I love you a thousand times more."
* In this and succeeding metrical versions, the metre of the original
has been followed as closely as possible, and wherever the Bulgarian
lines are in rhyme, an attempt has been made to imitate them in the
English rendering.

io6

UNDER THE YOKE.

H e says he will build a church on the spot where the cave
is ; and she vows to sell all her diamonds and dispose of the
proceeds by building a hundred marble fountains,
" T h a t seems a great many fountains," said the Bey.
" I should think a few bridges would have been more
useful."
" You see, sir, water is scarce in Austria; that's why
people drink so much beer there," answered Grigoroff.
The Bey nodded approvingly at this reply.
" But where is Golos ? " asked the Bey, as he looked in
vain for Fratio among the actors.
" He doesn't come on any more, sir."
" Quite right; they ought to hang the scoundrel. If they
ever act this piece again, you tell the Consul not to leave
him alive—that'll serve him right."
And in truth Fratio was not among his colleagues. H e
had discreetly withdrawn when the seditious song began, not
being desirous of the applause of the public.
The song came to an end, and the curtain fell amid cries
of " Bravo ! " The Austrian hymn began again, and played
the spectators out. The room was soon empty.
The actors changed their clothes behind the scenes, and
conversed gaily with the friends who had come to congratulate them.
" Deuce take you, Kableshkoff! What a fellow you are !
What made you do it ? You suddenly appeared behind my
back, and began to roar the song out like a bull. You're
as reckless as a gipsy!" said Ognianoff, taking off Prince
Svatoslav's boots.
" I couldn't restrain myself, my boy. I was sick of all
this sobbing and all the women's wailing over your ' longsuffering' wife. Something stirring was needed, and I
think I gave it them !"
" I was expecting every moment to be tapped on the
shoulder by a zaptie," laughed Ognianoff.
" Don't be afraid; Stefchoff went off long before," said
Sokoloff.
" The Bey turned him out," said the teacher Frangoff.
" B u t the Bey was there himself," said others. " I saw
him listening very attentively. There'll be the devil to pay
to-morrow."
" Don't you bother about him. Wasn't Damiancho

THE

THEATRICALS.

107

Grigoroff sitting next to him ? He'll have made things all
right, or I'll never call him a diplomat again."
a
I had him put next the Bey on purpose to tell him
stories. Don't you bother about him," remarked Nikolai
Netkovitch, as he took off Pope Dimcho's gown, in which
he had played the part of Genevieve's father.
But he had not reckoned on treachery. Next morning
Ognianoff was summoned to the Konak.
He found the Bey in an angry mood.
" Konsoloss Effendi," said he, " did you or did you not
sing a seditious song last night ? "
Ognianoff protested his innocence.
" But the on-bashi assures me you did."
" He is misinformed, sir; you were there yourself."
The Bey sent for the on-bashi.
" Sherif Aga, when was this song sung—in my presence or
after I had gone?"
" The revolutionary song was sung in your presence, Bey
Effendi. Kiriak Effendi isn't likely to have told a lie
about it."
The Bey looked at him angrily : his vanity was wounded.
" What rubbish you talk, Sherif Aga ! Was I there or
Kiriak ? Didn't I hear it with my own ears ? Damiancho
translated the song to me word for word, and I talked about
it afterwards to Marko Chorbaji, who said the singing was
first-rate. Don't let this kind of thing occur again," said
the Bey, sternly. Then turning to Ognianoff, " Consul, I'm
sorry to have troubled you; it was all a mistake. Ah ! wait
a moment. What do you call that fellow—the one in chains,
I mean?"
" Golos."
" Ah, yes ! Golos ! You'd have done better to have given
orders to hang him. That's what I'd have clone. Never
listen to women's advice. But the play was very good
indeed, and the song was the best part of it," said the Bey,
still sore on the point.
Ognianoff saluted and went out.
" You'll be hearing another kind of song one of these
days," he thought to himself as he went out of the room;
" and you won't want Damiancho to translate it for you."
But he did not notice the ominous glance cast at him by
the on-bashi as he passed out.

ioS

UNDER THE YOKE.

CHAPTER XVII.
TWO STROKES OF LUCK.

THE next day was a saint's day. The higoumen Natanail
was standing on one side of the chancel, near the pulpit,
chanting the canticle. Suddenly he felt some one plucking
his sleeve, he turned round, and saw Mouncho standing by
him.
The higoumen gave him a severe look.
" What do you want, Mouncho ? Be off with you," he
said angrily and resumed the canticle.
But Mouncho again pulled at his sleeve vigorously and
would not let go. He turned round once more, and saw to
his suprise that Mouncho was in a state of great excitement:
his eyes were staring with a look of terror and he was
trembling from head to foot.
" Well—what is it, Mouncho ? " the higoumen asked
sternly.
Mouncho nodded frantically, opened his eyes still wider,
drew himself up, and exclaimed wildly :
"The Russian—at the mill—Turks!" and instead
of continuing he moved his arms to imitate the action of
digging.
The higoumen stared at him in bewilderment: suddenly
the truth flashed upon him with lightning rapidity. Mouncho
must have had some inkling of what there was buried near
the mill: indeed, as he mentioned the " Russian," it seemed
that he knew the whole secret. How? The higoumen
could not even guess : it was enough for him to know that
the secret was known to the authorities.
"Boicho is done for!" muttered Natanail in despair,
forgetting the canticle and the whole service, and not seeing
the desperate signs Father Gedeon was making to him from
the opposite pulpit to tell him that it was his turn to go on.
Natanail cast a glance at the altar where Vikenti was busy
with the liturgy, signed to Father Gedeon to finish the canticle
as best he could, and hurried from the church. In one
moment he was in the stable, in another he was galloping
like wildfire to the town.
It was a bitterly cold morning. There had been a sharp

TWO STROKES OF LUCK.

109

white frost during the night, and grass and trees sparkled
with rime. The higoumen spurred on his fat little black
horse mercilessly; he was hurrying to save Ognianoff if there
was yet time. H e knew that the rumours which had been
spread at the time had allayed all suspicion as to the disappearance of the two Turks. Who, therefore, could now
have stimulated to action the apathetic chief of the police ?
Undoubtedly some traitor. But who could it have been ?
H e did not believe it could have been Mouncho, even if
Mouncho knew the secret. He knew how the idiot idolised
Ognianoff—he might have betrayed him unwittingly; but
there must have been treachery. And the consequences to
Ognianoff would be terrible.
In four minutes he had covered the distance, which
usually took a quarter of an hour, from the monastery to
the town. His horse was white with foam. H e left him on
the way at his brother's house and hurried on foot to
Ognianoff s lodgings.
" Is Boicho here," he asked, anxiously.
" No, he's gone out. Three zapties have just been here
to look for him and searched every corner of the house.
What do the brutes want of him ?—one would think he'd
committed a murder," grumbled the landlord.
" Where's he gone ? "
" I don't know."
" A bad job, but there's still some hope," thought the
higoumen, and hastened to Dr. Sokoloff's house.
He
knew that Ognianoff was not a regular church-goer, and did
not even think of searching for him in church. As he
passed by Ganko's cafe he looked in, but Boicho was not
there. " At least I can learn from Sokoloff where he is, if
they haven't caught him already," thought Natanail, as he
hurried into the courtyard.
" Is there anybody at home, old lady ? " he asked of the
housekeeper.
" No, your worship," she replied, throwing down her
broom and hastening to kiss the higoumen's hand.
" Where's the doctor ? " he asked, with annoyance.
" I don't know, your Reverence," answered the woman
with an air of confusion, looking about her aimlessly.
" Dear me ! dear me ! " muttered the higoumen, making
for the door.

110

UNDER THE YOKE.

The old woman followed him. " Wait a moment, your
Reverence ".
" What is it? " he asked, impatiently.
She assumed a look of mystery, and whispered :
"He's here, right enough, but he's hiding; the Turks
have just been to look for him. I beg your pardon,
Father."
" He's not hiding from me. Why didn't you tell me at
once ? " cried the higoumen, as he passed rapidly through
the courtyard and knocked at the door, which the doctor
opened at once.
" Where's Boicho," were the higoumen's first words.
"With Rada—what is it?" The doctor guessed that
something very serious must have happened, and grew
deadly pale.
" They're at this moment digging at the mill. There's
been treachery at work."
" Oh! Boicho's ruined," cried the doctor in despair.
" He must be warned at once."
"They've been to his house to look for him, but he
wasn't there," continued the higoumen excitedly. " I came
at full gallop on horseback to warn him. My God! what
will become of the lad ? they've found out all. Where are
you going to ? " he asked with surprise.
" I'll run round to Boicho—we must save him, if it's not
too late," said the doctor, opening the door.
The higoumen looked at him in increasing bewilderment.
"Well? and how about you? They're looking for you
too. I'd better go."
The doctor made a movement of dissent.
"Not to be thought of—your appearance at Rada's
rooms or in church would be noticed at once ; it would
create a scandal."
" Yes, but you'll fall into their hands."
" Perhaps ; but by hook or by crook I must give him
warning. The real danger is for Boicho. I'll go through
the back streets."
And the doctor disappeared through the door.
The higoumen blessed him with tears in his eyes.
The doctor knew that Ognianoff had an appointment for
that morning at the girl's school, where he was to meet an
emissary from the Pazarjik Revolutionary Committee. A

TWO STROKES OF LUCK.

in

few hurried steps brought him to the church unnoticed by
the police, and he rushed upstairs to the girl's school where
Rada was now living: he burst into the room like a hurricane; his sudden appearance in so precipitate a manner
threw the girl into a state of confusion.
" Has Boicho been here?" he cried, panting, without a
word of greeting.
" He's just gone out," replied Rada. " But why are you
so pale ? "
" Where has he gone !"
" To church; what's the matter ? My God ! who's looking
for him ? "
" To church ? " cried Sokoloff without further explanation,
and opened the door to go out. But he drew back at once,
dismayed. He saw that the on-bashi was placing a guard
round the church doors.
"Whatever is it, doctor? " asked the poor schoolmistress,
with a presentiment of trouble.
Sokoloff drew her to the window, and pointed to the
zapties.
" Do you see ?—they're on the watch for Boicho. He's
been betrayed, Rada. They're looking for me, too. Ah,
what misery!" he cried, clasping his head with both
hands.
Rada sank powerless on the divan. Her round face,
pale with terror, seemed still whiter beneath her black hood :
she was like marble.
Sokoloff stared from the window. He dared not show
himself to the zapties, and was trying to find some trusty
friend whom he could ask to warn OgnianorT of the fearful
danger he was in.
Suddenly he caught sight of Fratio passing under the
window on his way to church.
" Fratio, Fratio I" he called in low tones, " come
nearer."
Fratio stopped.
"Fratio, you're going to the men's church, aren't
you ? "
" Yes—as usual," replied Fratio.
" Boicho's there; tell him—there's a good fellow !—to
look out for himself. The zapties are waiting for him outside."

112

UNDER THE YOKE.

Fratio cast an anxious glance at the church, and saw that
the three exits were guarded by zapties. His diminutive
face blanched with terror.
" Will you tell him ? " asked the doctor, impatiently.
"What—I?
Ye—e—s—I'll tell him," replied the
prudent Fratio, with evident hesitation. Then he added
suspiciously:
" Why don't you tell him yourself, doctor ? "
"They're on the look-out for me, too," whispered the
doctor.
Fratio's face fell still more. He hastened away from so
perilous a conversation, and moved on.
" At once, Fratio—do you hear ? " repeated SokolofT for
the last time.
Fratio nodded affirmatively, went on a few steps, and
then turned off and entered the nun's convent.
When the doctor saw this he tore his hair in desperation.
He was no longer thinking of himself but of his friend.
He saw that even if he could be warned now it would be
too late—that only a miracle could save him from the
hands of the police. There was only a faint ray of hope
left.
For there really had been treachery. Stefchoff had
proceeded early that morning to the Konak, and had
disclosed to the Bey certain suspicions he had long entertained with regard to OgnianorT. At the same moment
a terrible thought flashed upon him. He remembered the
affair with Yemeksiz's greyhound, which the on-bashi had
related to him the day before. Neither he nor the onbashi had at the time been able to understand the dog's
fury against OgnianorT, nor why it persisted in digging up
the ground round the mill. What was the animal looking
for? Why had it flown at OgnianorT? Was there in all
this a clue to the mysterious disappearance of the two
Turks, which, moreover, had coincided in point of time
with OgnianorT's arrival in the town.
Undoubtedly
OgnianorT had a finger in it. Stefchoff s malignant mind
drew all these conclusions with lightning rapidity, and
they gave irresistible force to the terrible suspicions he had
long cherished.
Stefchoff at once suggested that they should dig round
Stoyan's mill. The Bey immediately gave orders to this

TWO STROKES

OF LUCK.

"3

effect. His plan was to arrest Ognianoff as early and as
quietly as possible, so as to avoid any unnecessary disturbance. By nine o'clock the bodies of the two Turks
were found, and Ognianoff's fate was sealed.
H e was
now tracked like a wild beast. The on-bashi preferred to
arrest him outside the church: the entry of the police
would have disturbed the whole congregation, and have
stimulated Ognianoff to a desperate resistance. It would
be better to take him unawares. While Sokoloff was
bewailing his fate on one side, and Rada lay fainting on
the other, suddenly a heavy footstep was heard on the
stairs. The doctor started and listened attentively. The
steps slowly approached : the new arriva], who was evidently leaning heavily on a stick, stopped outside the door.
And a voice was heard chanting, in imitation of the church
choir:
" Be blessed to bless, good Lord, the followers of Thy
word : Holy Serafima and gentle Cherubima."
" It's Kolcho," cried the doctor, opening the door.
The blind man came in freely, he was at home everywhere.
" Have you been to church, Kolcho ? "
" Yes."
" Did you see Ognianoff there ? " asked the doctor impatiently.
"Well, my spectacles haven't come from America yet,
so I couldn't see him. But I know he's in there, near the
altar, by Frangoff."
The doctor spoke to him seriously :
" Kolcho—listen to me. This is no time for jesting.
The police are after Ognianoff, and the zapties are watching
for him at the doors. H e doesn't know anything about it.
He's lost if some one doesn't warn him."
" I'll go ! "
" Do, Kolcho, dear, I entreat you," said Rada, whose
hopes revived.
" I'd go myself, but the police are after me too. But
they'll let you in—go, will you ? " said the doctor.
" Will I ? Why, I'd give my miserable life for Ognianoff,
if necessary. What am I to tell him ?" asked the blind
man eagerly.
" Tell him only this: Everything is discovered; the
H

114

UNDER

THE

YOKE.

church doors are guarded by zapties ; save yourself as best
you can."
He added, gloomily: "If they haven't indeed already
sent some one in to get him out by a trick/'
Kolcho understood the importance of every moment, and
went out hurriedly.

CHAPTER

XVIII.

A DIFFICULT MISSION.
KOLCHO went slowly down the stairs, feeling each step with
his stick. But when he reached the courtyard he went on
boldly and entered the porch. There he stopped, feeling
giddy, and as he searched his pockets for his handkerchief
he heard Sherif Aga giving his instructions :
" Hassan Aga," he was saying in a low voice, " go and
tell the others to keep their eyes open. If he resists, shoot
him down at once."
" Nenko, my boy, go in and call the Count—you know,
OgnianofT the teacher—tell him there's a man who wants to
see him at once," said Filcho the constable to some small
boy, as far as Kolcho could tell.
He began to fear lest they should be beforehand with
him : he raised the heavy curtain and went in. The church
was thronged with people. Hajji Atanasi was chanting the
last anthem and the final benediction was at hand. The
crowd was unusually thick, because there had been a great
many communicants and several requiem services that day.
Consequently the whole aisle was blocked with people.
The blind man was as it were plunged in an impenetrable
forest, as dark as night, which indeed, was eternal with
Kolcho. His instinct guided him aright; but how was he
to surmount that wall of opposing hands, breasts, shoulders,
and feet ? Slender and diminutive though he was, it was
out of the question to think of forcing his way to the altar
by Ognianoff. It would have been a difficult task for a
Goliath. He pushed on for a certain distance, but stopped,
wearied out. He tried here and there, in the night, to get
through, but in vain; the wall was unyielding. Indeed,

A DIFFICULT MISSION.
"5
many muttered angrily to him not to push, and threatened
to force him back. Iron elbows crushed his feeble sides.
He was exhausted. In a few minutes would come the
" Walk ye in the fear of the Lord and the faith," the stream
would flow out, and Kolcho would be carried away with
it. And then Ognianoif was lost. Besides, who knows,
perhaps at that very minute the boy had reached Ognianoff
by some other door, and induced him to come out unsuspecting. H e might be passing by Kolcho, pushing
against him with his elbow, and Kolcho knowing nothing.
H e stretched out his hand instinctively to feel if there was a
boy there. As luck would have it his hand encountered a
body which seemed to him that of a boy : his terrified
mind at once jumped to the conclusion that it was the illomened messenger on his way to call Ognianoff. In his
excitement he pushed him back with all his might, saying
hurriedly and almost unconsciously : " Is that you, boy ?
what's }our name, boy ? stand back, boy !" Just then the
swaying of the crowd separated them. Kolcho was in
despair. The poor, honest lad was suffering agonies. H e
felt with terror that OgnianofFs life depended on a single
hair, and that he, Kolcho, weak, powerless, lost, almost
invisible in that sea of human beings, was that hair. And
the anthem was almost over. Hajji Atanasi, usually so slow
and tedious, was going through his chant at lightning speed.
What was to be done ? Critical moments suggest rapid
decisions. Kolcho exclaimed despairingly :
" Make way, good people—I'm dying—I'm fainting," and
he pushed forward with all his might. At this appeal every
one made an effort to allow the sufferer to pass : no one
wanted to crush him to death. By this stratagem Kolcho
squeezed past them and reached the altar more dead than
alive. H e found Ognianoff without asking anybody—such
is the marvellous instinct of the sightless. H e grasped an
arm quite confidently and asked in a whisper:
" Is that you, Master Boicho ? "
" Yes, what is it ? " answered Ognianoff.
" Bend down."
Ognianoff stooped with his ear to the blind man's
lips.
When he rose again he was livid.
For a moment he was plunged in thought. The veins of

Ii6

UNDER

THE

YOKE.

his forehead swelled out and showed the terrible mental
struggle going on within.
He bent down again and whispered something to
Kolcho.
Then he left the altar, moved forward, and was lost in the
crowd of communicants standing there.
At that very moment the sanctuary doors were thrown
open, and Pope Nikodim, with the Eucharist in his hands,
began : " Walk ye in the fear of God," and the service was
over.
The congregation poured out from the doors like a torrent
which has just been loosed. In half an hour the last old
woman among the communicants had left the church.
The only person left was the officiating priest, who was
taking off his vestments.
Then the zapties and constables came in. The on-bashi
was enraged at the non-appearance of Ognianoff. He must
be hidden in the church. The doors were locked and the
search began. Some climbed over the trellis partitions of
the women's places ; others hunted under the altar and in
the corners ; others, again, searched the sanctuary. Everything was turned inside out, every corner which could
possibly serve as a hiding-place was overhauled ; the zapties
searched behind the lecterns, in the cupboards where the
vestments were kept, in the chest of eikons, in the embrasures of the windows—but no one was to be seen. Ognianoff
seemed to have sunk into the ground. The sexton himself
showed all the likely places, being convinced that Ognianoff
was not hidden there. After a while Pope Nikodim began
to join in the search, fumbling everywhere, with bewilderment depicted on his countenance. He began to look even
among the books and vestments. The on-bashi himself
began to be astonished at such zeal. The constable Mikhail
pointed out to him that not even a chicken, much less a man,
could be concealed there.
" I'm looking for something else altogether," grumbled the
Pope.
"What?"
" Why, my fur cloak has disappeared, and my hat, and my
blue spectacles in it."
The poor Pope was already shivering with cold.
"Ah, I see it all, Sherif Aga," cried Mikhail.

A DIFFICULT MISSION.

117

Sherif Aga came up hot and panting.
" A thief's always a thief," added the constable with
secret satisfaction : " he's stolen the old Pope's clothes."
Sherif Aga remained speechless ; when he recovered :
" Is that so, Pope ? "
" My cloak's gone, and my hat and my spectacles—they've
all vanished," said the Pope, tearfully.
" He must have stolen them," said Sherif Aga, with the
air of a man who has just made a great discovery.
" Of course, the Count must have put on the robe and
the hat, and gone out quietly without our recognising him,"
said the constable.
" That's it," said the Pope. " He must have taken them
while I was administering the sacrament."
" Well, I did see a Pope at the door with blue spectacles
on," said one of the zapties.
" A n d why didn't you stop him, you fool?" cried his
superior.
" Why should I stop him ? We weren't told to look for a
Pope, but an ordinary man," said the zaptie in self-justification.
" That was him, I'll be bound," cried Mikhail; " that
was why he was so closely wrapped up—one could only see
his spectacles. His own mother wouldn't have known
him."
Aloud knocking was heard at the door. Sherif Aga ordered
it to be opened.
The constable Filcho and the churchwarden came in.
" Sherif Aga, the Count's in the trap," cried Filcho.
" Yes, he's hidden himself in the nun's convent; he was
seen going in," added the churchwarden.
" To the convent—at once !"
And they all hurried out.

n8

UNDER THE YOKE.
C H A P T E R XIX.
A DISAGREEABLE VISIT.

I N a few moments the police had reached the convent gates.
Sherif Aga left two sentinels there with drawn swords and
revolvers cocked.
" You're to allow no one either to come in or go out," he
ordered, and then hastened into the courtyard with the rest
of his men.
Their entry caused a great commotion in the convent,
and spread confusion and terror in all the cells. The nuns
ran up and downstairs, scampered through the corridors and
verandahs, with their visitors behind them, and the noise
and clamour was indescribable. The on-bashi made fruitless efforts to re-assure them—he called out to them in
Turkish, but they could scarcely hear and still less understand what he said. Meanwhile, the zapties seized every
Pope they could find, as well as everybody who wore
spectacles, blue or otherwise, and even two people called
Bocho—all these they locked up in a small room. Amongst
them were Kandoff and Brzobegounek. The latter, however, was at once released, with humble apologies, by the
on-bashi as being no raya but a subject of the Emperor of
Austria. Kandoff protested from the windows against this
unwarranted restraint of his personal liberty, and was in a
towering passion : his companions however remained quiet,
as they knew too well the customs of the Turkish police.
" Why, one would think you'd never seen a Turk before,
Kandoff," said a Pope.
" Yes, but this is illegal, it's oppression, it's tyranny, it's
an infraction of the most sacred of human rights."
" That sort of tyranny and oppression can't be put an end
to by complaints—this is the thing for it," said Bocho the
butcher, showing his knife.
In his haste Sherif had not thought of inquiring who it
was that had seen Ognianoff go into the convent, nor what
clothes he was wearing: he had at once hurriedly begun to
search the gallery where the fugitive was reported to have
hidden himself. Hajji Rovoama's cell was on this gallery.
The nuns were recovering from their first fright and were

A DISAGREEABLE

VISIT.

119

loud in their protestations; they complained bitterly that
they should be suspected of harbouring criminals. Hajji
Rovoama was the most vociferous in her indignation; she
knew Turkish and was able to pour such a flood of abuse at
the on-bashi as soon turned him to flight ignominiously.
But the search went on feverishly in the other cells.
Ognianoff was being hunted for so carefully that sooner or
later he was bound to be discovered. Sherif Aga's reputation was at stake; he was determined to find the culprit;
not a single cupboard or chest was left unsearched, cellars
and dark corners were ransacked. All expected, in terror,
every moment to hear that the unhappy " Count" had been
caught in some cell.
Indeed, at one moment there were cries of " They've got
him;" but it turned out that it was Fratio, who had been
found hidden under Sister Nimfidora's divan—he was at
once released.
Rada, supporting herself by the beams of the gallery, was
watching the search with terrible anxiety. She was in a
state of frantic terror: her cheeks were wet with tears.
She took no pains to conceal her emotion, indeed, it would
have been useless; her grief convinced every one that she
was in love with Ognianoff: many cast hostile glances at
her, but she cared little for the opinion of these women, so
cold and merciless before the misfortunes which threatened
her lover. She allowed her tears to flow unrestrained.
On one side two nuns were eagerly whispering together
and pointing mysteriously to Hajji Daria's cell. Hajji
Daria was Sokoloffs aunt and Boi'cho's chief partisan.
Boicho was doubtless in there now, and the search came
every moment nearer and nearer to Hajji Daria's cell.
Rada's heart almost stopped beating. She was petrified
with anxiety. Oh ! God, what was to be done?
Kolcho silently approached her—he knew her by her sobs
and whispered:
" Rada, are you alone ? "
"Yes, Kolcho, quite alone?" she answered tearfully.
" Don't be uneasy, Rada," he whispered.
" What do you mean, Kolcho ? And if they find him ?
He's in there. You know you said yourself some one saw
him go in."
" I don't think he's there, Rada."

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" But everybody else thinks he is."
" Sh ! I spread the rumour myself. Boicho told me to,
in church. Let the police waste their time here. Ognianoff's at this moment as free as a wolf on the mountain."
The poor girl could scarcely restrain herself from embracing the blind man. Her face lighted up with a bright and
sudden joy, like the sky after a storm.
She went quietly and joyfully into sister Hajji Rovoama's
cell; the sister at once noticed her changed demeanour, and
frowned with vexation.
" I wonder if the slut knows he's not in the convent," she
thought bitterly.
Then, with a look of interrogation, she said:
" Why, Rada, you've been crying ! Crying for a brigand
and murderer ! G o o n ; that's right, make yourself a laughing-stock before the whole world."
Rada's heart was swelling with happiness.
1
' Why shouldn't I cry?" she answered boldly. "Some
one may well cry for him when every one else is gloating
over his fall."
This daring reply seemed to the nun inconceivably improper. She was not used to being answered. She clenched
her teeth with rage.
" Be quiet, you shameless hussy."
" I'm not a shameless hussy."
" You're a shameless hussy and a stupid idiot; and your
bloodthirsty murderer of a lover will be on his way to the
gallows before the day's over."
"Perhaps ; if they catch him," answered Rada, sharply.
Hajji Rovoama started forward, mad with rage:
" Get out, you imp of Satan; never darken my threshold
again," she cried, spurning Rada from the door.
Rada went back to the gallery as if nothing had happened.
What did she care for Hajji Rovoama's scorn, or for the
insulting manner in which she had been turned out. She
was quite happy, her heart was at peace : indeed, she was
glad at having broken off all relations with her unkind protectress. Soon, perhaps that very day, they might dismiss
her from the school, and she would find herself homeless and
penniless.
But what did all that matter ? She knew that Boicho was
safe, safe as a wolf on the mountain, as Kolcho said. God!

A DISAGREEABLE

VISIT.

121

how good Kolcho was ! What a kindly and sympathetic
soul, compassionate for the misfortunes of others, and forgetful of his own, poor fellow. And how many others would
have remained blind and heedless before other people's
sufferings. That Stefchoff for instance—the savage, who
was now impatiently awaiting Boicho's destruction ! But
Boicho was far away from his enemies now. They would
have no cause to triumph ; but how happy good people
would be at his escape. No, there was no one, no one
in the whole world as happy as she was. While she was
taken up by these bright and innocent thoughts, she suddenly saw Kolcho quietly feeling his way downstairs.
" Kolcho ! " she cried, without knowing what for.
" Rada, is that you calling?" and Kolcho turned back.
" My God ! what did I want to call back the poor boy
for, uselessly," she thought to herself with shame; she ran
towards him, stopped him, and said, "Kolcho, dear, it's
nothing—I only wanted to shake hands," and she pressed
his hand with warm gratitude.
The search went on. Sherif Aga, wearied out, left it to
his men and proceeded to examine the wearers of Pope's
hats and blue spectacles, whom he had forgotten.
Kandoff was still protesting against the violence done to
his person in defiance of all justice.
The on-bashi, astounded, asked one of them to translate
into Turkish the words of the enraged Chelebi.
" Say it again, Kandoff, and I'll turn it into Turkish,"
said Bencho Dermanoff, who was the best Turkish scholar
present.
"Tell him, will you," added Kandoff, "that the inviolability of my person, which is the most precious of human
prerogatives, in defiance of all legality and every principle
of justice
"
Bencho stopped him with a despairing wave of the
hand.
" Why, the very words don't exist in Turkish. You'd
better leave it alone, Kandoff."
At last the convent was freed of its unwelcome guests,
who went on to search the garden and the neighbouring
houses.

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UNDER THE YOKE.
C H A P T E R XX.
THE FUGITIVE.

ONCE more Ognianoff owed his life to his presence of
mind.
No sooner was he out of the town than his first care was
to hide his Pope's hat and fur cloak behind a bush.
The snowstorm which had fortunately come on had
enabled him to pass unseen through the deserted streets :
outside the town it was still fiercer. The mountain blasts
whistled shrill, the ridge of the Stara Planina was as if
powdered over with salt. The fields, deserted and lifeless,
assumed an unspeakably dreary aspect under their icy
shroud. Luckily the sun soon after penetrated the clouds
and shed its invigorating warmth on the frozen landscape.
Ognianoff fled to the westward across the trackless fields
and through vineyards seamed with ravines and dry watercourses. H e was much perturbed. Some fatality seemed
to have allied itself with Stefchoff and to be pressing
relentlessly after him. In one moment he saw the whole
edifice, built up so sedulously and with such tender care,
crumbling in ruin before him. H e saw the deacon, the
doctor, old Stoyan, and perhaps other firm and devoted
friends, flung into prison, Rada overwhelmed with grief,
his enemies everywhere triumphant. H e could not divine
the circumstances which had brought about this discovery.
All his worst forebodings passed before his eyes. But was
the game irretrievably lost? Would this discovery lead to
fresh revelations ? His flight now seemed to him to be an
act of base cowardice. H e was desirous of returning, so as
to assure himself of the extent of the evil: he was no
longer thinking of himself: his fearlessness was quite
sufficient for such an undertaking. But reflection showed
that he must, at least, disguise himself first so as to be
unrecognisable. So he pushed on. H e determined to
make for Ovcheri, a village where he numbered his most
faithful adherents, and to which he most frequently repaired
in his periodical journeys. At Uncle Delko's he would
be able to think things over quietly. But the path to
Ovcheri, which was hidden away in a valley amid the

THE FUGITIVE.

123

solitary outskirts of the Sredna Gora, was full of dangers
for Ognianoff, for it passed through the numerous Turkish
villages which abounded in those parts. The news of the
discovery of the bodies of the two bullies would be sure to
reach those semi-brigand haunts that very day. Even if
they did not seize him on suspicion they were quite likely
to cut him down as a ghiaour: not a day passed without
some such occurrence in the neighbourhood; and his town
clothing made such an eventuality still more probable. It
was folly to be over-confident; it would be going to certain
destruction. He determined to wait for nightfall, and with
this view he retreated towards the spurs of the Stara
Planina, where he would be sheltered by the clustering
thickets of dwarf oak.
After two hours' arduous climbing over precipices and
through wild mountain passes, he reached the nearest thickets.
There he found a hiding-place among the dry bushes, and
stretched himself out at full length to repose, or rather to
think over his position. The sky had quite cleared up.
The autumn sun shone bright and warm, and the melting
hoar-frost and snow glistened on the grass and the boughs.
Here and there sparrows fluttered silently overhead, alighting every now and then to find some food on the ground.
An eagle of the Balkans floated high above OgnianofiPs
head: it had scented a carcase close by, or else took
Ognianoff .to be such. This thought made the fugitive still
more gloomy. The eagle seemed to him to be a portent
of evil. He took it to be a living emblem of his unenviable fate: the bird of prey seemed awaiting its feast of
blood, for which it had left its eyrie on high. For everything was possible. That wild spot was far from being
safe j it was frequently resorted to by Turkish sportsmen,
little better than brigands. Ognianoff waited with impatience for sunset, and several times changed his place
for a more secret refuge. The day seemed inconceivably
long; the sun still shone unwearied. And the eagle still
floated overhead. Twice or three times it flapped its wings,
and then stretched them out black and motionless in mid
air. OgnianofPs eyes seemed fascinated by the bird, but
his thoughts were far away. Before his troubled mind
passed one after another visions of the past—days of
youth, days of struggles, of suffering, and of faith in a lofty

124

UNDER THE YOKE.

ideal. And Bulgaria, which had inspired all these—Bulgaria
was so fair, so bright, so worthy of all sacrifices ! She was
a goddess that lived on the blood of her worshippers. Her
bloody aureole bore on it a scroll of glorious names; and
Ognianoff sought for his own name among them, and
fancied he saw it there. How proud he was—how ready
to die—nay, to fight for her ! Death was an exalted
sacrifice, but the struggle was a great mystery.
Suddenly a gunshot was heard. Ognianoff started. The
Balkan echoes reverberated the sound till it died away.
" Probably some one out after game," he said to himself.
OgnianofPs relief was but short-lived. A quarter of an
hour later he heard the bark of a dog at no great distance.
The bark was immediately followed by a human voice.
Ognianoff was involuntarily reminded of the greyhound of
Yemeksiz, who had belonged to the neighbouring village.
The bark seemed to him to be familiar. It was repeated
this time nearer; the thickets rustled as if with the wind,
and two greyhounds rushed towards him with their muzzles
to the ground.
Ognianoff sighed with relief.
Yemeksiz Pehlivan's dog was not there : the animal had
been trained to pursue human beings as well as game.
That accursed creature, contrary to the ordinary nature of
greyhounds, which are generally dull and gentle beasts
enough, was very vindictive, as was seen at the monastery.
It had appeared as Stefchoff's ally and had prepared
OgnianofPs destruction. When the dog saw him retreating
into the thicket they approached him, sniffed, and passed
on. Suddenly Ognianoff heard men's footsteps approaching. H e fled through the bushes without looking behind
him. Three shots were fired, he felt a sharp sting in the
heel and trebled the speed of his flight. Whether they
were pursuing him, or what was going on behind, he knew
not. The valley of a stream appeared before him. He
plunged into the low bushes on the bank and lay hidden
there. Probably the hunters had lost him. Ognianoff lay
listening for a long time, but not a sound was to be heard.
Then he felt something hot and moist on his foot. " I'm
wounded " he thought with terror, seeing his boot drenched
with blood. H e took off his left boot and saw that blood
was gushing from two places, the bullet had passed right

THE

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125

through his heel. H e tore off a piece of his shirt and
staunched the blood. The pain grew more intense, and a
long and difficult path still lay before him. The loss of
blood had greatly weakened him, and he had moreover
eaten nothing that day. Soon it became quite dark, and
he left his hiding-place, which was sure to be ransacked the
next day by a band of Turks. With nightfall the cold
became more piercing. The first Turkish village he came
to was quite dark. Turkish villages become silent and
deserted as graveyards as soon as night approaches. The
only light to be seen was in a grocer's window. But
Oghianoff did not dare to go in, though he was half starved.
H e pushed on for two hours more, passed through the
other villages, and at length saw something white and
glittering before him.
It was the stream. H e waded
across with some difficulty and sat down on the opposite
bank, because the water had chilled his wound and the
pain was very great. He saw that his heel was swollen,
and began to be afraid lest inflammation should set in and
impede his further progress. H e rose, pulled up one of
the reeds growing on the bank, and proceeded to wash the
wound in the manner he had learnt when he was a member
of Hajji Dimitr's band. He filled his mouth with water
which he blew through the reed into the wound. Having
repeated this several times, he bound the place up tightly,
and pushed towards the Sredna Gora, on the spurs of which
he was already. The darkness increased every minute.
Ognianoff was making for Ovcheri, but seemed to be
getting no nearer. At last he saw he must have missed the
path : he found himself in a labyrinth of bushes. H e
stopped in despair and listened. H e was now high up in
the Sredna Gora. A dull murmur of human voices reached
his ears. As he conjectured, there could be no one there
at that hour but charcoal burners, indeed he could
distinguish a slight red flame. But were they Bulgarians or
Turks? H e was half-stunned, frozen, and exhausted; if
they were Christians there was some hope of assistance
from them. H e mounted a little higher and then saw
clearly their fire close b y : he made his way towards it.
Through the bushes he could now distinguish human forms
by the fire, and his ear caught a few Bulgarian words.
How should he disclose himself? H e was covered with

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UNDER THE YOKE.

blood. His appearance might scare these Bulgarians into
flight, or have even worse consequences for him. There
were three of them—one was lying covered over, the other
two were talking by the fire. On one side a pack-horse,
half-laden, was grazing. Ognianoff strained his ears to
listen to the conversation.
" Put on some more wood, there's no time for talking,"
" I'll get out a little hay for the mare," said the elder of the
two, rising.
" Why, I know that voice, that's Nencho, the son of old
Ivan, of Verigovo," said Ognianoff to himself, joyfully.
Verigovo was a village on the other side of the Sredna
Gora, which Ognianoff also knew.
Nencho approached the mare and stooped down to take
some hay from a goatskin bag. Ognianoff moved towards
him through the bushes, and said to him :
" Good evening, Nencho." Nencho started to his feet.
"Who's there?"
" Don't you know me, Nencho."
The dim glare of the fire lighted up Ognianoff's face.
" What, is that you, teacher ? Come along, these are all
our people ; this is our Tsvetian and that's Doichin. Why,
you're frozen to death—you've lost your way," said the
peasant, leading Ognianoff to the fire.
" Tsvetian, put on some more wood. Let's have a good
fire. Here's a Christian perished with cold : we must warm
him up. Don't you recognise him ? "
"What, the teacher!" cried the boy, gladly. "Where
ever are you from ?" he asked, putting down some dry
branches for Ognianoff to sit on.
" God bless you, Tsvetan. Glad to see you."
" The devils have wounded him; but it's not serious,
thank God," cried Nencho, angrily.
" Bah! it's nothing."
" Father Doichin, get up, here's a friend !" cried Nencho,
waking up the sleeper.
Soon there was a big fire blazing before them. The
charcoal-burners looked pityingly and sympathetically at
Ognianoff's pale face, as he briefly recounted his adventures.
He soon felt the beneficent effect of the fire. His frozen
limbs began to thaw and the pain from his wound
decreased. Father Doichin drew from his ragged bag a

AT

VERIGOVO.

127

hunch of bread and an onion, and gave them to
Boicho.
"That's all I can give you, it's the only food we've got.
But as for warmth, thank God, we're better off than the
Sultan. Fall to, teacher."
Ognianoff felt better every moment. His being was filled
with a new and inexpressible comfort. That bright golden
fire cheered him up, the hospitable wood round him, the
rough but kindly faces that looked so friendly, the hard,
toil-stained hands stretched out to him in true Bulgarian
hospitality, however humble—all this awoke a strong
emotion within him. But for his wound Ognianoff would
have sung aloud for joy.
At dawn Nencho, leading the horse, on which rode
Ognianoff, was already knocking at a door at Verigovo.
The dogs barked and Father Marin at once appeared.
The unusually early hour told him some visitor out of the
common had arrived.
After a word of greeting, Nencho gave the necessary explanations.
" May God cut off the heathens, root and branch; may
dogs devour them; may the devil take their souls," cried
Father Marin, as he gently helped down Ognianoff, who
had suffered much from the jolting.
They took him into a remote room in the house, where
Ognianoff had once before spent the night. Old Marin
looked carefully at the wound and bound it up.
" I'll cure you as I would a sick dog," said he.
Soon the patient fell into a sound slumber.

CHAPTER

XXI.

AT VERIGOVO.

OGNIANOFF'S convalescence went on satisfactorily, though
not quite so fast as Father Marin had promised. The
hospitable family was quite devoted to the sufferer, to
alleviate whose pain everything was done. His only
doctor was Father Marin, who knew something about

128

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YOKE.

surgery, while Marin's old wife surpassed herself daily by
some new triumph of the culinary art.
Casks of the
white wine of the Sredna Gora seemed always forthcoming : every morning a chicken hopped headless about
the courtyard, and eventually appeared at Ognianoff's table,
he alone being able to enjoy this good cheer, as the Advent
fasts were now being observed with the strictness usual
among members of the Orthodox Greek Church.
Three weeks passed by during which Ognianoff improved
daily, thanks to the unflagging attention and care bestowed
upon him by the Bulgarian household. But he was tortured
by an impatient desire to know what had happened at Bela
Cherkva—how Rada was, what his friends were doing, and
how the cause he had worked for so arduously was progressing. H e entreated old Marin to send some one to make
inquiries, but the old man would not hear of it.
" N o , I'll send no o n e ; I'm going myself next week to
buy one or two things against the feast. You must wait till
then, my son. You keep quiet and you'll be well all the
sooner. God's merciful."
" But I'll be able to go myself next week."
" Do you think I'll let you? That's my business; I'm
your doctor, and you've got to ask my leave," replied the
old man with paternal severity.
" But let them send word to Rada that I am safe."
" S h e knows you're safe, since the Turks haven't got
you."
And Ognianoff had to content himself with this.
A few faithful villagers were allowed to come and see
him : they had obtained the old man's leave after many
prayers. Their simple souls thirsted for the "teacher's"
inflammatory speeches ; whenever they left him their faces
were flushed and their eyes bright.
Ognianoff's most
frequent visitor was Pope Yosif, the President of the local
Revolutionary Committee. H e had already been elected
voivode (leader) of the future insurrection, and kept his wand
of office concealed among the church vestments. Another was
Father Mina, the old schoolmaster. Ognianoff was convinced
that, except these f&w and old Marin's family, no one else
in the whole village knew his secret. Meanwhile he noticed
with surprise that his table was more bountifully provided
every day : fried chickens, eggs cooked in butter, rice with

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milk, pastry, even wild duck and hares were supplied him ;
wines of different kinds appeared daily. This lavishness
annoyed him; he began to be ashamed of the expense he
was causing. One day in the courtyard he observed that
the fowl-house was empty. He said to Father Marin:
" Father Marin, you're ruining yourself. Unless you
come to your senses I shall refuse all your dainties and send
to the grocer's for bread and cheese—that's quite enough
for me."
" Don't you bother whether I'm ruining myself or not.
I'm your doctor and know how you're to be treated, so
does my wife. Don't you interfere."
And Ognianoff much moved said no more.
He did not know that the whole village was contributing
to feast their beloved " Daskal." * The secret was kept in
common, yet treachery was out of the question, so great
was his popularity now. The report that he had accounted
for two bullies had raised him high in favour even with the
most indifferent. Heroism is of all virtues the one that
strikes the public fancy the most,
However Ognianoff's wound healed but slowly, and his
hot and impetuous nature was perforce condemned to inactivity : he was tortured by anxiety. Of all his visitors he
found most relief in his conversations with good old Mina:
the two were together daily for some hours, and Boicho
could not do without him. Father Mina was a relic of the
past, the last survivor probably of that extinct race of teachers
whose only books were their memory and the psalter, and
who had opened the famous cellar-schools of Bulgaria.
He had now completed his seventieth year, and was a greyheaded, broad, burly peasant dressed in the old-fashioned
wide knickerbockers. After a long and active life he had
found a haven of rest in that quiet village where he was
finishing his days. He had outlived his generation, his oldworld learning was of no use at the present day, his only
occupation was to sing, without remuneration, in the church
choir : there, at least, modern education had not penetrated.
On holidays the villagers gathered round him and listened
with attention to his ever-attractive stories, wrhich were, like
prophecies, intermingled with scraps of Scripture. Ognianoff
was delighted with the reminiscences of this aged worker,
* "Teacher," a corruption of the Greek foiJciovcaXos.
I

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the living relic of a past epoch. When a man is in affliction,
be it moral or physical, his soul turns to religion; he finds
at once a consolation in the words of the great book. It
assuages his pain like a magic balsam. Ognianoff was now
for the first time experiencing the soothing effects of the
Scriptural language which the old man mingled with his
own. When he was first brought to the sick-bed, old Mina
said sorrowfully :
" Yet another Christian victim—more innocent blood
shed ! How long, oh Lord, shall the adversary reproach ?
. . . . Why withdrawest Thou Thy right hand? Arise,
Lord, judge ! Lift up Thy hands against the haughty at
last."
And he greeted him and inquired into his case with
warm interest. But when Ognianoff in turning round
groaned from the sharp pain caused by the movement, he
said pityingly :
" K e e p still, my son: blessed are they that mourn, for
they shall be comforted."
" Ah! Father Mina, we are fated to suffer; it's not for
nothing they call us apostles," said Ognianoff with a smile.
" Your's is a hard lot in this world, teacher—a hard lot;
but it's glorious and praiseworthy, for God Himself has
chosen you to serve the nation. Ye are the light of the
world : a city that is set upon a hill cannot be hidden. Did
not Christ say to the holy apostles : The harvest truly is
great, but the workers are few. Go your ways : I send you
as lambs among the wolves."
These simple words imparted a sweet comfort and joy
into OgnianorFs soul. H e begged the old man to give him
a few sacred books to read : Mina brought him the Psalms.
Ognianoff began with ardour to read those inspired compositions, which are the source of such lofty poesy. These
songs of battle, of despairing lamentation, and impassioned
prayer awoke a response in him. The Psalms of David
never left him.
At last, in process of time, Father Marin went to Bela
Cherkva. Ognianoff awaited his return with feverish excitement. H e was filled with forebodings of the gloomiest
description. It was now more than a month since he had
any news of those who were dearest to him. What had
become of Rada ? After his flight to what sufferings, to

AT

VERIGOVO.

I3 1

what persecutions had she not been exposed on his
account? She was left alone to face the contumely of
society, perhaps even the vengeance of the authorities.
Poor girl, she was not fated to be happy with him. The
poor child was left exposed once more to the attacks of
fate, foiled in her most cherished wishes, and perhaps overwhelmed by the contempt of public opinion. Men's cruelty
would impute her devotion to him as a crime, and make
her atone by many a bitter pang for the short-lived joys her
love for him had given her. And he was not there to
console her, to defend the poor weak child.
Plunged in these dark thoughts he hailed old Mina's
appearance with joy. At least there was some one to open
out his soul to. Old Mina listened to him with sympathy.
" Hope—hope in God, teacher," said he. " Do not
despair: the All-seeing will not desert the suffering who
trust in His mercy. They who put their trust in the Lord
shall see Zion. The Lord will in no wise desert the sinner
who repenteth. They that sow in tears shall reap in joy."
As though in fulfilment of these words of comfort, the
door opened and old Marin entered.
Ognianoff, trembling with excitement, tried to read his
news in his face.
" G o o d evening—wait a bit, teacher—I'll tell you all
about it. You're not too tired, are y o u ? " said he, taking
off his heavy cloak.
" T h o s e city people of yours are a funny lot," added
Marin ; " they're like shadows—there's no getting hold of
them."
" Didn't you go straight to the doctor ? "
" He's arrested."
" Well, the deacon at the monastery."
" The deacon's in hiding."
" Did you find old Stoyan ? "
" God have mercy upon him ! Poor fellow, he died the
night they arrested him, from the beating he got. They say
he told them the whole story, under torture."
" Oh ! poor Father Stoyan ! But Rada, Rada ? "
" I wasn't able to see her."
" Why ?—what's become of her ? " H e grew pale.
" She's there all right—don't you fret yourself 3 but they've
turned her out of the school."

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" What! Is she living with the nuns under the thumb of
Sister Hajji Rovoama? " cried Ognianoff, uneasily.
" No, the nun turned her out, too, without mercy."
" My God—she must be starving in the streets ! "
" No—Chorbaji Marko has put her to live with a relation
of his, but I couldn't find the house, and my mates were in
a hurry. But I heard she was all right."
" Ah ! that Marko's a good soul—there's no repaying
what he's done for me. But what do they say about
me?"
" About you ? Why they've all got some other name for
you. I couldn't make out what they were at."
" What ? the Count."
" That's it—the Count. They all say the Count was shot
in the Ahievo thicket by sportsmen."
" Well, that's true enough."
" N o t quite, though, because here you are alive, while
they all think you're dead, and so much the better,
say I."
Ognianoff started as if a serpent had stung him.
" What ? and does she think me dead, too ? Is the poor
girl to have that sorrow as well ? "
H e leapt across the room as though to start off at
once.
" Sit still, will you—you'll only open your wound again."
" I can walk quite well now," said Ognianoff with a
determined air.
" And where are you going to walk to, pray ? " asked old
Marin, astounded.
" Why, to Bela Cherkva."
" A r e you m a d ? "
" Not yet; but I shall be if I stop here another day.
Get me out my clothes. Perhaps you'll lend me your
horse?"
Old Marin knew Ognianofr's obstinacy: he did not even
attempt to restrain him.
" You can take the clothes and the horse too. Only
I'm sorry for the sake of your youth," he said earnestly.
" Every road's patrolled half a dozen times a day; there's
no end to their raids and researches; do have some regard
for yourself."
" Don't you trouble about me. I'll come back to you

AN AWKWARD

PREDICAMENT.

133

safe and sound as a hawk—provided you'll take me in
again," said Ognianoff, half in jest.
The old man cast a dark look at him.
" N o ; I won't let you go," he cried, " not if I rouse the
whole village, and keep you back by force. We want you
here—you're like the Holy Communion to us—and you
want to go, for them to kill you. Do you suppose I'm
going to have it said afterwards, ' Old Marin let Daskal
Boicho, our apostle, go to his death ' ? "
" Not so loud, Father Marin—they'll hear you outside,"
observed Ognianoff.
Old Mina smiled under his moustache.
And Marin's face became suddenly hilarious.
Ognianoff looked at them with surprise. His last words
really seemed to have amused them.
" What are you laughing a t ? " he asked.
"Why, God bless you, teacher, what are you afraid of?
The whole village, down to the very children, know you're
here.
We've all been taking our share of your keep.
We're simple folk, but we won't betray a Christian. And as
for you—why, we'd sell our lives for you ! "
This time it was Ognianoffs turn to laugh when he learnt
that the whole village was in the secret.
After much debate, Ognianoff overcame the scruples of
his host, and his departure was decided on.

C H A P T E R XXII.
AN AWKWARD PREDICAMENT.

A N hour later a Turk—or, to be more accurate, a Turkish
priest—rode out of the village of Verigovo.
A faded green turban, in rags, covered his forehead
almost to the eyes; the nape of his neck was carefully
shaved; his waistcoat of printed calico, open at the throat,
had lost nearly all its buttons; a tattered jacket with hanging sleeves was thrown over his shoulders; the greasy
leather belt round his waist contained a flint lock pistol, a
short ramrod, a Sopot yataghan, and a chibouk; on his feet

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he wore a pair of slippers, frayed and torn, over which were
strapped Seimen sandals, and his costume was completed
by a worn-out cloak of the native shayak, reaching to his
feet.
Ognianoff was thus quite unrecognisable.
Winter had now thoroughly set in : the ground was covered
with a deep sheet of snow, from under which the rocky
peaks of the Stara Planina rose black and jagged. All
nature was silent and mournful: nothing living could be
seen save the huge flocks of crows that flew croaking through
the drowsy air.
The straight path to Bela Cherkva was towards the northeast: however, Ognianoff avoided it, for it led through
Yemeksiz Pehlivan's village, which inspired him with involuntary terror. His mind dwelt on the dead man's greyhound, into which the malignant hostility of the Turk seemed
to have passed, so as to pursue and terrify Ognianoff even
from the grave. Hence he determined to strike to the
north, and make for the inn at Karnara, from whence he
would cross the spurs of the Stara Planina eastwards, and
thus reach Bela Cherkva. This would considerably lengthen
his journey, but the danger would be less, though he would
still have to pass through Turkish villages. When Ognianoff
reached the first village the snow was falling in thick flakes,
and entirely blocking the traveller's view. The intense cold
had quite numbed his limbs—he could scarcely hold his
horse's reins; indeed, the animal had been guided to the
village more by instinct than anything else, for no trace of
the path was to be seen under the snow. He entered the
deserted streets of the village unnoticed—not a soul was
visible anywhere—and made his way to the only inn of the
place, opposite the mosque. He was anxious to rest his
horse, which was much exhausted by the journey, and also
to warm himself a little. A boy came out and took charge
of his horse : meanwhile, he made for the door of the inn,
which seemed to be quite empty, as not a sound was to be
heard. But no sooner had he entered than he saw with
surprise that the room was full of Turks. To retreat was
clearly out of the question. He decided to sit down, and
greeted the whole company : his salute was courteously
returned. He had lived long among Turks and was
thoroughly conversant with their language and customs.

AN AWKWARD

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135

The guests were all reclining on the matting on the floor,
with their slippers off and their pipes in their hands. The
room was dense with tobacco-smoke.
11
A cup of coffee," he said sternly to the cafeji.
He proceeded to roll a cigarette, bending over it as he
did so, so as to conceal his features as much as possible.
While he sipped his coffee he listened attentively to the
conversation going on in a low tone round him. For a time
there was nothing to interest him: suddenly he pricked up his
ears, the death of the two bullies had come under discussion.
Such an event had never been heard of before in the neighbourhood, and the Turks were infuriated by it. A sudden
excitement took possession of the company in the cafe,
which had till then been so quiet and phlegmatic. Angry
abuse and bloody threats were uttered against the Bulgarians.
Ognianoff continued to sip his coffee with a fierce frown as
a sign that he shared the general dissatisfaction. Suddenly
the conversation turned on the slayer of the two Turks, and
he saw to his surprise how well-known his own name and
person were: there were already legends current about
him.
" This ghiaour of a Consul is not to be found or recognised anywhere," said one of those present.
" He's got a devil who helps him : one minute he appears
as a teacher, the next as a priest; to-day he's a peasant,
the next day a Turk—he changes his appearance in a
moment. From an old man he becomes a boy—one day
he's short and dark—next day he's as tall as a lamp-post,
and has red hair. He's not to be caught. Ahmed Aga
was telling me they once got on his track and sent a patrol
after him into the thicket by the monastery ; he was dressed
in peasant's clothes. Well, suddenly they saw a crow before
them, nothing else, no peasant or any one. Everybody
fired, but the bird flew quietly off with a loud croak."
" That's nonsense," said several.
"The ghiaour must be caught—only we've got to find
his nest first," said another.
" I tell you the cuckold can't be found," added the first
speaker. " I don't believe he's in hiding at all—only find
him if you can. Why, he might be here now in this very
cafe, and we none the wiser."
At these words, every one mechanically raised his eyes

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and looked round him. Some inquisitive glances were
directed at OgnianofT.
The latter was now furiously sipping his third cup of
coffee, and emitting every now and then a thick cloud of
smoke which half concealed him from view. But he felt
the searching looks that were fixed on him and drops of
perspiration rose behind his turban. He could no longer
endure the tension of such a situation, and was eager to
leave the cafe and breathe the fresh air outside.
" Where are you bound for, if fate wills it ? " some one
asked him.
"For Klissoura, inshallab," answered Ognianoff, quietly,
unrolling a long twisted purse to pay his score.
"What, in this snow and storm? You'd better stop
here, you'll get there to-morrow."
"To the traveller the road—to the frog the marsh,"
answered OgnianofT with a smile.
"These stories of yours are old women's tales, Rahman
Aga—your ghiaour's no devil or crow, but a ' Komita'
like every other ' Komita.' "
"Well, you catch him then."
" So we will—we've scented his nest."
" If we could only get hold of him/' cried several with
looks of bloodthirsty ferocity.
" I'll stake my head on it that either to-day or to-morrow
the Komita Boicho will be in the trap."
" Where are they looking for the dog ? "
" He's hidden in some ghiaour village of the Sredna
Gora where he's found a warm nest. Yesterday some
zapties started for Bania and others for the Abrashlar
fields—we'll get him."
" Are you after him too ? "
" Yes. We're to meet at Verigovo and begin the search
there."
It was then only that Ognianoff noticed that the
speaker was a zaptie—he had not observed him in the
corner. The discovery of his narrow escape from Verigovo
increased his dismay. Their suspicious glances fell, but the
cafe was unendurable. He saluted the guests and went out.
When he was once more outside in the fresh air, at
liberty under the snowy sky, he took a deep breath of
relief, and leaped on his horse.

THE SEWING-PARTY AT ALTINOVO.

CHAPTER XXIII.
T H E SEWING-PARTY AT ALTINOVO.

INSTEAD of making for Bela Cherkva, OgnianofT now
turned back towards Altinovo, a village which lay in the
western corner of the valley. It was a two hour's journey,
but his horse was exhausted and the road was bad, so that
he only just reached the village before dark, pursued right
up to the outskirts by the famished howls of the wolves.
He entered by the Bulgarian quarter (the village was a
mixed one, containing both Turks and Bulgarians) and
soon stopped before old Tsanko's door.
Tsanko was by birth a native of Klissoura, but had long
ago taken up his abode in the village. He was a simple,
kindly peasant and a warm patriot. The apostles often
slept at his house. He received OgnianofT with open
arms.
" It is a piece of luck, your corning to me. We've got
a sewing-party on to-night—you can have a good look at
our girls. You won't find the time heavy on your hands,
I'll be bound," said Tsanko with a smile, as he showed the
way in.
OgnianofT hastened to tell him that he was being
pursued, and for what reason.
" Yes, yes, I know all about it," said Tsanko, "you don't
suppose just because our village is a bit out of the way that
we know nothing of what goes on outside ? "
" But sha'n't I be putting you out ? "
" Don't you mind, I tell you. You must look out among
the girls to-night for one to carry the flag," laughed Tsanko,
" there—you can see them all from this window, like a
king."
OgnianofT was in a small, dark closet, the window of
which, covered with wooden trellis-work, looked on to the
large common room; here the sewing-party was already
assembling. It was a meeting of the principal girls of the
village, the object being to assist in making the trousseau
for Tsanko's daughter Donka. The fire burned brightly
and lighted up the walls, which boasted no ornament save
a print of St. Ivan of Rilo and the bright, glazed dishes on

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the shelves. The furniture—as in most well-to-do villagers'
houses—consisted of a water-butt, a wardrobe, a shelf, and
the great cupboard which contained all Tsanko's household
goods. All the guests, both male and female, were seated
on the floor, which was covered with skins and carpets.
Besides the light of the fire there were also two petroleum
lamps burning—a special luxury in honour of the occasion.
It was long since Ognianoff had been present at a
gathering of this kind—a curious custom sanctioned by
antiquity. From his dark* recess he watched with interest
the simple scenes of the still primitive village life. The
door opened, and Tsanko's wife came to him-—she was a
buxom and talkative dame, also from Klissoura. She sat
down by Ognianoff's side and began to point out to him
the most remarkable girls present, with the necessary
details.
" Do you see that fat, rosy-cheeked girl there ? That's
Staika Chonina, See what a sad, sad look Ivan Kill-theBear gives her now and again. H e barks for her like a
sheep-dog when he wants to make her laugh. She's very
industrious, quick-witted, and cleanly. Only she ought to
marry at once, poor girl—she's getting so fat; she'll be
thinner after marriage. It's just the opposite of your towngirls. The girl to the left of her is Tsveta Prodanova : she
is in love with the lad over there, with his moustache
sticking out like a skewer. She's a lively one for you—
see her eyes in every corner of the room at once ; but
she's a good girl. That's DraganofTs Tsveta by her side ;
and next to her Raika, the Pope's daughter. I'd rather
have those two than twenty of your fine ladies from
Philippopolis. Do you see their white throats, just like
ducks ? Why, I once caught my Tsanko saying he'd give
his vineyard at Mai Tepe, just to be allowed to kiss one of
them on the chin ! Didn't I just box his ears for him, the
vagabond! Do you see that girl to the right of fat
Staika ? That's Kara Velio's daughter : she's a great swell;
five young fellows have already been after her, but her
father wouldn't have anything to say to them. Pie's keeping
her for somebody, the old weasel—you know he looks just
like a weasel. Ivan Nedelioff '11 have her, or I'll bite my
tongue out. There's Rada Milkina: she sings like the
nightingale on our plum-tree—but she's a lazybones,

THE SEWING-PARTY

AT ALTINOVO.

139

between ourselves. I'd rather have Dimka Todorova,
standing over there by the shelf: there's a blooming rose
for you I If I was a bachelor I'd propose to her at once.
Why don't you take her yourself? That's the Peeff's girl
standing by our Donka. She's a pretty girl, and industrious
into the bargain—-so they say she's as good as our Donka.
She's got a sweet voice, like Rada Milkina, and laughs like
a swallow twittering: you listen to her."
As she stood there by Boicho in the dark, she reminded
him of the scene in the " Divina Commedia," where Beatrice,
at the gate of hell, points out to Dante one by one the
condemned, and tells him their history.
Ognianoif listened more or less attentively: he was
entirely absorbed by the picture, and cared little for the
explanations. The bolder among the girls jested with the
lads, flirted with them archly, and laughed merrily the
while. They were answered by the deep guffaws of the
youths, who looked shyly across at the weaker sex. Jests,
taunts, and chaff followed in one continual flow : loud
laughter was called forth by jokes with a double meaning,
which sometimes brought the hot blush to the girls' cheeks.
Tsanko alone took part in the merry-making. His wife
was busy with the stew-pan, where the supper was preparing.
As for Donka, she couldn't stay still for a moment.
" Come, you've chaffed each other enough now; suppose
you give us a song," cried the housewife, as she left Boicho
and returned to her saucepans on the fire. " Now, then,
Rada, Stanka, sing something and put the young men to
shame. Young men are not worth a brass button nowadays : they can't sing."
Rada and Stanka did not wait to be asked twice. They
at once began a song which was taken up by all those
girls who could sing; these at once formed into two
choruses : the first sang one verse, and then waited while
the second repeated it. The better singers were in the first
choir, which consisted of alto voices, the others repeating
the verse in a lower key.
The following are the words of the song they sang :
" Well-a-day J the youthful couple ; well-a-day ! they fell in love ;
Well-a-day ! in love they'd fallen ; well-a-day ! from earliest youth.
Well-a-day! they met each other; well-a-day ! last night they met.
Well-a-day ! all in the darkness ; well-a-day ! just down the street.

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Well-a-day ! the silver moonlight ; well-a-day ! shone down on them.
Well-a-day ! the stars were twinkling ; well-a-day ! within the sky.
Yet, well-a-day ! the youthful couple ; well-a-day ! they're sitting still.
Well-a-day ! yes, still they're sitting; well-a-day ! in loving talk.
Well-a-day ! her jug of water ; well-a-day ! it's frozen hard.
Well-a-day ! his oaken cudgel; well-a-day ! how long it's grown.
But, well-a-day ! the youthful couple ; well-a-day ! they're sitting yet! "

When the song came to an end the youths were loud in
applause: it appealed to every one of them; its pleasing
refrain brought up memories of past experience. As for
Ivan Kill-the-Bear, he was devouring Staika Chonina with
his eyes; he was deeply in love with her.
" That's the kind of song to sing over again—ay, and to
act all day long," he cried, in his deep bass voice.
All the girls laughed, and many an arch look was cast at
Kill-the-Bear.
H e was a perfect mountain of a man, of gigantic stature
and herculean strength, with a big, bony face, but not over
bright. However, he was great at singing—that is to say,
his voice corresponded with his size. H e now became
cross, and withdrew silently behind the girls, where he
suddenly barked like an old sheep-dog. The girls started
in terror at first, and then laughed at him, and the bolder
ones among them began to tease him: one of them sang,
mockingly;
li

Ivan, you bright-hued turtle-dove,
Ivan, you slender poplar."

Another added:
" Ivan, you shaggy, old she-bear,
Ivan, you lanky clothes-prop !''

More giggling and laughter followed. Ivan became
furious. H e stared in dumb bewilderment at the rosycheeked Staika Chonina, who mocked so unkindly her
fervent adorer; he opened a mouth like a boa-constrictor's,
and roared out:
" Said Peika's aunt one day to her
' Why, Pe'ika giil; why, Pe'ika girl,
The people freely talk of you,
The people, all the neighbours say,
That you've become so fat and full,
That you're so plump and fleshy now,
All thiough your uncle's shepherd lad.'
* Oh aunty dear, oh darling aunt.

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141

Let people freely talk of me,
Let people, all the neighbours say,
That if I'm fat and fleshy now,
If I've become so plump and full,
It's from my father's wheaten bread,
My father's white and wheaten bread ;
For while I knead it in the trough,
A basket-full of grapes I pluck,
And drink a jar of red, red wine.' "

Staika blushed at this bitter inuendo; her red cheeks
became as fiery as if she had dyed them in cochineal. The
spiteful giggles of the other girls pierced her to the heait.
Some, with assumed simplicity, asked :
" Why, however can one pick grapes and drink wine at
the same time ? The sung must be all wrong."
" Why, of course, either the song's wrong or else the girl's
wrong," answered another.
This cutting criticism still further enraged Staika. She
threw a crushing look at the triumphant Ivan, and sang in
a voice that quivered with rage:
11

' Oh Peika, brighter than the poppy,
Is all your needlework so fine,
And all my many, many visits,
Are all of these to be in vain ?
Come, Pe'ika, won't you have me, dear ? '
' Why, Yonko, why, you filthy drudge,
Could Peika ever fall in love
With such a swine-herd as yourself ;
A swine-heid, and a cattle-drover—
Some wealthy farmer's filthy drudge ;
She'd put you down before the door,
The little door behind the house;
That, when she passes in and out,
To fetch the calves and heifers in,
If she should chance to soil her shoes,
She'd wipe them clean upon your back."

It was a crushing repartee to a savage attack.
Staika now looked proudly round her. Her shaft had
struck home. Ivan Kill-the-Bear stood motionless, as if
transfixed, with staring eyes. A loud peal of laughter
greeted his discomfiture. The whole party was gazing
curiously at him. Tears started to his eyes from very
shame and wounded vanity. The spectators laughed still
louder. The mistress of the house became angry.
" What's the meaning of all this, girls ? Is this the way

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to behave with the lads, instead of being kind and pleasant
to one another, as you ought to ? Staika—Ivan—you ought
to be cooing together like a pair of turtle-doves."
" It's only lovers who quarrel," said Tsanko in a conciliatory tone.
Ivan Kill-the-Bear rose and went out angrily, as if to
protest against these words.
" Like loves like," averred Neda Liagovitcha.
"Well, Neda, God loves a good laugher," said Kono
Goran, Kill-the-Bear's cousin.
" Now, boys, sing us some old haidoud song, to put a
little life into us," said Tsanko. The lads sang in chorus :
"Alas for poor S toy an, alas !
Two ambushes they laid for him,
But in the third they captured him.
The cruel ropes they've fastened round him—
They've bound his strong and manly arms.
Alas ! they've carried poor Stoyan
To Erin's house, the village Pope.
Two buxom daughters had the Pope,
And Rouja, a step-daughter, too :
But Rouja sat and milked the cow
Beside the little garden gate,
While they were sweeping in the yard,
And gaily cried the sisters twain :
' Ha ! ha ! Stoyan,5 they cried to him :
* To-morrow morn they'll hang you up,
Before the palace of the king—
You'll dangle for the queen to see,
And all the princes and princesses.'
But Stoyan softly said to Rouja,
* Dear Rouja, you the Pope's step-daughter,
It's not my life I care about,
It's not for the bright world I mourn—
A brave man never weeps or mourns ;
But yet, I beg you, Rouja dear,
Oh ! let them put a clean shirt on me,
And let them brush and deck my hair—
That's all I ask for, Rouja dear.
For when a man's led out to die,
His shirt should spotless be, and white,
His hair should be arrayed and trim.' "

OgnianofT listened with secret excitement to the close of
the song.
"This Stoyan," he thought, "is the very type of the
legendary Bulgarian haidoud, with his calm courage in

THE SEWING-CLASS

AT ALTINOVO.

143

facing death. Not a word of sorrow, of despair, or even of
hope. H e only wants to die looking his best. Ah ! if this
heroical fatalism has only passed into the Bulgarian of today, I shall be quite easy in mind as to the end of our
struggle. That's the struggle I seek for—that's the strength
I want—to know how to die, that's half the battle/'
Just then the kavala, or shepherd's reed-pipes struck up.
Their sound, at first low and melancholy, swelled gradually
and rose higher and higher : the eyes of the pipers flashed,
their faces flushed with excitement, the clear notes rang out
and filled the night with their weird mountain melody. They
summoned up the spirit of the Balkan peaks and gorges,
they recalled the darkness of the mountain glades, the rustling of the leaves at noon while the sheep are resting, the
scent of the corn-flower, the echoes of the rocks, and the
cool, sweet air of the valleys. The reed-pipe is the harp
of the Bulgarian mountains and plains.
All were now listening enchanted as they drank in the
familiar and friendly sounds of the poetic music. Tsanko
and his wife, standing with clasped hands by the fire,
listened as if entranced. But the most affected of all was
OgnianofT, who could scarcely keep from applauding.
The brisk conversation and merry laughter soon broke
out again. But OgnianofT began to listen to what was being
said, for he heard his name mentioned. Petr OvcharofF,
Ra'ichin, Spirdonoff, Ivan Ostenoff, and a few others were
talking of the coming insurrection.
" I ' m ready for the fun now, I'm only waiting for my
revolver from Philippopolis.
I've sent the money, 170
piastres. That's the price of three rams," said Petr
Ovcharoff, the president of the local committee.
"Yes, but we don't know when the flag's to be raised.
Some say we shall blood our knives at the Annunciation,
other's at St. Gregory's Day, and Uncle Bojil says not till
the end of May," said Spirdonoff, a handsome, well-built lad.
" It'll be somewhere about the coming of the cuckoo,
when the woods are getting green; but I'm ready now,
they've only to give the word."
" Well, well; our Stara Planina has sheltered many a brave
fellow before now, it'll shelter us too," said Ivan Ostenoff.
"Petr—didn't you say the teacher had killed two of
them ? There's a plucky one for you."

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" When's he going to pay us a visit ? I want to kiss the
hand that polished them off/' asked Raichin.
" He's got a start of us, has the teacher, but we must try
and catch him up. I know something of the game myself,"
answered Ivan OstenofT.
Ivan Ostenoff was a bold youth and a good shot as well.
Popular rumour ascribed the death of Deli Ahmed last year
to him, and the Turks had long tried to get hold of him,
but so far ineffectually.
At supper Ognianoff's health was drank.
" God grant that we may soon see him here safe and
sound. Take an example from him, boys," said Tsanko, as
he swallowed his wine.
" I'll bet any one whatever he likes," said Tsanko's wife
impatiently, " that teacher'll be here the first thing to-morrow, like a hawk."
"What are you talking of, Boulka* Tsankovitsa—why,
I'm off to Kto-morrow," said Raichin, regretfully. " If
he comes you must keep him for Christmas, and we'll enjoy
ourselves together."
" What's all that noise outside ?" cried Tsanko leaving
his wine and getting up.
In truth, men's and women's voices were heard making
an uproar outside. Tsanko and his wife ran out. The
guests rose to follow. Just then the mistress of the house
rushed in, in great excitement, and cried :
" Well, that business is finished. God prosper it."
"What? What?"
" Kill-the-Bear's carried offStaika !"
Every one started with surprise at the news.
" Carried her off, he has, the lad, on his shoulder, as you
would a lamb on St. Gregory's Day; now, they're at his house."
Her hearers began to laugh.
" Well, what of it ? That's why he went away so early
with his Cousin Goran."
" He laid in wait for her by the door," continued Boulka
Tsankovitsa, " and carried her off. I'm sorry for them both.
Who'd have thought it of Kill-the-Bear ? "
* " Boulka" is the title given to a young or middle-aged wife, who
on growing old. exchanges it for " Baba," grandmother. Both names
are followed by the feminine derivative from the husband's name, thus,
Tsanko, Tsankovitsa; Avram, Avramitsa.

GOD IS TOO HIGH AND THE TSAR TOO FAR.

145

" Well, well, they're a pretty pair," said some one.
" She's just like a fat little Servian pig, and he's a Hungarian bull," laughed another.
" God bless 'em both; well drink cherry brandy with
them to-morrow," said Tsanko.
" Yes, and I shall claim my perquisite," said his wife.
" I must have my embroidered sleeves, because the match
was arranged at my house."
Soon after all the guests left in high glee,

C H A P T E R XXIV.
GOD IS TOO HIGH AND T H E TSAR TOO FAR.

TSANKO hastened to Ognianoff in the dark closet.
" Well, Boi'cho, how did you like our party ? "
" Oh, it was wonderful, delightful, Tsanko."
" Did you take down the words of the songs ? "
" How could I ? There's no light to write by."
In came Tsanko's wife with a candle in her hand.
" There's some one knocking at the door," said she.
" That'll be some one from Staika, most likely. Perhaps
she wants our Donka to go to her, you must send her."
f But Donka came in and said that there were two zapties
outside, brought by old Deiko, the village mayor.
" T h e devil take them, zapties, old Deiko, and all!
Where am I to put the swine ? They've not come after
you," he said to Ognianoff, reassuringly, " b u t you'd better
hide. Wife, just show the teacher where to go."
And Tsanko went out. Soon he brought in the two
zapties, muffled up in their cloaks, and drenched with snow.
They were furious.
" What do you mean by keeping us an hour at the door,
you cuckold?" cried the first, a one-eyed zaptie, as he
shook the snow from his cloak.
"~*£ou left us freezing outside while you were making up
your mind to open,'-' grumbled the other, a short, stout
man.
Tsanko muttered some excuse.
K

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" What are you muttering about ? Go and kill a chicken
for us, and get some eggs fried in butter at o n c e ! "
Tsanko tried to say something. The one-eyed zaptie
burst out:
" None of your talk, ghiaour; go and tell your wife to
get supper ready at once. Do you suppose we're going to
finish up your d
d jam tart crumbs and nutshells for
you ? " he said, with a contemptuous look at the remains of
the little feast, not yet cleared up.
Tsanko moved helplessly towards the door to carry out
his orders. The short one called after him :
" Stop a minute, what have you done with the girls ? "
" They went home long ago ; it's late," answered Tsanko,
trembling all over.
" Just you go and fetch them back to have supper with
us and pour out our raki. What do you mean by sending
them home ? "
Tsanko gazed at him in terror.
"Where's your daughter? "
" She's gone to bed, Aga."
" Make her get up to wait on us," said the one-eyed
zaptie, taking off his boots to dry them at the fire, while the
water dripped from them and a cloud of steam rose.
The mayor just then came in and stood humbly by the
door.
" You infernal pig ! you've led us round twenty houses,
knocking at door after door, like beggars—where have you
hidden your
"
And he called the girls by a foul epithet.
The Bulgarians remained silent. They were used to this.
Centuries of slavery had taught them the proverb, so degrading for humanity : " The sword does not strike the bowed
head." Tsanko only prayed Heaven that they might not
molest his daughter.
" Look here," asked the one-eyed zaptie, " are you preparing for a rebellion ? "
Tsanko boldly denied the charge.
" Well, what's this doing here, then ? " asked the short
one, taking up Petr Ovcharoff's long knife, which had been
forgotten on the floor.
" Oh ! you're not preparing for a rebellion, aren't you ? "
asked the first, with a diabolical smile.

GOD IS TOO HIGH AND THE TSAR

TOO FAR.

147,

" No, Aga, we're peaceful subjects of his Majesty,"
answered Tsanko, trying to keep calm; " the knife must
have been left behind by one of the guests."
" Whose is it ? "
" I don't know."
The zapties began examining the blade, which was
engraved with letters inlaid with gold, surrounded by a
fancy pattern.
" What do these letters mean ? " they asked Tsanko.
H e looked at the knife : on one side there was a wreath
of flowers engraved, towards the blunt edge, containing the
words "Liberty or D e a t h ; " the other side bore the
owner's name.
" It's only an ornament," said Tsanko.
The one-eyed zaptie struck him in the face with his
muddy boot.
" Ghiaour ! Do you suppose I'm blind because I've got
only one eye ? "
Tsanko's reply had aroused their suspicions.
" Mayor, just come here."
The mayor came in with a cake of bread on a brass
platter, which he was bringing to be baked in Tsanko's
oven. H e trembled when he saw the naked dagger in the
zaptie's hand.
" Read this ! "
The mayor looked at it, and drew himself up in dismay.
" I can't make it out properly, Aga! "
The short one took his Circassian whip. The lash hissed
in the air and curled twice round the mayor's neck. A
stream of blood flowed from his cheek.
" You're all a set of traitors."
The mayor wiped away the blood silently.
" Read it out, or I'll stick the knife into your throat! "
cried the zaptie. The bewildered mayor saw there was no
help for it—he must bow before them.
" Petr OvcharofT," he read with assumed hesitation.
" Do you know him ? "
" H e belongs to our village."
" Is that the fellow they call Petr the shepherd ? " asked
the one-eyed one, who evidently knew a little Bulgarian.
"'Yes, Aga," said the mayor, handing him the knife, with
a silent prayer of thanksgiving to the Holy Trinity that the

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terrible words on the other side had been passed over.
But he went too fast.
" Now see what it says on the other side," said the
zaptie.
The mayor bent in abject terror over the other side.
H e hesitated for some time. But when he saw that the
short zaptie was getting his whip ready again, he cried :
" It says, ' Liberty or Death,' Aga."
The one-eyed zaptie started. " What, liberty, eh ? " he
said, smiling ominously.
" Who is it who makes these
knives ? Where's Petr the shepherd ? "
" Where should he be, Aga ? At home, of course."
" Go and fetch him."
The mayor moved off.
" W a i t ; I'll come with you, you fool!"
And the short zaptie took up his cloak and went out
with him.
" That's right, Youssouf Aga; this shepherd seems a
thorough brigand," said the other.
Meanwhile, Tsanko passed into the kitchen, where his
wife was preparing the supper, cursing the Turks as she
did s o : " May God destroy them—may He cut them off
root and branch—may the pestilence fall on them and rot
their bones—may they die of poison ! To think that I
should be cooking meat and butter for them just before
Christmas ! What brought the accursed heathen here, to
terrify and destroy us ? "
" Donka, dear," said Tsanko to his daughter, who stood,
pale and terrified, at the door, " you'd better slip out by
the back way, and go and sleep at your uncle's."
" And what does Deiko mean by bringing them here
again ? It was only last week he brought us two," murmured his wife.
" What's he to do, poor fellow ? " said Tsanko. " He
took them everywhere. They wanted to come here—
they'd heard the songs. As it is he's had five or six cuts
of the whip."
Tsanko went back to the one-eyed zaptie\
" Chorbaji, where have you been to ? Just bring a little
salad and some raki."
" T h e shepherd's not there," cried the short zaptie at
that moment* as he returned with the mayor.

GOD IS TOO HIGH AND THE TSAR

TOO FAR.

149

" Well, we must find the rascally ' Komita,' if we have to
turn the whole village upside down," said the one-eyed man,
drinking.
" What do you say to giving the old boy another taste
of the stick ? " asked the short one, in a low voice, adding
something in a whisper. His comrade winked with his only
eye, in assent.
" Mayor, go and fetch the father here; we want to ask
him something—and fill this at the same time," said
Youssouf Aga, handing him the empty raki bottle.
" It's too late for that, Aga—the shop's shut."
The only reply was a blow in the face from the one-eyed
zaptie. He was naturally a little more humane than the other,
but drink, or the desire for it, maddened him in a moment.
A quarter of an hour afterwards old Stoiko appeared.
He was about fifty years of age, with a sharp and intelligent
countenance, expressive of determination and obstinacy.
li
Stoiko, tell me where your son is—you know where
you've hidden him—or it will be the worse for you."
As the one-eyed zaptie said this, he poured out and
gulped down a glass of raki. His eye flashed as he did so.
Then he handed the glass to his comrade.
" I don't know where he is, Aga," replied the old man.
" You do, ghiaour ; you know quite well," cried the zaptie,
enraged.
The old man again repeated his denial.
" You know, and you'll tell us, or we'll pull out your
eye-teeth for you; and if you won't say then, I'll tie you
behind my horse, and you'll come with us to-morrow,"
roared the infuriated zaptie.
" You can do what you like to me, I've only got one
life," answered the old man firmly.
" Go over there and think it over a little, then we'll talk
to you again," the one-eyed zaptie said with pretended
gentleness. Their object was to extract a bribe from old
Stoiko, to be suggested to him by the mayor. It was
brigandage of the worst description, but they wished to give
it the appearance of a voluntary gift; it was the system
usually followed in such cases.
But old Stoiko did not move.
They looked at each other astonished at his firmness, and
cast ferocious glances at the old man.

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" Did you hear what I said, you old fool ? " cried the
one-eyed zapti£.
" I've nothing to think about—let me go home," he
answered, hoarsely.
The zapties could not contain themselves.
" Mayor, throw the old fool down," cried the one-eyed
ruffian, seizing his kourbash.*
The mayor and Tsanko begged for mercy for the old
man.
The only reply was a kick which felled Stoiko to the
ground.
Then blows followed fast on his body. Old Stoiko
groaned heavily for some time, then became silent: he had
fainted; his forehead was drenched with a cold sweat, he
was worn out by his day's work.
They undressed him to bring him to his senses.
"When he comes to himself, let me know—I'll make
him speak."
" F o r God's sake, Hajji Aga, I entreat you, have pity on
the poor old man, he can't stand any more pain, he'll die,"
said Tsanko, entreatingly.
" Long live the Sultan, you rebel! " cried the short zaptie
in a passion. " You deserve to be hanged yourself for
harbouring rebels in your house ; you're very likely hiding
the shepherd here somewhere. Let's search the house !"
Tsanko's face fell involuntarily. Although frenzied with
drink, the zaptie's saw his confusion. He turned at once to
the short one :
" Youssouf Aga, there's something wrong here—let's
search the ghiaour's house." And he rose.
" A t your service," said Tsanko, hoarsely, showing the
way with a lantern.
H e led them all over the house, leaving the closet to the
last. Finally, he lighted them there too. In the blackened
celling there was a trap-door which led to the rafters and so
outside on to the roof. When it was closed it could not be
noticed. Tsanko knew that Ognianoff had climbed up
through it to the rafters and replaced the cover. So he led
the Turks in with the utmost confidence. His first glance
was towards the ceiling.
What was his surprise to find the trap-door open I
* Circassian whip.

GOD IS TOO HIGH AND THE TSAR

TOO FAR.

151

Tsanko remained petrified where he stood. The Turks
searched the closet.
" Where does that opening lead to."
" To the rafters," muttered Tsanko. His legs trembled
under him and he had to cling to the wall for support.
The short zaptie noticed his terror.
" Just give a light here while I get up, will you ? " he said ;
but a sudden thought crossed his mind, and he called to his
comrade :
" Hassan Aga, you're taller than I am, get on the mayor's
back."
Hassan Aga knew no fear when he had got his skinful;
drink made a hero of him. He at once climbed up over
the mayor's shoulders.
" Now then, bring the light, confound you ! "
Tsanko, white as a sheet, handed him the light mechanically.
The zaptie first held the lantern in front of him, then put
his head within the opening. From the motion of his body
one could see he was searching with the light on every
side.
At last he re-appeared, jumped down, and said :
" Who is it you've been hiding there? "
Tsanko looked blankly at him. H e did not know what
answer to give. H e had suffered so much that evening
that he had almost lost his senses. His thoughts became
confused ; the question was repeated, he stammered out
some meaningless reply.
" The rebel will give a proper answer at Klissoura.
There's a better prison there: he can stop here for the
night."
And the zapties locked him up in the dark and chilly
closet.
Tsanko was so overwhelmed with terror and confusion
that it was some minutes before he could collect his thoughts.
H e clasped his head with both hands, as if to retain his
presence of mind. H e was lacking in determination, and
suffering had at once crushed him. He sobbed and groaned
in despair.
There was a knock at the door, and Deiko's voice was
heard :
" What are you going to do now, Tsanko ? "

152

UNDER THE YOKE.

"• I don't know, Deiko. Tell me what's best."
" Come, you know the Turks' weakness. You must give
them something; it's the only way to get out of i t ; else
they'll drag you from one court-house to another till you're
utterly ruined. Poor old Stoiko could have spared himself
this with a trifle. Give, Tsanko ! give 'em your white silver
to get off black sorrow."
His wife came, too, weeping bitterly :
" Let's give them what we can ! Never mind, Tsanko;
it's the only way to get out of the murderers' hands. They've
killed poor old Stoiko. Dear, dear! to think I should live
to see it."
" But what are we to give, wife ? You know we haven't
any money."
" Let's give the necklace ! "
" What? Donka's necklace, with the coins?"
" Yes, yes ; it's all we have ; it's the only way to get rid
of them. Why, they're asking for Donka now, the cursed
brutes."
" Do what God thinks best, wife. I'm all of a muddle,"
muttered Tsanko from his prison.
His wife and Deiko went away.
Soon after a light shone through the chinks in the boards
of the closet, and the door was unlocked.
" Come out, Tsanko, you're free," said Deiko. " The
Agas were good fellows after all. They've given you back
the knife as well, so there's no cause for fear. You've got
off cheap."
And, bending to his ear, he whispered low :
" It can't last much longer * either they'll finish us off, or
we must them. This life can't go on like this."

C H A P T E R XXV.
RETRIBUTION.

A T that very moment Ognianoff was knocking at Petr
OvcharofT's door. H e had been unable to endure the
terrible mental torture caused by the sight of the zapties'

RETRIBUTION,

153

savage brutality, which he had witnessed through a crack
in the ceiling : he had scarcely been able to hold back his
hand from taking a bloody vengeance on the two ruffians—
which would, however, have been an act of folly that might
have had the most serious consequences. Half out of his
senses, he had climbed his way into the street, and ran
straight to Old Stoiko's house.
" Where's Petr? "he asked, the moment the door was
opened, forgetting that he was in hiding.
"Why, is that you, teacher?" asked the poor old mother,
in tears.
" Where's your Petr, Mother Stoikovitsa ? "
"Take care, my son, or they'll overhear you. Petr's at
Kill-the-Bear's house."
"And where's that, mother?"
"Next door to the Pope's house—by the new door, if
you know where that is; but mind they don't hear, my
son."
The poor woman little knew that her husband was at
that moment breathing his last, Ognianoff flew off without
a minute's delay. As he approached the Pope's door, a
noisy throng emerged from within. Ognianoff recognised
Petr's voice. He stopped them.
" What, the teacher !" They all recognised him.
" Yes, it's me, boys—where are you going ? "
"We've been looking Ivan up," answered Petr; "he
carried off his girl to-night, and we've been drinking their
health. You should see them together; one would think
they'd been married for years. And when did you turn up? "
" Petr, I've got something to say to you."
And he took the other aside.
"Well, good-night, you fellows," said Petr, following
Ognianoff. They went straight to Stoiko's house.
" Has father come home yet ?" asked Petr.
" Not yet, my boy."
Ognianoff took him into the cellar.
" Listen to me, Petr. The zapties have beaten your
father cruelly on your account. They may ill-treat Tsanko
and his family still more savagely. We can't restrain the
violence of these brutes, except by force of arms. I might
have smashed their heads in just now, only I was afraid of
the consequences. We can't go to Tsanko's house."

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" I must have vengeance — vengeance," cried Petr
wildly.
" Yes, and I must have vengeance, and a terrible
vengeance, Petr, but it must be without danger for ourselves."
" How's it to be done ?" asked Petr, taking his gun
down from the wall.
" Patience, while I think it over."
" I can't stop to think; I must go and see what they're
doing to my father."
Ognianoff, himself much excited, had now to strive to
restrain a man still more excited than himself from taking a
natural but fatal step. If Petr went to Tsanko's house
blood would flow. Ognianoff was of opinion that the hour
for the decisive struggle had not yet come. It seemed to
him a pity that so bold and resolute a warrior should fall
prematurely and uselessly.
But his efforts were in vain. Petr roared like a tiger :
" I must avenge my father, if the whole world goes to rack
and ruin."
H e struggled fiercely with Ognianoff, broke from him,
and rushed to the door.
Ognianoff tore his hair in despair. He was powerless to
resist the other's violent impulse.
But before Petr could get to the door a knock came
from outside. H e put down his gun to open. Three
Bulgarians, Tsanko's neighbours, were carrying in on a rug
old Stoiko, or rather his body.
" Petr, my poor boy, God keep you from harm,"* said
one of the peasants.
The courtyard was filled with the weeping and lamentation of the women. The poor old mother was tearing her
clothes and flinging herself on her husband's cold corpse.
Ognianoff seized Petr, who was quite overwhelmed by this
misfortune, and forced him into the cellar again; with tears
in his eyes he strove to keep him back, for after the
momentary shock caused by the sight of his father, Petr
was now clamouring more frantically than ever for vengeance.
" W e must avenge him, brother—we must avenge him,"
* The usual Oriental form of condolence when some fatal mishap has
befallen a member of the family.

RETRIBUTION.
155
cried Ognianoff, clasping him with both arms. " You and
I have now no more sacred duty than to avenge him."
" Blood, blood ! " raved Petr, frenzied with rage. " Oh,
father, father! they've broken your poor old bones, the
villains ! What will my poor mother do now ? "
" Stop, my poor fellow; try and restrain yourself; be
calm. We'll take a terrible vengeance on the murderers !"
Half an hour afterwards the violence of the crisis calmed
down, for even the fiercest moral sufferings decrease in
time. Petr consented to remain at home, after making
Ognianoff, Ostenoff, and Spirdonoff swear before the eikon
that they would not leave the zapties alive.
" To think that Kill-the-Bear must go and choose tonight to get married," grumbled Ostenoff. " W e might
have done some good if we'd had him with us. Just our
luck."
The plan of attack was the following :—They would lie
in wait on the road that led westward to the pass of
Leskovits by the road to Klissoura. They chose for their
ambush the thickly wooded valley through which the river
Beleshtitsa flows just before it joins the Strema.
They
would wait for the Turks there and attack them with their
knives, after which they would strip them and hide the
bodies in the thicket. But so as to prevent all possibility
of their victims' escape, they would take their guns with
them ; these, however, they would use only in the last
extremity, on account of the danger of attracting attention
by the noise. The plan was based on information obtained
as to the departure of the zapties. They had given orders
to be woke up before dawn, as at the second cock-crow they
were to leave for Klissoura.
At the first cock-crow the little band started from the
silent village and made for the fields. Snow was falling
heavily. The whole path was covered with a white shroud.
This enabled them to see their way in the dark. The
adventurous party, with their guns concealed beneath their
cloaks, tramped silently over the deep snow which threw its
pall over everything. Not the slightest sound was heard;
one would have taken them for the nightly ghosts and
vampires supposed by popular superstition to abound about
Christmas time. The snow fell continuously, and deep

156

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drifts formed in the ditches, seriously delaying the march of
the travellers, who, however, did not even notice them.
They were absorbed by one thought—vengeance. The cries
of Petr, their valiant comrade, and the lamentations of his
mother and the neighbours still rang in their ears. They
had only one fear : lest the zapties should escape them—all
other emotions were put aside. For a long time they went
on without a word being uttered. Suddenly they heard
behind them a loud barking which broke the silence of the
night. They turned round in surprise.
" Where can there be dogs this weather ?" asked
Boicho.
" It's very strange," said Spirdonoff, uneasily.
The barking was repeated still louder, and soon they
saw, under the trees, a great black figure leaping and
bounding towards them. The figure was not in the least
like a dog : it resembled rather some monster, some gigantic
bear erect on its hind legs.
Boicho and Spirdenoff instinctively stopped at the foot of
an oak tree and prepared to defend themselves against this
unknown assailant. At that moment it leaped towards
them.
" Ivan Kill-the-Bear! " they all cried, simultaneously.
"Yes, it's me, you've forgotten me, God bless my soul."
It really was Kill-the-Bear, in his cloak. The moment he
had heard the uproar in the street he had gone to Petr
and learnt the whole business from him. Without a
minute's delay he had returned to his house, sent his bride
home to her mother, stuck his axe in his belt, seized his
gun, and hurried off to join the band and take part in the
vengeance.
This powerful addition to their band gave them fresh
courage. " Let's move on now," said Ostenoff.
" Forward," added Ognianoff.
" Stop a bit, wait for the other one," added Kill-theBear.
" What other one ? who else is there ? " they asked with
surprise.
" Why, Petr's young brother Daniel, he's come with me."
" What did you bring him for ?"
" Oh ! Petr sent him, so that his brother might see what
happened with his own eyes."

RETRIBUTION.
157
" What! didn't he trust us ? we'd taken the oath ! "
" A hundred oaths go to the piastre. I don't trust you
myself."
" What do you mean ? "
" Why, you went off without Kill-the-Bear, God bless his
soul."
The last was an ejaculation Kill-the-Bear used at nearly
every word. It expressed his thoughts and feelings much
more accurately than any other words he could have
thought of.
" Don't be angry, Ivan," said Ostenoff; " we thought of
you too, but you've just been married."
" Ah ! here's Daniel!"
A youth came up panting : he was armed only with a
long knife thrust into his belt.
The band had increased its numbers from three to
five.
The journey was resumed as silently as before. They
were going along the skirts of the Sredna Gora, just by
where the peak of the Bogdan (down which flows the
Beleshtitsa) rises. At last they came to the stream. It
was indeed a favourable point of attack. On the right
hand side was the Strema, which the Turks had to cross:
on the left was a deep gorge, thickly wooded with shrubs
and under-growth, and behind it rose the mountain. The
band halted here. They were about an hour's march from
Altinovo, so that if it were necessary to fire, the reports
would not be heard. As they took up their position in the
thicket, the dawn began to appear. The snow was falling
thicker than ever. The five comrades, reclining on the
snow, waited patiently with their eyes fixed towards the
east ; from whence the zapties were to come. But the first
sound they heard was the howling of wolves. It came from
behind their heads and approached nearer and nearer.
Probably the animals were making for the plains to seek
their breakfast before dawn.
" They're coming towards us," said Ivan Ostenoff.
" We're not to fire on any account."
" T h e work must be done with our knives and the buttends of our guns ; do you hear ? " said Ognianoff.
His comrades listened anxiously. The continued rustling
in the thicket above them showed that the enemy was

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approaching silently and in a body. There was a fresh
howl. One could now see the black mass advancing.
" Curse the wolves ! they may ruin our whole plan," said
OgnianofT.
At the same moment some wolves leaped on the open
ground just behind them, and stopped. They raised their
sharp muzzles, and sniffed ominously. The rest of the band
appeared.
"There's eight of them," whispered Kill-the-Bear; "you
divide four among you—I'll take the rest ! "
As soon as they saw their promised prey, the famished
beasts rushed into the thicket, which now became as it were
a fortress, of which the assailants were wolves, and the
garrison men. Knives and daggers flashed hither and
thither : guns rose and fell; the howling ceased : only teeth
and claws were at work now. On one side the combatants
were hungry for food—on the other side for vengeance.
Some of the animals soon rolled fatally wounded in the
thicket: the rest fell upon their fallen companions, whom
they devoured ravenously while still living; soon all were
driven from the thicket by the frequent sallies of Ivan Killthe-Bear, who rushed out barking like a sheep-dog and
brandishing his axe which dealt many a deep wound. H e
reminded one of Samson when he routed the Philistine army
with the jawbone of an ass.
Such of the wolves as survived were driven across to the
other side of the stream, where they stopped to lick their
wounds.
Fortunately no one passed while the struggle was
going on.
" The wrolves won't leave this spot," said OgnianofT.
" Let them stop, then, and well prepare a banquet for
them that will make them remember Kill-the-Bear's wedding," said Spirdonoff.
" God bless his soul ! " murmured Kill-the-Bear, much
gratified.
They waited for some time in silence.
The Turks did not appear, though it was past the second
cockcrow. The little band had heard long before the
distant sounds wafted through the stillness of the night
from the neighbouring villages. It became lighter every
moment; the trees in the plain were growing more distinct.

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159

The young men began to feel anxious ; they were numbed
with cold, and it seemed as though the zapties were not
coming.
They might have postponed their journey on
account of the heavy snowfall during the night, or else
perhaps as a precaution against an unexpected attack. It
would soon be broad daylight; the road would begin to
be frequented, and then nothing could be done. These
thoughts formed in the mind of each of them : a terrible
impatience seized them : the situation became unendurable,
a perfect torture. OstenofT groaned in despair.
" W e must wait here till they pass, whenever that may
be ; we mustn't move from here," said Ognianoff, hoarsely.
" But if other people pass by ? "
" Let them—we only want two."
" But we shall have to fall upon them openly then ? "
" If we can't do it secretly we must do it openly."
" We can fire at them from here, and then be off to the
mountain. Nobody'll see us through the wood," said
OstenofT.
" That's all right. But suppose they've got company with
them, other T u r k s ? "
" Then we shall have a real battle : we're armed, and
we've got a good position," said Ognianoff.
" Remember
one thing—we've all sworn before God that we won't leave
them alive."
" God bless their souls."
" There's only one thing I'm afraid of, boys," said
Boicho.
" What's that ? "
" They may have taken some other road."
" Make your mind easy about that," said OstenofT.
" There is no other road, unless they have gone back,
which God forbid !"
Kill-the-Bear stood up, and began to scan the horizon
attentively.
" There's something coming," said he, pointing to the
east.
Every one strained his eyes in that direction. Among
the trees along the road could be seen two human figures
on horseback.
" They're on horseback," cried OgnianofT, with annoyance.

i6o

UNDER THE YOKE.

" They can't be our two," said Spirdonoff.
" Ours are on foot," remarked OstenofT.
" God bless their souls ! "
Ognianoff was excited and angry. H e continued to look
fixedly towards the advancing horsemen, who drew nearer
and nearer. When they were a hundred yards off, he cried
joyfully, " It's them ! I know their cloaks and their faces.
The one-eyed man's on that side."
All turned, with their guns ready, towards the two zapties,
who were quietly approaching.
" I can recognise Tsanko's horse now," said Spirdonoff.
" Yes; and the other's mine," added Ognianoff.
" They must have taken them by force."
But Ognianoff s joy was of short duration. H e saw that
the Turks being mounted could now easily escape. It would
be impossible to act with knives in the open, the work
would have to be done from their ambush with the guns—
and a gun is a treacherous weapon. Besides, it was a pity
for the horses.
" Well, it can't be helped," he thought to himself.
" We must shoot them !"
" Take care, boys, let the first aim be straight."
" When they come abreast of us we'll fire," said
Ognianoff.
" I'll take the one-eyed one," said Kill-the-Bear.
" Kill-the-Bear and Spirdonoff the one-eyed man, I and
the teacher the other," ordered Ostenoff. The horsemen
reached the thicket.
Four muzzles were levelled and the report rang out loud
and clear, awaking the echoes around. The lads gazed
anxiously through the smoke. One zaptie had fallen, the
other was dangling by a stirrup. The horses kicked and
plunged, then stopped still.
"Teacher, which one was it who killed rny father?"
asked Daniel, as he rushed the first out of the ambush.
" T h e one-eyed one, lying down there."
The boy flew at him, drew his knife, and commenced
stabbing and hacking the ill-fated murderer of his father.
When the others came up he was still slashing at him
almost unconsciously—he was like a wild beast thirsting
for blood. The Turk, still living, was reduced to a shapeless and bloody heap of pulp—he had lost all semblance

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161

of human form. The blood formed in pools on the melting
snow.
Ognianoff turned away in disgust from this butchery.
He would have felt still more aversion had it been effected
by a mere coward, but Petr's brother was brave enough :
it was only a frenzied thirst for vengeance which impelled
him to this act of barbarity. Ognianoff thought to
himself:
" It's a savage revenge, but justifiable before God and
one's own conscience. It's bloodthirstiness ; but it's a
good sign. The Bulgarian's been a sheep for five centuries,
it'll be well if he becomes a wild beast now. Men respect
the wild goat more than the tame sheep, the dog more
than the goat, the ferocious tiger more than the wolf or
bear, the bird of prey more than the barn-door fowl, which
supplies them with excellent food. Why ? Because they
represent force, which means liberty and justice. Let
philosophy flourish, human nature remains always the
same. Christ has said, l If they strike you on one cheek,
turn unto them the other.' That is divine, and I bow
before it. But I prefer Moses with his ' An eye for an eye
and a tooth for a tooth.' That's the natural law, which I
follow. It's the inexorable, sacred principle, on which
must be based our struggle against the tyrants. To show
mercy to the merciless is as base as to expect it from
them."
Plunged in these absorbing thoughts, fierce and terrible
as the hour, and completely at variance with his nature,
Ognianoff remained behind his comrades, watching the
pools of blood that formed in the snow by the Turk's
mangled remains.
Suddenly on the ghastly mass of quivering flesh he saw a
string of gold coins. He pointed them out to Spirdonoff.
" Take them for some poor man to buy his Christmas
dinner with." Spirdonoff lifted up the necklace with his
dagger.
" The ruffians ! what Bulgarian have they plundered, I
wonder? Why! its Donka's necklace and no other," cried
Spirdonoff, in surprise and terror. He was betrothed to
her.
" They must have given it as a bribe to get her father
off," said Ognianoff.
L

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" But there's only half the necklace here: the other half
must have been cut off, and remained in this pulp !"
And Spirdonoff began to search with his dagger, but the
other half was not there. It was found in the short zaptie's
pocket, with whom his comrade had shared the booty as
well as the punishment.
Kill-the-Bear finished off the one-eyed zaptie with his
axe.
The two Turks were quickly concealed in the thicket.
Meanwhile Tsanko's horse returned quietly to the village,
but the other, which had scented the wolves, crossed the
Strema and fled, tail in the air, across the plain.
"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth," OgnianofT
muttered, mechanically.
As the avengers departed, the wolves approached.
Nature and the wild beasts united to blot out all traces of
the terrible deed.
The snow still continued to fall.
It was now broad daylight: but the neighbourhood was
quite deserted. Nothing stirred as yet, either on the road,
or in the fields, which were shrouded in white. No one
was likely to be abroad at that hour and in such weather:
thus the early departure of the Turks had been witnessed
by no one. But the confederates did not wish to be noticed
on returning to the village. Moreover, the road by which
they had come would now no longer be deserted, as there
were many mills along it. They held a council of war, and
decided to climb the northern side of the Bogdan, which
was thickly overgrown with brushwood, and reach the village
from the other side of the mountain. The road was a hard
and precipitous one, but not much frequented, and they
would find shelter there. Daniel they sent back straight to
the village.

CHAPTER XXVI.
THE STORM.

DEEP snow covered the path up the wooded mountain-side
along which the party now climbed the valley of the

THE

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163

Beleshtitsa. Kill-the-Bear, who knew the country well, led
the way with his gun on his shoulder. Their progress was
difficult, for there was no sign of a road. After half an
hour's climbing the perspiration streamed from these hardy
and weather-beaten youths as if they had been walking for
hours. When they at last reached the first summit the
snow had ceased, and soon after from the grey frozen sky
the sun shone out and poured its vivifying rays on mountain
and valley, the white surface of which became still more
dazzling; it flashed in the sunlight with a thousand quivering sparks; it seemed to be powdered over with diamond
dust, like the garment of a Bagdad sultana. Down in the
valley, now awakened, rose thin streams of smoke over the
villages, and peasants could be seen here and there making
the first tracks in the slumbering roads and paths. The
village of Altinovo was clearly discernible below the spurs
of the mountain, and some movement was noticeable. The
lads remarked a black mass—probably villagers—moving
toward the outskirts of the village, where the cemetery was
situated: they concluded that this was old Stoiko's funeral;
they could even hear the dull sounds of the church soundingboard. But the mountain-side and the summits remained
unapproached, save by themselves, and slept royally beneath
their unsullied winding-sheet. The majestic Ribaritsa, to
the west of the valley, lifted its lofty towering summit
to heaven, surrounded by a circle of lower peaks; a veil
of fleecy cloud, like smoke, hung as if suspended over it.
Aloiig the northern horizon stretched the straight line of
the Stara Planina, white with snow and bathed by the
golden sunlight. Its usually frowning aspect was softened
down into a peaceful loveliness. Only the gaunt grey
rocks, whence flow the crashing waterfalls, remained bare
and gave a note of harshness to the view. The unbroken
ridge stretched like a wall as far as the Ambaritsa; there
the chain of the Balkans began.
The confederates stopped from time to time to rest,
involuntarily admiring the beauty of the wintry scene, but
in silence. Petr's bereavement, and the vengeance which
had followed it, weighed heavily on their minds. Only
a few words were interchanged now and again, and then
merely with reference to their road. Occasionally one
of the wayfarers would slip on the steep ascent and be

164

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helped up by the others with great difficulty. It was then
that Kill-the-Bear's great strength was most useful. Though
they stopped frequently to rest, they were much wearied;
they were exhausted by hunger and a sharp icy wind, which
lashed their faces and froze their noses, ears, and hands.
Meanwhile the brushwood became thicker and more impenetrable. For some time they went on, but at last they
came to a standstill. There was no longei any sign of a
path. Before them stretched only the thick tangled undergrowth, cleft here and there by yawning chasms, and the
wind became fiercer every minute.
They looked at each other in dismay.
" What do you say ? Shall we turn back to the valley
and take the path that leads to the village?" said Spirdonoff.
" N o , " declared Ostenoff; " w e must go the opposite
way : no turning back." And the others agreed with him.
After a short deliberation they decided to retrace their
steps a little and then to strike to the right and force
their way as best they could through the thicket so as to
reach the ridge which led to the summit, from whence they
could get down to the valley on the other side.
" T h a t ' s where Dicho's hut is," said OstenofT; " w e can
warm ourselves there and get something to eat."
" I'm of OstenofT's opinion," said OgnianorT, turning his
back to the wind ; " let's make for the hut, first to restore
ourselves a little, and secondly, we may hear what's been
going on at Altinovo. It won't do to go back blindly."
OgnianorT might have added a third reason: the sharp
pain in his foot, which had been renewed by the hard
exercise and the cold.
" That's true," assented Spirdonoff, " Tsanko's horse must
have got back by this time and the whole story must be
known."
" O h ! that's all right," said Ostenoff, " by this time the
wolves will have cleared off even the bones of the zapties.
If the Turks go to look for them they'll find only a few
rags. The good old snow will have covered all traces of
blood on the road, and I noticed there wasn't a drop on
Tsanko's horse."
They now emerged on the bare hill-side, and again
deliberated as to the direction to be taken.

THE

STORM.

165

Ivan Kill-the-Bear was attentively scanning the sky. His
comrades waited for him to give his opinion.
" Come on, let's make for the hut at once, I don't like
the look of the Ribaritsa, God bless its soul," he said
seriously.
The band then turned to the north-east and began the
ascent. The wind was blowing fiercely, raising the skirts of
the wayfarer's cloaks, and penetrating under their clothes to
the very skin. At every step the violence of the tempest
increased. Ognianoff was gradually falling behind. H e
felt that his strength was deserting him : there was a buzzing
in his ears, his head swam; he was quite exhausted, but he
would not call out for assistance: indeed, the wind would
have prevented his voice from reaching the others. H e
was endowed with unusual strength of will, and to it he
trusted to pull him through, even though his bodily strength
should fail him. But a man, however strong he may be
morally, must sooner or later give way to the laws of
physics. The greatest effort of will, the most powerful
strength of mind, cannot raise his powers beyond a certain
limit. The mind may, indeed, stimulate the action of the
body, but it cannot create a strength which does not already
exist. All the mountain valleys echoed with the roaring of
the wind, which was now a fierce hurricane : its icy breath
numbed their limbs and froze the blood in their veins. The
air seemed to encompass the wayfarers like a sea of ice:
the sun's rays instead of warming them stung their flesh like
thorns. Soon the storm broke right upon them, with thick
blinding eddies of snow : it raised the snow in high whirling
columns which seemed to reach to the skies. Sun and
light disappeared: heavens and earth were blended in
darkness and complete chaos followed, while the blinding
snow lashed them in fury; the hurricane whistled and roared :
it seemed like the end of the world.
This lasted for two minutes. Then the Balkan storm
passed to another peak and wrapped it in its thick veil.
The sun again poured forth its pale rays from the colourless sky.
The little band had been protected by a high straight
ledge of rock, like a wall, which sheltered them a little from
the fury of the elements; this had saved them, as if by a
miracle, from being carried off by the storm-blast. One by

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one they rose, as if awaking from a sleep which would have
ended in death. They were completely benumbed—there
was no feeling in their hands or feet. They were indeed
in great danger. The first to come to his senses was Ivan
Kill-the-Bear—he cried :
" Get up, boys—we must climb the rock, or we're done
for!"
They made an effort, rose, took their guns under their
arms, and began to move on. Suddenly Kill-the-Bear
stopped.
" Why, where's the teacher ? "
They all looked round in dismay. Ognianoff was
nowhere to be seen.
" The storm must have carried him off!"
" He's buried in the snow."
All hastened to search for him. The precipice yawning
under their feet filled them with terror. They hardly dared
to look down.
" Here he is," cried Ostenoff.
At the very brink of the abyss, under the snow, two feet,
clothed in sandals, were seen projecting. They scraped
away the snow and dragged Ognianoff out. H e was
lifeless, his face was pale as death, his flesh benumbed.
" G o d bless his s o u l ! " ejaculated Kill-the-Bear sympathetically.
" Rub him, boys, rub him ! " cried Ostenoff, as he began
himself to rub his face, hands and breast with snow.
" He's still warm, we must bring him round."
Every one forgot his own sufferings in the desire to save
their perishing comrade. The energetic friction soon
restored Ognianoff's circulation, and warmed them as well.
" Let's make for the hut at once," cried Ostenoff. And
the three took Ognianoff by his hands and feet and carried
him to the snow-covered slopes of the Bogdan. Here
again Kill-the-Bear's powerful muscles were of the greatest
assistance. At last, after superhuman efforts, they reached
the hut.

IN THE

HUT.

167

C H A P T E R XXVII.
IN THE HUT.

DICHO'S hut stood on a level part of the plain, in a hollow,
surrounded by lofty peaks which protected it from the wind.
Towards the north side of the courtyard was stored the provision of hay and leaves for the sheep's fodder during the
winter months: this was covered over with a broad, low
roof. From the hut—where the shepherds who tended the
flocks remained during winter—smoke was rising cheerfully.
A watch-dog flew at the wayfarers, but at once recognised
Ivan Ostenoff, and withdrew satisfied.
They carried
Ognianoff into the warm hut, and continued to m b him
energetically. The shepherd-boy also assisted to save
Ognianoff's life by taking off his sandals and rubbing his
feet with snow. When Ognianoff and his comrades saw
themselves rescued from the danger of being frozen to death,
they crossed themselves devoutly and thanked Heaven for
their escape. The shepherd lad heaped more wood on the
fire. The four sat round it, but were careful not to attempt
to warm their hands and feet as yet. The dog, true to his
instinct, stretched himself out by the door to watch,
"Obreiko, where's your uncle Kalcho?" asked Ostenoff.
Kalcho was Dicho's brother, and was in charge of
the hut.
" H e went to the village last night; I'm expecting him
back now."
"Give us what you've got in the bag, my lad, we're
hungry."
The boy turned out all the provisions they h a d ; these
consisted of a few scraps of hard rye-bread, some green
pepper pods, and a little salt.
" Isn't there any raki, Obreiko ? "
"No."
"Well, we must make the best of it. But it's a pity
there's no raki, the teacher ought to have some to pull him
round," said Ostenoff, looking at Ognianoff who had clenched
his hands and was writhing with pain.
" It's all right now, teacher, never fear. What did you
think of our Sredna Gora? she's a beauty, isn't s h e ? "

168

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" Thank God nothing happened to any of you," said
Ognianoff.
" Oh ! she never hurts old friends like us."
" I t ' s my belief," said Ostenoff, "that it was the Stara
Planina that sent us the storm. Kill-the-Bear was right."
" Kill-the-Bear knows what he's about, he doesn't eat
chaff," roared Ivan himself in his deep tones; the dog
barked furiously, the noise having startled him.
Ognianoff looked with curiosity at Ivan. H e could not
help thinking that the nickname suited him admirably. No
more appropriate designation could have been found for this
big-headed, coarse, half-savage giant, who looked as if he
had been suckled by a bear rather than a woman. H e
gazed at his lofty figure, thin and bony, but powerful: his
long, angular, shaggy head, with its narrow forehead, small
grey eyes, and immense nose, very wide at the nostrils, like
a beast's: his huge mouth, capacious enough to swallow a
hare whole (Ivan was said to eat raw meat) ; and those long,
hairy, muscular arms, which were fit to wrestle with a lion.
H e seemed to have been intended by Nature to fight with
savage animals—to which he seemed so closely akin—rather
than for the idyllic calling of a goatherd. In contrast to all
this, his face bore an expression of good tempered and
sheepish simplicity which made him ridiculous. No one
would have supposed that this coarse, rough, apparently
undeveloped nature could know feelings of devotion, or the
most humane and tender of emotions. Yet it was so. His
very appearance that morning to join the avengers, almost
comic though it was, bore witness to his kindly and valiant
disposition. H e was ready to sacrifice himself, Under
the influence of these thoughts it seemed to Ognianoff that
his face became more sympathetic, and even intelligent.
" I say, Ivan, how did you get that awful nickname ? "
"What, teacher, don't you k n o w ? " replied Ostenoff.
" H e fought with a bear."
"Really?"
" Rather—he's a wonderful hunter—and killed it, too."
" Kill-the-Bear, tell us how you and the bear rolled down
the cliff together."
" Do you mean to say you wrestled with it ? " asked Boicho,
astounded.
Instead of answering, Kill-the-Bear raised his hand to his
neck. Ognianoff then noticed for the first time a deep scar

IN THE

HUT.

169

there, newly healed; he then bared his arm to the elbow,
and showed another fearful wound, which seemed to have
been caused by an iron hook. Ognianoff shuddered as he
saw them.
" Ivan, tell us how you came upon the bear. You're a
wonderful hunter," he said.
Ivan looked round triumphantly, his dull countenance
lighted up with the proud recollection. H e began his story.
" God bless its soul !" he commenced, with his favourite
expression. But the dog barked suddenly, and rushed out
of the hut.
"What's Mourjo barking for? Ivan's only just begun,"
said Ostenoff, in jest.
" It's uncle Kalcho," cried the shepherd-lad.
Kalcho appeared with his staff, and a bag over his
shoulder.
" What, visitors ? welcome, boys ! " he cried, hospitably,
setting down his burden.
" Make room for uncle Kalcho to warm himself."
" M y stars, boys, but it's cold—cold enough to freeze all
the wolves ! Where did the storm catch you ? "
" Here, at the bottom of the hill," said Spirdonoff.
" B u t what are you out for in such weather—hunting?
You ought to know that this isn't the time of year to be out
on the Balkan."
" O h , that's all right, Kalcho—we've had good sport.
You haven't got any raid, have you ? " said Ostenoff.
" R a k i ? oh yes, I have; but I've got something still
better."
The little flask passed from hand to hand.
" What can there be better than raki, this weather ? "
" I've got a piece of news !" They all listened attentively.
" The wolves ate two Klissoura zapties this morning."
"You don't say s o ? " cried Kill-the-Bear, with assumed
surprise. The dog again barked at him.
" Yes, my boy, they've not left a hair of them. A band
of Turks went to look for them, but all they found was their
clothes and their bones by the Sardanoff hill. Hajji Omer
Aga says the zapties must have been attacked while they
were watering their horses, and tried to fly one way while the
horses bolted the other way. One horse is lost. The wolves
seem to have thought the Turk's flesh sweeter than the

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horses', and polished them off. Here's luck, boys, and the
same end to all heathens. They're a race of dogs, and
may the dogs eat them all."
And Kalcho took a pull at the flask. He then noticed
Ognianoff, who was unknown to him, for the first time.
" And who's this new chum ? " he asked, handing him the
flask.
" He's from Kara-Sareli; we met him on the Balkan. H e
was out after the same game as we were," said Spirdonoff.
" He's a plucky one if you like—your health, teacher,"
thundered Kill-the-Bear. The dog growled angrily.
Kalcho turned to Kill-the-Bear with a smile. " Why,
bear, what have you been up to, you rogue ? "
"Nothing, Kalcho, nothing."
" Nothing ? you ought to be ashamed of yourself \ carrying
off a girl and disgracing the pair of you. Well, I wish you
luck. Where's the game for your wedding-feast ? "
" I left it in the valley below, uncle," roared Ivan.
This time Mourjo became seriously angry.
" Come along, Ivan, tell us how you fought the bear."
" H e ? " said Kalcho, looking slily at Kill-the-Bear, " he'd
better tell us how he fought Staika."
Loud laughter followed this sally. Ivan Ostenoff wished
to assure himself that the Turks suspected nothing, and
added: " So that's it, is it ? they were torn to pieces by
wolves. Don't the Turks say they were killed by
Bulgarians ? "
" Why, the whole village knows it. Poor old Stoiko, Lord
have mercy on him !" said Kalcho, who had misunderstood
the question.
"Yes, I know all about that, but what I want to know is,
have the Turks any suspicion that it was Bulgarians who
killed the zapties ? "
Kalcho looked at him with surprise.
"Who.says so ? Who ever heard of a Bulgarian from our
village killing a zaptie ? I tell you the wolves polished them
off, and the Turks are getting ready for a big hunt tomorrow, to drive the wolves down to the fords and shoot
them there. And so much the better, say I, we haven't
dared to take the sheep into the fields this winter. Here's
luck, boys; may we have a merry Christmas, and may you
all follow the Bear's example, but not during the fast. Have

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171

a drink, mate," and Kalcho handed the raki to OgnianofT,
whose forces returned under the influence of the potent
liquor. H e raised the flask, and said with emotion :
" Remember Father Stoiko, boys, the victim of Turkish
brutality. May God rest his soul, and give us a bold heart
and a strong hand to fight against Christ's enemies and pay
them back a hundredfold. God forgive old Stoiko."
" God forgive him," the comrades repeated.
" G o d forgive him," said Kalcho, taking off his cap.
Then turning in a friendly manner towards OgnianofT, he
said: " My stars, mate, but you know how to talk ; God
must have put the words in your mouth. Things may go
on for a bit yet, but there'll be trouble one of these days.
Let's make friends—what's your name ? They call me
Kalcho Bogdanoff the Cooper," and Kalcho handed the
flask to OgnianofT.
He gave him an assumed name, and drank to their
friendship.
The visitors ate but little, wishing to spare Kalcho's
scanty provisions : soon after they took leave of him. H e
followed them to the door, and again addressed OgnianofT.
" Beg pardon, mate, but I've forgotten your name—ne.ver
mind ; but whenever you come by here again mind you
come and see me—you can talk, and no mistake. God
bless you! "
A few stirring words from OgnianofT had strangely moved
the poor goatherd. It was not that they were altogether
new to him—he had shared in the hatred of his oppressors
from his earliest youth; but the " m a t e " had spoken a
word or two of the " struggle," and these words had
struck on a chord hitherto untouched, and awakened new
feelings within him. We shall see later what result these
words eventually produced.
The confederates were soon lost to sight: they made
their way down the valley to the village, which was now
quite dark.
OgnianofT decided to spend the night at Dochka's inn.
But no sooner had he entered the room than fifteen armed
Bashi-bazouks mounted the stairs : they were led by the
zaptie whom Boicho had noticed on the previous day at
the cafe in the Turkish village.
Alas ! there was no Kalcho to warn him this time.

PART II

CHAPTER I.
TOGETHER

AGAIN.

RADA could not contain herself for joyful expectation.
During the whole winter she had mourned Boicho as dead,
there seemed no doubt that, as was confidently asserted by
the Turks, he had been shot in the Ahievo thicket, though
the body had never been discovered, and Sister Rovoama
took a malicious pleasure in dwelling upon his fate,
embroidering the recital with graphic and harrowing details
derived from her own imagination. The poor girl, held up
to general scorn and contumely as the rebel's betrothed,
had taken refuge at the cottage of a lowly relative, and
scarcely ventured out of doors.
And now all this sorrow was forgotten—for had not the
news reached her, through the faithful Kolcho, that
Ognianoff was not dead after all, that he had appeared in
a peasant's disguise at a meeting of the Revolutionary
Committee, which had recently resumed its sittings, and
would come to her that very evening ? Small wonder, then,
if she counted the very moments that were to elapse before
his coming, and peered anxiously from the window every
now and then to see if he were approaching, and if no
suspicious-looking strangers were about.
For six months have elapsed since the vengeance taken
for Father Stoiko's murder. These six months have been
for Bela Cherkva a troubled period ; the discovery of the
bodies of the two Turks at the mill had led to many arrests,
and had redoubled the fury of the ruling race against the
insubordinate rayas. Dr. SokolofT had been thrown into
gaol on suspicion of being an accomplice in the crime, but
no evidence could be produced against him, and he had

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moreover a powerful ally in the person of the Bey's wife—
for it may now be confessed that Hajji Rovoama's statements on this head were true for once : he was therefore
released on bail, our old friends Marko Ivanoff and Micho
Beyzade being his sureties. But Lalka's marriage to
Stefchoff, followed a few months later by her early death,
had left the doctor a disappointed man, animated only by the
desire to work at the same time for his country's liberation
and the destruction of his hated rival, the notorious Turkish
spy. As for the revolutionary ardour displayed so openly
before, it was deemed only prudent to conceal it till the
storm should have blown over, and for a time the committee
ceased to meet. But with the approach of spring the suspicions of the Turks died away; all over Southern Bulgaria
the revolutionary effervescence broke out once more, and
the committee meetings were again in full swing.
It was only the next evening, at nightfall, that Ognianoff
was able to visit Rada.
Her eyes were weary with watching. Those tedious hours,
full of anxious longing, emotion, and anxiety, seemed to her
to be longer than centuries.
When at last she heard OgnianofFs knock at the door,
she seemed to have no strength left in her, yet she flew to
open it.
The lovers clasped each other fondly and their lips met
in a long passionate kiss.
A whole torrent of joy was expressed in a few repeated
kisses, a few broken words.
After the first agitation of their long-deferred meeting,
the two happy lovers became calmer. Their joy was inexpressible. Rada was fairer than ever, with the light of
love in her face. She thought Boicho had never seemed
more handsome than in his peasant's dress which set off
so well the fine and expressive features of his manly face.
" And how have you been, darling ? " he asked tenderly.
" P o o r child—you've had much to go through. I've
destroyed you, I've sacrificed you, Rada. Yet you haven't
a word of reproach for me—you're always the same loving
little soul, the same tender little heart, born only for
caresses and kindness. Forgive me, forgive me, Rada,
dear !" and Ognianoff pressed her hands in his own and
lost himself in the depths of her great and flashing eyes.

TOGETHER

AGAIN.

177

" Forgive you ? I won't forgive you," she cried, in feigned
anger. " What do you mean ? Do you suppose I am not
going to mourn for you when I think you dead ? Not
even to send me a line! Ah, Boicho, Boicho, don't die,
for God's sake ! I can't do without you. I want to be
always with you—to watch over you as the apple of my
eye—to love you—oh ! so much—and to rejoice in you.
You've suffered terribly, Boicho, haven't you ? A h ! how
foolish I am ! I haven't even asked you what you've been
doing all these months—these terrible centuries, as they've
seemed to me."
" I've wandered far and wide, Rada, and gone through
much danger; but there's a God for us, too, and so we've
met once more."
" N o , no—you must tell me all about it—I want to
know. Such terrible stories they told about you, one more
frightful than the other. My God ! how can people be so
unmerciful as to invent such things! Tell me, Boicho.
Now you're with me safe and sound I can listen boldly to
everything you've gone through, however terrible it may be."
And she looked at him beseechingly, with inexpressible
affection and sympathy.
Boicho had not the heart to refuse her request. She
was quite right. And besides he was only too ready to
disburden his soul to some friendly hearer, some responsive
heart: the memories of sufferings endured, of misfortunes
gone through, possess a special charm when related in
hours of happiness. Boicho recounted in simple language
his adventures since he had left Bela Cherkva. In Rada's
clear childish eyes were reflected the emotions of her soul
as she listened to him ; he read there now fear, now kindness and compassion, now joy and triumph : she swallowed
eagerly every word, she endured and went through everything, and did not once take from him her glance which
cheered and comforted him so sweetly.
" Oh ! Boicho ! some one must have betrayed you ! " she
cried in dismay when he came to the story of his being
attacked by Turks at the inn at Altinovo.
" I can't tell—I won't accuse a Bulgarian. Perhaps I
betrayed myself in the Turkish cafe by some imprudent act."
" Well ? Go on ! " she asked impatiently and excitedly,
" I heard from my room the steps of the Turks, and
M

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understood at once that they'd come after me. Everything
grew dark before my eyes. I saw there was no hope : I was
lost. I took out my revolver and stood by the door. I
had six bullets—five for them and the sixth for myself."
" My God! my God! to think that all the while I knew
nothing—perhaps I was laughing here at that every
moment."
" You must have been praying for me, Rada, for God
once more had mercy on me and saved me from inevitable
destruction."
" Did He perform a miracle, Boi'cho ? "
" Yes, a miracle, if you like. He blinded the Turks.
Instead of coming into my room, they entered the first room
by the courtyard. I found out afterwards that immediately
after me some cashier had arrived from Philippopolis, a
Greek, and they had given him the next room to mine.
He seems to have been very much like me in appearance,
and this confused the zaptie, who had seen me the day
before."
Rada sighed with relief.
" I heard them talking loudly, and understood that there
was some mistake and that they'd be upon me in another
minute. Only a minute divided me from them, from death.
I don't remember now how I pulled the window open and
flung myself into the road below—not the road, that is, but
the river, which was frozen. The ice broke and I plunged
into the cold water up to my knees. While I was struggling
to reach the dry land, I heard a deafening noise—five or six
guns were fired at me from the window. Then I turned to
flight, a mad unreasoning flight. How long I fled in the
dark—where I passed—I have no idea."
" Were they pursuing you ? "
"Yes, I heard them for some time, then all became
still. I was in the depth of the forest. It was night and
the wind was blowing hard. My clothes were frozen as
stiff as boards. I went on for two hours to the westward,
always through the thickets, and at length reached the
village of Ovcheri, more dead than alive. There some kind
people took me in and gave me food and shelter; one of my
toes was frostbitten, but thank God ! . . . . I stayed there
for a fortnight, but I was afraid of bringing trouble on these
poor people—I seem to draw misfortune on every one—and

TOGETHER

AGAIN.

179

I made my way to Pirdop, where Mouratliski's brother was
employed as a schoolmaster. I stayed with him for three
months, during which time I was dangerously ill."
" Poor Bo'icho ! You've wandered over the mountains and
in the fields all the winter—you're a perfect martyr," said
Rada compassionately.
" He's as true as steel, that brother of Mouratliski's—he
looked after me like a mother."
"There's a noble-hearted Bulgarian !" said Rada, gratefully.
"Yes; and a great patriot; he's repaid me threefold all
that I'd done for his brother."
" And did no one recognise you ? Oh, Boi'cho, do take
care, even here !"
Boi'cho had taken off his cap, and the bandage over his
eye. He went to the looking-glass, replaced them both, and
then turned towards her, greatly metamorphosed.
" Do you recognise me now ? "
" I should recognise your face under a mask ! See how
he's looking at me ! How funny you are, Boi'cho ! " and
she laughed merrily.
" You know me because you love me; but how should
strangers ever find me out ? "
" Ah, hatred has sharp eyes—take care ! "
"For that kind of acquaintance I've always got this
ready," said Ognianoff, raising his cloak and showing the
butt-ends of two revolvers, and the handle of his knife fixed
in his belt.
" Man of blood! The sister Hajji Rovoama was quite
right! " laughed Rada.
" If I'm a man of blood you're the opposite extreme—•
you're an angel! "
" Don't make fun of a poor girl."
He sat down again.
" Well, go and tell me how you got here. And who are
these Motiratliskis ?" asked Rada, who had now heard the
name mentioned twice.
" Brzobegounek's brother."
" What, the Austrian here ? the photographer ? "
" Yes, Rada, it's an assumed name ; his real name is
Dobri Mouratliski. He's as much an Austrian as he is a
photographer. He's escaped from the revolt at Stara

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Zagora. I sheltered him here and concealed him under
that name. He's an old and thoroughly devoted friend of
mine. You can rely on him entirely in case of need."
Rada looked at him in dismay.
" Why should I rely on strangers. There's no necessity.
You know I've got my savings to live on."
" Yes; but you needn't look on him as a stranger."
" But haven't I got you ? "
" I must be off again, Rada."
" Going ? where are you going ? Are you going to leave
me again ? "
" This very night, in two hours' time," said Ognianoff,
looking at his watch, and replacing it in his pocket.
Rada grew pale.
" So soon—why, I've hardly seen you !"
" I must be at K. before dawn. I've got a mission.
Besides, it's not safe for me to stay any longer at Bela Cherkva.
I'm sorry I couldn't even thank Marko for all his kindness
to you, and, for that matter, to me too. A h ! there's some
noble hearts among us, Rada, and that makes me love
Bulgaria still more. I love her so well because she produces such charming creatures as you."
" Oh, Boicho ! why are you going, darling ? But no,
better go, and take me with you. You must go—you've
devoted yourself to Bulgaria. Take me away from this
black town ; put me in some village where I can see you
often—or, if you like, let me do something for the nation as
well. I'm a Bulgarian too, and your ideals are mine,
Boicho, and if you die for Bulgaria I'll die with you. But
don't let us be separated—it's terrible to remain alone,
to have a thousand terrors for you, to hear bad news of
you continually! Oh, God ! how good it is now we're
together !" And she placed her hands on his shoulder.
"Rada, I can see for myself how sad a position you're
in here," said Ognianoff, feelingly. " I can guess what
you don't tell me. My enemies persecute you still, don't
they, dear?
There's more than one Hajji Rovoama
here, I know. And you endure all silently—you suffer
heroically, for my sake. Poor dear angel ! The great
cause which has so entirely absorbed me does not leave
me a minute to take thought of your position. - I'm
thoroughly selfish—it's my fault. Forgive me, darling !"

TOGETHER AGAIN.

181

" A h ! Boicho, Boicho, if you leave me alone again something tells me I shall lose you for ever! I shall never see
you again," continued Rada, and her eyes grew moist. She
added in low, beseeching tones, " Don't leave me here,
Boicho. Whether you live or die I want to be with you ; I
won't be in your way. I'll assist you, I'll do everything for
you; only let me see you oftener."
" No, you can do nothing. The revolution demands a
man's strength, bloodthirstihess, merciless ferocity, and
you're a perfect angel. Besides, you've done your duty;
the flag you've worked with the lion on it will inspire and
encourage us. That's quite enough for a Bulgaiian girl."
Then, as a thought struck him, he added :
"Listen to me, Rada, will you come to Klissoura and
stay with Mouratliski's wife? I'll arrange it all. There
may be danger there, too; but at least you'll be free from
the intrigues here."
" I'll go wherever you like, if I can only see you."
" I'm acting as agitator in the villages, round, and I often
pass* through. Next time I come to Bela'Cherkva it will
be to raise the rebellion. We shall see one another till then,
R a d a ; afterwards, God knows if I shall come out of the
struggle alive; it will be a great and bloody struggle. If
God only blesses our cause; if our country—this muchenduring country of ours—only rises from the struggle
bloodstained but free, I shall die happy. My only regret
would be that I should be leaving you, dear. For my love
for you is boundless, my whole heart is yours ; but my life
belongs to Bulgaria. And I shall know that at least there's
one heart in the world that will pity me and shed tears over
my unknown grave."
A cloud passed over Boi'cho's face.
Rada seized his hands with emotion.
" Oh, Boicho, you mustn't die. God will preserve such
heroes as you for Bulgaria, and then you'll become famous.
And I—oh ! how happy I shall be then."
Boicho shook his head incredulously.
" Well, darling," he said, " we're in God's hands," and
taking her hands in his own he added:
" Rada, whatever happens, I want to have a clear conscience. I may perish; indeed, I feel that I shall."
" Oh, Boicho ! don't say that."

UNDER THE YOKE.

182

" Listen, Rada ! I may perish, because I'm going to face
death ; but I want to have my mind at rest as regards you.
You have united your fate with mine—the convict, the out-?
cast: you've made me very happy with your love : you've
sacrificed for me something dearer than your life—your good
repute; and you've been cruelly punished for it by the
world; you've forgotten all for my sake. If I die I must
know that you're at least an honest woman before God and
the world, if not a happy one. I want you to bear my real
name, the name of Kralich. There's nothing dishonourable
attached to that name, Rada. When you come to Klissoura
I shall call in the Pope to give us the nuptial blessing, and
I shall try to provide for your future maintenance. My
father's a wealthy man ; he loves me and will carry out the
last wishes of his only son.; I'd have done it here, only it's
not possible now. However, we can do it elsewhere. I've
no ring to give you, Rada, neither of gold nor of iron—the
iron I carry is for the enemy. But there's no need of that:
above us is God, the great and just God of Bulgaria, the
God of crushed and broken hearts, of suffering humanity,
H e sees and hears us."
And taking her by the hand he knelt down :
" Let us pledge ourselves before His presence, H e will
bless our holy union." She knelt beside him.
Their lips uttered sounds heard only by the Almighty.
#

•*

# •

•*

•*

•*

When Ognianoff left the house the street was quite dark.
In turning the corner he met and almost ran against a nun.
H e recognised the sister Hajji Rovoama. She was going to
her brother's house. Some fatality had brought her to
Rada's door just as Ognianoff went out.
Hajji Rovoama fixed her eyes on the peasant, but did
not recognise him. However, she turned in to the Lilovitch's house on some pretext to try and find out who the
stranger was.
The next day Rada set out for Klissoura.

EXTREMES

MEET.

183

CHAPTER II.
EXTREMES MEET.

was growing older and weaker every day,
and the death of his daughter Lalka had been a heavy blow
to him. A gastric disorder, which had during many weeks
confined him to his bed, had further affected his character
very much, and rendered him more impatient and exacting
than ever.
That morning the weather was delightful, and he had
ventured out as far as a garden he had at the outskirts of
the town. It was a good, broad piece of ground, surrounded by high walls, and abundantly planted with fruittrees, flowers, and vegetables—the walk, and the fresh air
and sunshine combined, invigorated the old man who had
been compelled for so long to keep to the house. His step
was firmer as he walked home. But just as he reached the
house of Ghenko Ghinkin, his son-in-law, he felt a sudden
weakness, his legs seemed to be giving way under him. He
turned in to Ghenko's house to rest.
At the door stood Ghenko Ghinkin, still shyer, more
timid, and more of a nonentity than ever. He was carrying
a baby a few months old in his arms, which was screaming
lustily as he rocked and dandled it in approved nursefashion.
Yordan made for the garden seat, overhung with flowers,
and seated himself heavily, as he said with a frown :
" Confound you, have you become a wet-nurse?
What's become of her ? "
By " her " Yordan meant his daughter.
Ghenko became confused—which was indeed his normal
condition—and muttered incoherently :
" She's busy—she said I was to nurse Yordancho—she's
got plenty to do to-day."
" She didn't tell you to wear a petticoat at the same time,
did she?" asked Yordan, contemptuously. " Ghina, get me
a cup of coffee, will you ? " he cried, without looking for her.
" She's busy baking—she's busy, father—that's why I'm
nursing the baby. Coffee ? I'll get you a cup of coffee in a
minute. I know where she keeps the coffee, and the sugar,
CHORBAJI YORDAN

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and all," stammered Ghenko, as he set the baby down on
the old man's knees and vanished.
The child began to scream louder than ever.
Yordan became furious. H e put the child in a corner of
the seat, stood up, and shouted:
" What the devil do you mean ? Are you a perfect fool ?
Ghina", come here directly !"
"Why, father, good-morning? How are you this
morning ? All right ? You're quite right in going out
such a fine morning," cried Ghina from the threshold,
smiling cheerfully.
She had on a large blue apron, her sleeves were tucked
up to her elbows, the green handkerchief on her head was
pushed back, and her face was powdered over with flour.
She looked very well, and reminded one of some of the
types so common in paintings of the Flemish school.
" What are you doing? What does that wet-nurse of a
husband of yours mean ? Why are you as white as a
miller? Isn't there any one here to give one a cup of
coffee ? " grumbled the old man in angry and authoritative
tones.
" I'm very sorry, father; the fact is I've just set to work.
I'll get you a cup of coffee in a minute. Ghenko ! wherever
have you got to now ? Take Yordancho and put him in his
cradle this minute; he ought to be asleep long ago."
" What are you working at; what's this you're baking ? '
" I've got a lot to bake—every one must take their share—•
we're Bulgarians and patriots too, aren't we ? " said Ghina,
as she laughed boisterously.
" Bulgarians ? patriots ? What in the world do you
mean ? What are you baking ? " asked her father, angrily.
"Why, biscuit, father."
" Biscuit ? "
1
Yes, of course. Why not ? "
" What do you want biscuit for ? Are you going to the
country ? "
Instead of answering Ghina burst into a loud giggle.
Yordan looked at her in deep displeasure. H e had
never been able to endure his daughter's perpetual and
meaningless laughter; no two persons could be more
thoroughly different than she, with her gay temperament,
and her father, with his choleric nature.

EXTREMES

MEET.

185

She approached nearer, and said in a whisper :
"Who thinks of going to the country nowadays ? We're
getting the biscuit ready for something quite different: it's
for the boys."
Yordan looked at her utterly bewildered.
" What boys ? "
" Why, the brave Bulgarian boys, father, when they go
out on the Balkan."
" What boys are you drivelling about, woman ? " asked'
Yordan, more and more surprised.
Ghina came still nearer, and said:
" For the insurrection: hasn't the committee ordered
it?"
And she burst out laughing again.
Yordan leaped to his feet. He could not believe his
ears.
" What insurrection, woman ? what committee ? Do you
mean for a revolution ? "
" Yes, a revolution ! We won't have this brute of a
Sultan to reign over us any longer," said Ghina, boldly,
but she started back the next moment, for her father had
raised his stick to strike her.
The old man, quite pale and trembling like a leaf with
rage, cried with all the force he could muster:
" What, you donkey, you empty-headed chatterbox, you're
going to make a revolution ! You're tired of your distaff and
your needle, and you must needs begin to bake biscuits to
feed all the bandits and ragamuffins in the place. Aren't
you ashamed of yourself, you lunatic ? She won't have the
Sultan any longer, if you please. There's a hussy for you !
And what's the Sultan done to you, I should like to know ?
Have they taken away your child ? Have you been
oppressed in any way ? She's ready to let her house and
child go to rack and ruin, but she must pull down the
Sultan ! And what are you thinking of all the time> you
miserable creature ? Are you of the same mind ? Are you
going to follow the flag too ? " asked Yordan sneeringly of
Ghenko, who was looking on, terrified, from the door.
Ghenko Ghenkin stammered out something, and fled
back towards the house. Ghina was already taking off
her apron and arranging her dress, for she saw that her
father's shouts had attracted the neighbours. When she

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saw Ghenko she caught up a slipper and seized him by the
throat.
" You good for-nothing ! what do you mean by saying I
was baking ? "
Ghenko, in the proud consciousness of his dignity as a
husband, did not condescend to answer his wife, but
managed to escape her grasp and ran into the room.
Locking the door securely, he breathed again, now that he
had placed that rampart between his back and his wife's
slipper, and cried triumphantly :
" Hit me now, if you can ! I'm your husband and you're
my wife. Just let me see you hit me ! "
But Ghina was not listening to him. She had gone out
into the courtyard, because her father had gone away
excited and angry.
When he got home he was much exhausted. H e passed
through the yard panting with fatigue, and sat down to rest
on the bottom step of the staircase.
Chorbaji Yordan was utterly amazed by what he had
heard. True, though he had long been confined to the
house, yet some rumours had reached even to his ears.
The secret of a forthcoming insurrection was everybody's
property—even the deaf had heard of it. It was supposed
to be in preparation somewhere towards Panaghiourishte,
among the mountains and the woods, according to what
Yordan had heard, so the flames would break out far
enough away from his roof. But to-day, from what his
feather-brained daughter had told him, he saw that Bela
Cherkva was also on the point of an eruption. What could
the Turks be about? Were they deaf or blind, not to see
how the Empire was being undermined ? he thought.
On his right he heard children's voices. They came
from a window, a little over his head, by which the cellar
was lighted. Yordan rose and began to go upstairs. As
he reached the third step he mechanically stopped and
looked in at the window. There he saw his two youngest
children, of whom the eldest was but thirteen years old,
standing by a bright fire, and busily concocting something.
So deeply were they absorbed by their task that they did
not notice their father's head peering in.
One of the boys was holding an iron saucepan over the
fire, and watching its contents with the greatest attention;

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MEET.

187

the other boy was taking from it with a kind of shovel
certain dark lumps, of which there was already a whole
heap in front of them. They were busily engaged in making
bullets : one of them was melting the lead in the saucepan,
the other held the mould.
" You young thieves—you vagabonds ! " cried Yordan,
the moment he saw what his sons were about, as he turned
back, shaking his stick at them.
The boys hurriedly left their laboratory, and fled like
the wind out of the cellar into the street, where they disappeared.
" They've ruined me, the thieves—the murderers—curses
on them; they're getting ready for the revolution too !"
cried Yordan, as he hurried upstairs rapidly, for anger had
galvanised his muscles.
On the verandah upstairs he met his wife in deep
mourning.
"What, Dona, aren't you in it too," he asked with a look
of suspicion. " The whole family's gone mad—they'll ruin
me—they'll break my heart, at my time of life, too !"
H e gasped, quite exhausted.
His wife looked at him in amazement.
"Pencho, Pencho !" he cried, " what's become of him.
I want to see what he's about. If the little ones are making
bullets, he must be casting cannon-balls—a set of rascals ! "
" H e ' s not here," said his wife; "he's gone to K."
" W h a t the devil is he doing there?"
" Perhaps he's gone to take the ^ 1 0 0 to the tanner."
" W h a t ! to Tossoun Bey? H e was to have gone tomorrow. What does he mean by going without asking
leave first."
And Chorbaji Yordan went to his desk. H e opened it
hurriedly and began to fumble in the drawers among the
books and papers, But the money-bag was not there.
Instead of it he came upon a Lefaucheux revolver among
the papers.
"What's this pistol doing here? Whose is it? Who's
been meddling with my desk ? I'm looking for my moneybag and in its place I find a revolver ! "
" You know no one ever touches your desk except yourself and Pencho," observed his wife.
" There's a scoundrelly son for you—there's a vagabond !

188

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I'll never make a man of him. He's an enemy of the
State, a revolutionary, if you please. Not a doubt of i t :
he must have persuaded the little ones to make bullets. All
of'em at work: all busy weaving the rope for their own
necks ! What's the meaning of all this infernal nonsense,
eh? Why, every one'll become a rebel, down to the very
cats, if this goes on ! Where's Kiriak ? "
" H e ' s here, making up the bundles."
Yordan went hastily towards the room where Stefchoff was.

CHAPTER

III.

FATHER-IN-LAW AND SON-IN-LAW.

STEFCHOFF, who since his marriage had become a regular
inmate of the house, was making up, with the assistance of the
two workmen, the bales of home-manufactured braid ready
to be sent off to the Eski Jouma„a fair on St. Gregory's
day. So as to be more at his ease he had thrown off his
coat and fez; his face, though flushed with the exercise,
still preserved its usual repulsive expression of harsh and
unsympathetic indifference.
He let go the string with which he was fastening the
bales when he saw Yordan come in, excited and trembling,
with deep furrows on his brow.
" What, Kiriak, are you there ?" he cried as he opened
the door. " It seems you and I are the only loyal subjects
of the Sultan left in the house. Every one else, down to the
very cats, have joined the rebels; they're buying revolvers
and making bullets. Fire and sword are being prepared
while we're sitting here getting our goods ready for the
fair. I've been ill all this while; but you must have
heard and seen all this, yet you go on letting me sink so
much money in these goods, in such brigand times as
these."
The two workmen went out quietly.
Stefchoff stared at him in amazement.
"What are you staring at, you idiot!" cried Yordan;
" I tell you my whole family has taken up with the

FATHER-IN-LAW

AND SON-IN-LAW.

189

" Komita," the family of Chorbaji Yordan, the Sultan's
most faithful subject, the friend of Kaimmakams and Pashas.
What do you suppose common people are about, if my
relations have become insurgents ? A set of ruffians are
busy forming committees under our very noses, and we
stand looking about us like a parcel of fools !"
And Chorbaji Yordan, with his anger increasing every
moment, began to recount the discoveries he had made
that day.
" You must have known this kind of thing was going on ;
what do you mean by not mentioning a word of it to me all
this time ? "
" I didn't want to trouble you while you were ill."
" Have you spoken to the Bey about it ? "
It should be noticed that although the secret was common
property, Stefchoff was the very man who knew least about
it, partly because everybody avoided mentioning the insurrection before him, and partly because he himself despised
the whole business, and did not seek to conceal his contempt for the patriots and their proceedings.
StefchofFs face flamed with sudden anger.
" I'll tell the Bey all about the scoundrels this very day ! "
he cried, enraged.
" You ought to have done so long ago ! "
" They meet in Beyzade's garden. Let the police seize
them there and examine them. After a couple of hundred
blows from the stick they'll confess their mother's milk.
You're right, I ought to have stopped these rascally plots
against the State long ago, and I would have done so, but
for all the trouble we've had. If anybody isn't satisfied with
the government here, let him go off to Russia with the
teacher Kliment, don't let them try and burn our houses
down."
Stefchoff opened the door and whispered for a moment to
some one outside.
" Do you know who the fools are ? "
" Sokoloff's the leader of them," said Stefchoff, his face
flushed with malice. In his hatred against the doctor was
mingled a burning, fiery jealousy; it was the only way in
which that stony heart could be affected by love for the
departed.
"What ? is that scoundrel still at it ? "

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StefchofF went to his coat and took something from the
pocket.
Yordan watched him attentively.
" Here's a letter I found in the street yesterday, just by
your house."
"What letter is i t ? "
" It's signed by SokolofF, and addressed to some vagabond
of the same kind at Panaghiourishte."
" What's it all about ? Fire and sword and all that sort
of thing?"
" Not at all, it's quite innocent in appearance, but I'll
take my oath it's all got some hidden meaning," said
Stefchoff, putting the letter away carefully. " However,
SamanofF will tell us what it all means, he's such a sleuthhound, he'd scent out a rebel a thousand yards off."
Downstairs Yordan's wife was superintending the preparations for dinner.
At that moment Ghina came in. Her mother at once
proceeded to vent her rage upon her for having so angered
her father.
" What are you angry about, mother ? You ought to be
pleased. The Chorbajis ought to be the first to give the
example."
" Silence, Ghina !" screamed her mother.
" You're
mad ! I won't listen to you ! "
" I'm not mad, but I'm a Bulgarian and a patriot!"
retorted Ghina, boldly.
"Bulgarian and patriot? Is that why you beat your
husband every day of your life ? "
" I beat him because he's my master. That's another
matter altogether ; that's a matter of internal policy."
"You fool!' Do you want to be more Bulgarian than
your father ? If he was to find out that you get newspapers
from Sokoloff to read, he'd beat you to a jelly, for all that
you're forty years old."
" Mother, it's not true ! I was thirty-five last Christmas.
I ought to know how old I am."
But this dialogue was interrupted by the servantgirl.
"Mrs. Dona, will you come upstairs? Father Yordan is
worse," she said anxiously.
" There you are—I told you so. My God 1" cried his

FATHER-IN-LAW

AND

SON-IN-LAW.

191

wife, as she hurried to her husband, leaving her saucepan
on the fire.
As she ran upstairs she heard Yordan's cries of pain. H e
had suddenly been taken with colic in the room upstairs,
and was writhing and tossing with anguish on the floor.
His face was distorted and convulsed: loud and despairing
groans issued from between the old man's clenched teeth,
without, however, assuaging his sufferings: they filled the
people of the house with dismay, and could be heard in the
street.
One of the workmen was immediately sent for Dr. Yaneli,
but he had gone to K., and would not be back till evening.
They then had recourse to domestic remedies. But neither
compresses, nor friction, nor poultices were of any avail.
The sufferer continued to writhe and groan with pain.
Yordanitsa did not know what to do.
"Shall we send for Dr. Sokoloff?" she asked, turning
inquiringly towards the sufferer.
Stefchoff muttered something with an air of disapproval.
" I sent for him last year myself, and he did me good,"
she retorted. Then turning again to her husband, " Yordan,
let me send for the doctor."
Yordan made a sign of dissent with his hand, and went
on groaning.
" D o you hear? I'm going to send for Dr. Sokoloff,"
repeated Yordanitsa, persuasively.
" I won't have him," faltered out the old man.
" You won't have him, but I won't listen to you !" said
Yordanitsa, resolutely. And, turning to one of the workmen,
she said:
" Chono, go and fetch Dr. Sokoloff at once ! "
Ghono rose and went to the door, but just as he reached
the threshold a piercing cry from Yordan stopped him.
" I won't have him !—do you hear ? I won't have the
rascally brigand in my house ! "
Yordanitsa looked at him in despair.
" Do you want to die, then ? " she cried.
" Yes, I do ! Get out of my sight, d
n you !" roared
the old man.
Two hours later the crisis passed slowly away. When he
saw the old man was better, Stefchoff dressed himself and
left hurriedly for the Konak,

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C H A P T E R IV.
A SPY IN 1876.

W H E N Stefchoff went into the room he found the Bey was
not alone: Samanoff was with him, and the two were
playing at backgammon.
Samanoff was the accredited spy of the Turkish Government, and drew his pay regularly at the Konak at
Philippopolis. H e was a man of about forty-five years
of age, but looked older. H e had a huge, prematurely
wrinkled face, dark and thin, lighted up by a pair of
black eyes, which, though rather dim, were always on
the move; his expression was savage and repulsive. His
moustaches were cropped short, and his hair fell in a
dark and greasy mass from beneath his tall fez, which
concealed his increasing baldness. H e was dressed in a
dark brown suit of the native tweed, very shabby, the
black-cloth collar of which was shiny with grease.
He
was tall and powerfully built, but stooped considerably, as
though under the weight of public execration. The whole
appearance of the man was suggestive of poverty and
cynicism.
H e usually lived at Philippopolis, but made
frequent tours in the neighbourhood. H e was a native of
Bela Cherkva, and knew everybody. He, too, was known
and dreaded by all who had any grounds for fearing
detection. His arrival always struck dismay and aversion
in those who met him, yet, though he knew this, it did not
seem to affect him. H e faced the most contemptuous
glances boldly and fearlessly, as much as to say, " What
then ? One trade is as good as another. I must live too."
H e had already met some of the principal residents and
extorted money from them on pretence of a loan. Naturally
no one ventured to refuse a request from so honourable a
borrower and so amiable an acquaintance. H e evidently
knew that something was going on at Bela Cherkva, for he
asked of every youth he met, with a diabolical smile, " How
are you getting on with your preparations ? ". and in order
to increase still more the confusion of his victim, he would
add, " It'll all end in failure :" on which he would leave
him in terror.
With this ill-omened and malignant out-

A SPY IN 1876.

193

spokenness he drove every one from the streets as he
passed by.
StefchofFs face beamed with satisfaction when he found
his powerful ally seated with the Bey. He greeted them
with a gratified and familar salutation, and drew up a chair
to watch the game, shaking hands with SamanofT as he
did so.
The old Bey, dressed in a short cloth coat lined with fur,
continued to devote the utmost attention to his game,
silently saluting Stefchoff as he came in. When the game
was over, Stefchoff at once proceeded to business. He told
the Bey in detail all that he had heard of the revolutionary effervescence which had again broken out at Bela
Cherkva.
The Bey had also heard something of some such movement on the part of the rayas, but he had considered it a
childish affair, unworthy of attention, and had allowed it to
go on unchecked, as was the cue of the Turkish authorities
just then.
Now, however, that Stefchoff took the mask from his eyes
he was surprised by the wide-spread nature of the evil. He
turned sternly and inquiringly to Samanoff.
" Petraki Effendi, what does this mean? Everything's
ablaze round us and we're playing at backgammon all the
while!"
" I've only been here a few days myself, but I know all
that Kiriak's just told you, and more besides."
" You know it, and you don't inform me of it! Upon
my word, you're a valuable servant of the State," cried the
Bey, much dissatisfied. " This gentleman has shown himself
to be a far more loyal subject of the Crown."
" I've only done my duty, Bey Effendim." Samanoff's brow grew clammy. He said with much
vexation:
" Whatever there may be going on here, it's not a patch
on what they're doing elsewhere. If there's a straw
smouldering here, there's a haystack blazing towards
Panaghiourishte. But the Imperial Government isn't deaf
or blind—it knows what's going on—it's biding its time—it's
got its reasons for it. It would be a great mistake for us to
start the whole thing and compromise ourselves on the
strength of a mere trifle. What we see at Bela Cherkva is
N

194

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YOKE.

only the shadow of the smoke that's rising in clouds elsewhere. My opinion is that we should watch them carefully
and do nothing rash."
These words pleased the Bey, because they corresponded
with his inclination for inactivity and his hatred of all
responsibility.
StefchorT noticed this to his annoyance. He saw that
Samanoff sought by means of this cunning explanation to
conceal his own negligence and want of zeal for the interests
of the State.
" Petraki Effendi talks at his ease," he said spitefully, " he
has neither family nor interests here—he doesn't own a ragged
carpet in the town. If there's an outbreak to-morrow, he's
nothing to lose."
" It's false, I protest," cried SamanofT, angrily.
" You're right, Kiriak. I must have the cuckolds arrested
at once," cried the Bey.
Stefchoff's face was triumphant.
"Well, on thinking it over, I'm of the same opinion.
Let the donkeys be caught," said Samanoff with a sudden
change of manner.
" Then we're agreed," said the Bey, with a sigh of satisfaction.
" Yes, let's have at them this very night," said Samanoff.
" Where do they meet ? " asked the Bey.
"At Micho Beyzade's."
" At Beyzade's ? I see it all now. A man who's more
Russian than the Russians must be a traitor. Is he their
leader ? "
" No, Doctor SokolofT," answered Stefchoff.
" What, SokolofT again ? He's succeeded the Consul
then?"
" The Consul's affair was mere child's play compared with
this new business of SokolorT's, Bey ErTendim."
" And who are the others ? "
" Two or three dismissed schoolmasters and a few other
vagabonds."
" I know their names," said Samanoff, " and where their
weapons are stored, and their agents at Panaghiourishte.
They've got their own post. More than that, they've established a kind of government, which issues decrees, judges,
and condemns to death. I've thought it over; perhaps it

A SPY IN 1876.

195

will be best that we should show some activity and give an
example to the other authorities, only we must go about it
manfully. I'll search their pockets and put them through
their first examination to night myself. After that you may
do what you like."
SamanofFs face assumed a still more ill-omened expression.
His words greatly surprised the Bey, who at once changed
his opinion of Samanoff; he saw in him a zealous and trusty
servant of the State.
" I'll see that you're properly rewarded for this, Petraki
Effendi," said the Bey in a protecting tone.
Even Stefchoff was struck by the spy's knowledge of the
organisation of the committee. H e saw clearly that Samanoff was now burning with impatience to prove his zeal and
earn his reward, and had for this reason offered to take a
prominent part in this dangerous business. This suited
Stefchoff admirably, for he was still desirous to remain in
the background so as not to be exposed to the vengeance of
the revolutionists.
The Bey looked at his watch.
"Are they there now ? " he asked.
"Yes, in the cellar. They meet in the garden when it's
fine, and drink their raki while they talk tieason."
" Well, what do you think ? "
" They always leave Micho's house at nightfall. Let the
zapties wait outside and arrest them as they come out, and
then bring them here in a body."
" That won't do," said Samanoff; " you'll only arrest them
without any proofs, and they can deny everything. No, they
must be caught in the room at Micho's while they're sitting
there, at the very scene of the crime, so to speak. Let's take
them with all their papers, protocols, and other documents.
Then, it'll be all as clear as day, black on white; there'll be
no denying it."
This advice pleased the Bey. Even Stefchoff was delighted with the idea. The spy was a most able man, and
his zeal was no less conspicuous than his ability.
"Only we must wait till nightfall," added Samanoff;
" these raids can only be carried out in the dark."
" That's settled," said the Bey triumphantly, as he clapped
his hands.
A zaptie appeared.

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YOKE.

" Is the on-bashi here ? "
" Sherif Aga will be here directly, sir."
"Send him to me as soon as he comes in," said the
Bey.
The zaptie saluted and went out again,
" Dear me, I was forgetting," said Stefchoff, as he turned
to Samanoff: the spy was plunged in thought, and the deep
wrinkles in his brow seemed to bear witness to the dark
designs which he was revolving in his inmost mind.
Stefchoff drew a letter from his pocket, and unfolded it.
" What's that," said Samanoff, suddenly awaking from his
reverie.
" A letter from Sokoloff to Panaghiourishte."
6
'You don't say so !"
" It must have been dropped by some one. I found it
in the street just by our house."
" What does it say ? " asked Samanoff, bending over the
letter.
" It seems to be written in a secret code; it's addressed
to a certain Lonka Neichoff. He's quite a common
peasant, a cobbler at Panaghiourishte, who passes through
here every week on his way to the market at K. But I'm
certain it's meant for some one else—most likely the
committee at Panaghiourishte.
" What's the paper you've got ? " asked the Bey inquisitively, for they had been talking Bulgarian.
Stefchoff explained.
" R e a d it, read it, and we'll see," said the Bey, prepaiing
to listen attentively.
Stefchoff read out the following lines :
* Dear Lonka:—I hope you're all quite well again now,
*
and that your wife's got over her illness. You must keep
on giving her the pills you have from me. How's business
with you? It's more than a fortnight since I saw you,
which I suppose is on account of your health. When you
come back, buy me 10 piastres' worth of belladonna at
Yanaki's pharmacy, as mine is run out.
" Give my love to all your people.
" (Signed)

SOKOLOFF."

" No doubt the letter's in code language," said Samanoff.
" Now translate it into Turkish," said the Bey.

A SPY IN 1876.

197

" To tell you the truth, it means a great deal or nothing
at all, according to how you understand it," said Stefchoff
to the Bey, and proceeded to translate it.
" Stop a minute," said the Bey at the very beginning, " b y
pills he must mean bullets."
" Maybe it's bullets," acquiesced SamanofT.
The Bey puffed vigorously at his cigarette with a proud
and self-satisfied air and resumed his expectant attitude.
Stefchoff continued.
" H o l d hard," once more interrupted the Bey, " h e asks
how business is. I see it all—he means 'how are your
preparations going on ?' We're not such fools as he takes
us to be." And the Bey winked significantly at SamanofT,
as much as to say, " Don't you make any mistake—Husni
Bey's an old fox, and you must get up very early in the
morning to take him in."
Stefchoff went on once more. When he came to the words,
" I suppose it's on account of your health," the Bey again
stopped him and turned inquiringly to SamanofT.
" Petraki Effendi, all this about illness and health seems
a trifle obscure ? What do you make of it ? "
" I think that for ' illness' we must read ' health' and
vice versa," said the spy with an air of importance.
The Bey became pensive. He assumed the air of a man
who has fully understood the deep significance of this dark
saying.
" I think we've got 'em now," he said triumphantly.
When Kiriak resumed his translation and reached the
word "belladonna," the Bey staited up with excitement.
" Oh! this time there's no doubt—it's quite clear—old
Debela Bona's in it. Ah ! every time I see the old shebuffalo go past something tells me she's plotting against the
State."
The Bey was referring to a poor old woman, sixty-five
years of age, known as Debela (Fat) Bona who passed by
the Konak morning and evening, with unfailing regularity,
on her way to church.
Stefchoff and SamanofT smiled. They explained to the
Bey that what was meant was a drug used in medicine.
" Go on, go on," said the Bey, somewhat crestfallen.
Stefchoff continued :
" My love to all your people—Sokoloff. That's all, sir."

19S

UtfDER TtiB YOKE.

The Bey cried:
" My love to all your people. That's quite clear. In a
word the letter smells of treason from beginning to end."
" Yes, but there's nothing to be made of it," said Stefchoff,
dissatisfied.
" It is a trifle obscure," said Samanoff.
" Obscure! of course it's obscure," said the Bey; " but
we'll make the doctor himself explain what we can't understand."
" Yes, but it would be interesting to find out what it all
means beforehand," said Samanoff, gazing fixedly at the
letter. " Give it to me—I'll decipher it—I've got a key at
home for all revolutionary letters." And he put the letter
away in his waistband.
" That's right, Petraki Effendi."
Stefchoff rose and bowed before taking his leave.
" Then's it all settled ? " he asked.
" Quite settled—for this evening," said the Bey; " you
can go to bed quietly—my kind regard., to Chorbaji
Yordan."
Stefchoff left the Bey with a countenance beaming with
satisfaction. As he got to the door of the Konak Samanoff
caught him up.
"You won't make any mistake this evening? You'll
superintend the raid on these gentlemen," said Stefchoff.
" That's all right—don't you fret yourself," said the spy;
adding rapidly, " Kiriak, lend me a lira till to-morrow;
I'm a little short."
Stefchoff frowned, and felt in his waistcoat pocket.
" Here's a couple of roubles for you—that's all I have."
Samanoff took the money, but added in a whisper:
" Come, come, I must have more than this. If I was to
whisper a word to Stranjoff of what you've been doing today, you'd find yourself in a pretty mess." And he smiled
ominously.
Stefchoff looked at him uneasily.
"Samanoff," he said, " i f I hear to-morrow that Sokoloff
and his associates are under lock and key, you shall have
ten liras from me, I give you my word."
" Right you are. Now just give me three or four piastres
small change to pay for my dinner; I don't want to change
the roubles this evening.
Thanks.
Good-bye." And

A SPY IN 1876.

199

Petraki turned down a side street to go to the inn where he
was staying. Just by Hajji TsachofFs house he met Pope
Stavoi, and stopped him.
a
Your blessing, Father!" And he kissed his hand.
" How are you ? How are things going with you ? Is the
money coming in ? Which are you having most of just
now—births or deaths?"
"Well, marriages, I think," answered the pope with a
forced smile, trying to pass on, for the spy's piercing look
terrified him. Samanoff grasped him by the hand, and
gazed at him fixedly.
" Nice time for marriages, this, when to-morrow or next
day we may have another row." And he winked significantly
at the pope. Then, suddenly changing the conversation:
"Father, can you lend me fifty piastres till to-morrow
morning ? I'm rather hard up just now."
The pope's face contracted. "A pope has no money.
I'll give you as many blessings as you like," he said, trying
to get off with this jesting rejoinder.
Samanoff looked at him sternly, and said in a low tone :
" Hand over the fifty piastres. Your son Gancho's
secretary to the committee. I've only to say one word, and
you're all done for."
The pope grew deadly pale. He took out a coin, and
left it in the other's hands, pretending to shake hands with
him.
" Good-bye, Father. Don't forget me in your prayers."
" Anathema," muttered the pope as he moved away.
The rain was still falling.
" My boy, bring me a little live charcoal in a chafing-dish
(mangal), will you?" said Samanoff to the waiter who followed
him into his bedroom.
The waiter stared at him with surprise, as much as to
say:
" What can you want to warm yourself for this weather ? "
"Now then, hurry up with that charcoal! " repeated the
spy, taking off his coat, which was drenched.
The waiter brought some charcoal on a shovel, and placed
it in a pan which he drew from under the bed.
" That's right. You may go now 1" And he locked the
door after the boy.
He then took the letter from his waistband, unfolded it,

200

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turned the back of it—on which nothing was written—
towards the fire, and waited patiently. When the paper
was thoroughly heated he withdrew it, and examined it
carefully: his face was expressive of lively curiosity mingled
with satisfaction. The paper, which was quite white and
clear a moment before, was now covered with thick yellow
characters. As is well known, the letters sent by the
various committees were written in sympathetic ink, and the
letters were visible only when the paper was warmed. On
the other side they usually wrote a series of innocent and
meaningless sentences, so as to throw the authorities off the
scent in case the letter should fall into strange hands. But,
as usual, a secret which is known to more than two persons
is no longer a secret, and the vigilant Samanoff had long
since found it out.
The letter was signed by the vice-president, SokolofT, and
contained an account of the decisions and plans of the Bela
Cherkva Committee.
After he had attentively perused the fatal letter, an indefinable smile appeared on SamanofPs repulsive countenance.
He took out his pencil and wrote something on the blank
space under the vice-president's signature.
And he went out hurriedly towards the Konak.

CHAPTER V.
T H E CHERRY-TREE.

NEXT morning the sun again shone forth brightly in the
deep blue sky.
The gardens were odorous with perfume, and the rosebuds were beginning to shed their fragrance around: the
forest trees gaily crowned with white gave a festal appearance to every courtyard in Bela Cherkva; the nightingale's
note was everywhere audible, the swallows flashed through the
air, rejoicing in the sun's rays. All nature was full of life and
youth. Heaven and earth united to form a soul-rejoicing
picture of vernal bloom and loveliness.
At that moment Marko IvanorT stopped at the bottom of

2ol
THE CHEkRY>TREE.
a dark and quiet street at the outskirts of the town, and
knocked at a door.
It was at once opened by a strapping youth in peasant
dress.
" Is it here they've brought the trunk ? " asked Marko in
a low voice.
"Yes, yes, master; come in," and the lad stepped back
and pointed to a door. " There they are, walk in."
Just then the door opened, and the first thing that
Marko saw in the room was a trunk—the trunk of a cherrytree.
Kalcho, the goatherd (an old acquaintance of the reader's),
mounted on a pile of wood, was busily engaged in hollowing
out one end of the cherry-tree, which was firmly fixed
below. His perspiring face showed that the task was no
easy one.
" Well done, Kalcho, my man !" said Marko, watching
the process with interest; "you're getting on, I see."
" Bless you, everything's easy when you know how to do
it," said a voice.
Marko turned to the left, and saw Micho Beyzade leaning
against the wall.
Chorbaji Micho Beyzade was a short dark man, dressed
in loose Turkish knickerbockers and a woollen jacket. Like
his contemporaries, he had had little or no education, but an
active and eventful life had made him a man of wisdom and
experience. His dark, twinkling eyes gave an intelligent
look to his face, which was shrivelled up and seamed with
many wrinkles. His peculiarity, which had become a byword among his friends, was his unbounded partiality for
politics, and his unshakable conviction that the fall of
Turkey was at hand. Naturally, he was a Russophile, but
to a fanatical, ridiculous degree. Every one remembered
how one day at a school examination, he had flown into a
violent passion, because a pupil had said that the Russians
had been defeated at Sebastopol. " You're mistaken there,
my lad," said Chorbaji Micho, angrily; " Russia can't be
defeated, you know; you'd better ask the master who
taught you to give you back the money you've paid him."
But the teacher happened to be there, and proved, book
in hand, that the Russians were defeated in the Crimean
War. Micho cried out that his history was incorrect, and,

202

UNDER THE YOKE.

as he was on the school committee, he took care that the
teacher was never engaged again.
He was naturally of a nervous and excitable disposition,
and lost his temper the moment anybody ventured to
oppose his confirmed convictions. He would then flame
with passion, and use the most uncomplimentary language
to his opponents. To-day, however, he was cheerful
enough.
"Hallo! Micho, how are you?" said Marko courteously,
holding out his hand to the president of the committee.
"We've got a meeting on to-day, and I thought I'd come
round on my way and see how Kalcho's getting on."
"Where's your meeting to be, in the fields?" asked
Marko, sitting down with his eyes still fixed on the trunk.
" It's to be at the Green Dell."
The Green Dell was the name given to a valley on the
bare hill to the north of the town, which was the first spur
of the Stara Planina. The committee changed its place
of meeting every time. That day the Green Dell had been
fixed upon.
Kalcho, heated and perspiring, continued to bore away
at the tree with a gigantic gimlet. He frequently withdrew
the tool to clear away the shavings, looked down the hole,
and went on again. The hole now reached to about the
requisite point, that is to say a foot from the thick end of
the trunk, where the touch-hole was to be. Kolcho cleared
the shavings out carefully, peeped down with one eye, blew
through it, and looked at his visitors with an air of satisfaction. They also rose and looked down the cavity.
" Why, it's big enough to take a ten-pound weight," said
Micho, " but we'll fill it with shrapnel, it'll polish off all
the more heathens. Your cherry-tree will do marvels."
For the committee had decided that, in the absence of
proper cannon, which it was found impossible to obtain, an
attempt should be made to construct field-pieces out of the
hollowed stems of cherry-trees, bound round with iron
hoops, such as were said to have been used in the Polish
and Carlist insurrections.
Marko's face beamed with triumph. For, to tell the
truth, the cherry-tree was from his garden. During the last
few weeks, a complete change had taken place in Marko's
ideas. The revolutionary effervescence which had broken

203
THE CHERRY-TREE.
out in Bela Cherkva had at length extended to him also.
He began by taking an interest, next he was surprised, last
of all his warmest sympathies were enlisted. If this kind of
thing was going on everywhere, as they said, perhaps, after
all, the whole of Turkey might catch fire, he thought. Was
it not possible that the knell of the Empire had sounded,
when even the very children thought only of arming themselves ? Who knows—who knows ? This thought calmed
his apprehensions and increased his confidence in the
future. Resolute and sensible, as he was, without the
slightest imagination, at last he was overcome by the
general excitement, and began to believe. The epidemic
had extended even to that sober, but honest Bulgarian
soul.
But this mental process was not accomplished in a
moment. Firm convictions are obtained only through the
influence of a whole series of facts and impressions. At first,
the autumn before, when he had seen the growing savagery
and atrocities of the Turkish population, he had thought to
himself, "This life isn't worth living, it can't go on like
this."
It was the first step.
Later on, that spring, after Kableshkoffs appearance,
when he saw the excitement that reigned among the youths,
who were so resolutely preparing for a hopeless but noble
attempt, he said one day to his wife:
" After all, who knows ? They may be mad, but the mad
succeed sometimes."
Finally at Easter when they were talking at the cafe of
the terrible difficulties in the way of such an attempt, and
the awful consequences it might lead to, Marko said
crossly to Alafranga :
" Mikhalaki, a man who counts up the cost of the pipers
and drummers never gets married at all."
It should, however, be noted that Marko was in reality in
favour of the preparation, but not of the revolt. He was
not enthusiastic to the last degree, like Micho, nor had he
such a blind and unshakable faith in the result of the
struggle as to risk everything upon it, like OgnianofF. Bela
Cherkva ought to be prepared, so as to repel the bashi-bozouks when they should attack it with the inhabitants of
the numerous Turkish villages in the valley of the Strema.

204

UNDER THE YOKE.

It was quite surrounded by them and they already eyed it
askance. If the revolt broke out all over Bulgaria, that
would be a different matter. But who could affirm that
that would be so ? In any case, Bela Cherkva ought to be
prepared.
So he insisted on the armaments. Afterwards, time
would show, he said. Three days before Nikolai
Netkovitch had come to him and related his unsuccessful
attempts to obtain the trunks of a few cherry-trees.
"You can cut down my cherry-tree," he said. But
whether through human egoism or through parental solicitude, not unnatural indeed under the circumstances, he
refused to allow his sons to have a hand in the matter. H e
wished them to be preserved from the torrent which he had
been powerless to resist for himself. H e wanted to do what
was impossible. " One in the family is enough," he
thought. The revulsion in his feelings had not become
complete as yet, hence these hesitations and inconsistencies.
In a word, Marko represented the moderate element in the
national party, an element worthy of respect everywhere
save in revolutions, which seek to attain their ideal by
violence and extremes. Sometimes it may act as a brake
on the wheel, but too often its effect is unfelt.
Kalcho was busily engaged in smoothing the inner surface
of the cherry-tree, so as to make a real cannon of it. H e
completed the touch-hole, and blew through it while a
stream of dust and shavings emerged from the mouth.
"Well, that's what you may call finished! and a good
account it'll give of the Turks, I'll be bound," said Kalcho,
triumphantly.
" W e l l done, Kalcho, you'll be at the head of our artillery.
Now all we want is Father Lilo, the smith, to put the ironhoops and caps on it, and then, there you are," said
Micho.
" My stars, what a noise it'll make," said Marko.
" We'll put it on the hill above the Green Dell; we can
command the whole valley from there. Wherever they
show themselves, we'll mow them down without mercy, it's
a wonderful position."
A sound of steps was heard outside.
" It's one of us," said Micho, who had given the lad
outside orders to admit no one who was not in the secret.

THE CHERRY-TREE.

205

Popoff, the secretary of the committee, appeared. H e
saluted Micho and Marko.
" What is it, Gancho ? " asked the president.
" I thought I'd look in on my way to the Green Dell to
see how the artillery was getting on."
" All right! We must all be at the meeting to-day, to
decide whom we're to send to Panaghiourishte.
They
want us to send a representative. I'm for Sokoloff."
" What do they want a representative for?" said Marko.
" For the general assembly there."
" General assembly ? What do you mean ? "
" Why the assembly, man, that's going to decide when
the revolt's to break out."
" They'll probably fix upon the first of May," said Gancho.
Marko started.
" O h , that's too soon. Better wait till the roses have
been got in," remarked Micho.
" What, are we going to rise then, too ? "
" It'll break out everywhere on the same day."
" Don't let's have any folly."
" Folly or no folly, it's got to be," said Micho shortly.
" You don't suppose we've been preparing all this time
for nothing, do y o u ? " added Gancho.
"I've always understood that we were arming only to
defend ourselves against the bashi-bozouks, and to see what
happens elsewhere. I'm very much afraid that we shall be
left to pay the piper alone," said Marko.
" It would be a shame and a disgrace for Bela Cherkva
to delay for a moment—the whole nation will rise on
one day—and Turkey will be done for !" cried Micho
excitedly.
" Do you know positively that that's so ? " he asked.
"Know?
Of course I d o ; I'm not a child.
That's
why I've pressed you to join the committee—^to read the
letters with your own eyes, and listen to what Kableshkoff
says. Why, the very spies are with us. Look at this letter
we got last night from Samanoff, written on the back of one
of our own, which came into his hands, Lord knows how : it's
a miracle, I tell you."
The letter was the one we have already seen Samanoff
explaining to the Bey, and afterwards deciphering by
himself. H e had sent it back to the committee, to their

206

UNDER THE

YOKE,

dismay and subsequent relief, with the following lines on the
back :
" MR. VICE-PRESIDENT,—If I were you I would not leave
my letters lying about in the street, where Stefchoff may find
them. To-day I received this letter from him before the
Bey, to whom we translated into Turkish the other side
about the belladonna: this side I deciphered myself, alone,
before the fire, so you need not be alarmed. Another storm
was hanging over your heads for this evening, but it's passed
over. You may thank me for that; only you'd better meet
somewhere else, and more secretly, in future. Good luck
to you !
" The Bulgarian traitor and spy,
-

" PETRAKI SAMANOFF."

It should be added that the unfortunate Samanoff had
never as a matter of fact been guilty of political treachery
so far, all rumours to the contrary notwithstanding; he had
undertaken the spy's calling with the sole aim of getting
money from the Turks as well as the Bulgarians. In order
to levy blackmail upon the latter he had used countless
threats, but he never went further than that. Self-respect
he had none, but conscience was still alive within him.
Clearly he had not been intended by nature for a spy, but
circumstances had remorselessly driven him into that
tortuous path. Before returning the letter to the committee he had skilfully persuaded the Bey to postpone
the police raid.
He eventually died in prison in Asia, just as the San
Stefano amnesty was signed.
Marko shook his head distrustfully.
" It's one thing to know something's going to happen, and
quite another for people to tell you so. Think well over it
before doing anything rash. Don't let us have a second
Stara Zagora"
Micho lost his temper.
" This is a different thing altogether, Marko. Don't be a
child. I tell you the whole country'll be ablaze. Everything's arranged and organised—they've only to tell us the
day."
"Well, if the whole country's ablaze, I'll take my gun too.

THE CHERRY-TREE.

207

But suppose we're the only ones ? That's what I want to
get at"
" We shan't be the only ones—the whole country '11 rise !"
"Who knows?"
" I tell you it will, Marko. Do you want me to take my
oath to it ? "
"No."
" You're a regular unbelieving Thomas."
" I want to feel it with my finger, like he did. We're
staking pur heads, man ! "
J( Make up your mind to it—we're bound to conquer! "
" Why ? "
" Because Turkey must fall—the time's come."
"Why must it fall?"
" Because it's written that Turkey must fall!"
Marko thought that Micho was as usual alluding to the
prophecies of Martin Zadek, a Russian " Old Moore " who
was perpetually preaching the downfall of the Ottoman
Empire.
" I don't believe in these new prophecies. The almanack
prophesies rain and storm, and the weather's perfect—it's
all bosh."
" No, no, Marko, Zadek's a different thing altogether—
even the learned believe in him," said Micho earnestly.
" Oh bother! it's always Zadek—can't you leave Zadek
alone ? "
Micho flared up.
" If you won't have Zadek, I'll show you another
prophecy still deeper and clearer than even Zadek's ! "
"Whose is it?"
" It's from the Divine Providence. Only the Holy Ghost
can have inspired it. No human mind can have found it
out."
And Micho began to fumble in his coat-pocket.
Marko watched him with surprise.
"Dear, dear—I've left my pocket-book at home," said
Micho, much vexed—"but never mind, I think I can
remember it. If this won't convince you that Turkey's
doomed, I shall wash my hands of you. A deaf man
can't hear the sound of the big drum."
And Micho took out his writing-case, dipped his pen in
the ink, and again began to search his pockets.

208

UNDER

THE

YOKE.

" Have you got a bit of blank paper about you ?"
" No," said Marko, after searching in his own pocket.
" Never mind, I can write here."
And Micho bent over the cannon and began to write on
the smooth planed surface at the butt end.
Marko watched him with curiosity.
',
Soon certain signs appeared—they consisted of ChurchSlav characters with their equivalents in arable numerals * in
regular alternation—in the following order:
T( = 3oo)y ( = 4 O O ) P ( = I O O ) B K = 9 O O ) I ( = I O ) A ( = I )
K(=2o)E(=,S)

n ( = 8 o ) A ( ~ i ) A ( = 4 ) H ( = 5 o ) E < = s)
These letters read in words, formed the following sentence:
Typn'ia Ke na^He—Turkey will fall: the figures added up
denoted the fateful year 1876 !
Who was'it who first discovered this marvellous combination ? Who first rescued from oblivion this ray of light,
this inexplicable freak of chance? No one ever knew.
The younger people laughed at it as a mere capricious
coincidence—the older spoke of it as a revelation. Thus
prejudice or superstition explains what reason is unable to
understand.
Micho Beyzade supplied the key to the double sense of
the enigma—Marko's waverings were at an end.
H e was speechless with surprise.
Micho's triumph was complete. A proud self-satisfaction
beamed from his black eyes, and the faint sarcastic smile
with which he gloated over Marko's amazement seemed to
express pity for. his unbelief—and triumph—and joy—and
enthusiasm all at once. He seemed to say to Marko, " Now,
then, let's hear what you've got to say ! Martin Zadek's no
good—but how about this, eh? What do you think of
Beyzade now ? "
While the two notables were discussing the point, several
of the members of the committee had come in unobserved.
They had also looked in on their way, to superintend the
completion of the Bela Cherkva krupp. The others soon
* In the Slavonic alphabet, as instituted by SS. Kiril and Metod,
each letter has a numerical equivalent, as in the Greek and other
alphabets.

MARKO'S PRAYER.

209

followed in the same casual manner, so that all the members
of the committee were there, except Dimo Bezporteff.
" I can't find Bezporteff anywhere to-day," said Ilia
Stranjoff; " h e must have fallen asleep in some dram shop."
" Ah ! it's a bad thing to get drunk aimlessly like that,"
remarked Pope Dimcho, as he took a pull at his pocket
flask of raki.
The members could not sufficiently admire or praise the
new gun. It lay before them like some great monster without head or feet, with one eye in its back and a frightful
gaping mouth, ready to vomit forth fire and lead. On its
bright new surface could be read the cabalistic words written
by Micho—the "mene, tekel, upharsin" of the Ottoman
Empire :
"Turkey will fall—1876."
" Boys," said the president, "didn't we agree to meet at
the Green Dell to-day ? "
" ^ e s ? yes ; let's be off! "
" But here we are all together? Why not hold the meeting here? If you ask me, I prefer this, especially with that
before us," pointing to the gun.
The president's proposal met with universal approval.
"Well, then, let's begin."
" But where are you going to sit ? "
" Here's my armchair," said Micho, mounting on the gun.
And the sitting commenced.

C H A P T E R VI.
MARK6'S

PRAYER.

MARKO left Kalcho's workshop deep in thought: what he
had seen and heard there had made a great impression on
him.
" Who knows ? who knows ? " he thought, as he passed
through the market-gardens which abounded at that side of
the town.
H e went along by the river, to the east of Bela Cherkva,
where it pours down, with many a foaming cascade, from the
o

210

UNDER

THE

YOKE.

Balkan. There he cast a glance at his own kitchen garden
and the hole, not yet filled up, where the cherry-tree had
stood ; he smiled grimly at the sight. From there he turned
back through the gardens towards the principal street in the
town, which joined the road to K. As he passed by the
cabins of the carpet-weavers, in the dusty plain at the outskirts of the town, he saw a great Khoro * in full swing.
There was evidently a wedding in the neighbourhood, and
all the poor and hard-working population seemed to have
joined in the festivities, for the Khoro was unusually long.
" That's the way of the world!" he thought to himself;
" over there they're getting cannon ready, and here they're
marrying without a thought of the morrow."
But he at once observed that the revolutionary element
was not unrepresented even here : the dance was being conducted by Bezporteff, an ardent patriot, though too fond of
the bottle, who, although slightly lame, was a renowned
dancer. He was waving a white handkerchief as he danced
—in a somewhat wild and eccentric fashion, it must be confessed—and imparted to the endless human chain, which
followed him, the strangest figures and windings—at one
moment the Khoro formed an irreproachably regular semicircle, at another it wound round him like a sleeping serpent,
and again it untwisted and extended in a straight line or
took some other fantastic shape. The broad soles of his
shoes came down with a vigorous stamp at every new
figure.
Marko slowly approached the Khoro, which was at its
height, and then observed that Bezporteff was very drunk,
and was tugging the whole column after him with such
ardour that one would have thought he was leading the
assault on some fortress. His enthusiasm had spread to
the farthest extremity of the column, where the five-year-old
children were. At his bidding the musicians had ceased
playing, and the dancers themselves sang as they danced,
keeping time with the song. Marko heard the following
verse of the song :
"Kalina, can you tell me, dear,
Will brother Kolio come to-day ?
Will brother Kolio come to day
And bring a birthday-gift for you ?
* Khoro, the national dance of Bulgaria.

MARKO'S

PRAYER.

211

A necklace for your neck so white,
A waistband for your waist so slim,
A kerchief for your hair so bright,
And slippers for your tiny feet."

And the dance went on with fresh vigour.
Marko stopped beneath the eaves of the smithy to rest a
little and enjoy the gay sight.
Suddenly Bezporteff noticed him. H e at once left the
Khoro and hastened towards him, still waving his handkerchief and keeping time to the music. On his pale, elongated
and bony face, with its red moustache and twinkling grey
eyes, was depicted a certain wild glee and excitement produced by intoxication.
" Hurrah! Marko ! Hurrah for you and for Bulgaria!
and all her brave sons ! Stand us a glass of wine, Marko.
Thanks ! Hurrah I Beg pardon, Marko, I'm as drunk as
I can be—that's so—but I know what I'm about. Yes, I'm
a true Bulgarian. I see the sufferings of the nation—that's
why I say, ' We've had enough slavery and drunkenness:
we'd better die than go on like this.' They may say;
6
You're as drunk as a Russian sapojnik' (cobbler), Whoever
says that is a traitor. My heart's sore for Bulgaria, that
poor slave of the Turks. All we want is our rights—the
rights of humanity. ' We seek not fame nor riches, we
seek not land nor wives.'* But you may say people do get
married, how about that ? Well, I answer, that's the way of
the world. If the word's given to-morrow : Forward, march,
set fire to your houses, and off we go to the Balkan! A
man who's afraid of the birds doesn't sow millet—you know
what I mean 1 Long live all patriots like you—I'd kiss
their hands and their feet. But as for Yordan Chorbaji—
I'd like to give him a good hiding with my belt. And
Stefchoff? the devil take the fellow ! . . . . But a dog may
sleep under a rock—sooner or later. Why, I'm as drunk
as a—as a . . . . It's love for my country that makes
me drunk. The hour's nigh. I'm alive to-day—but tomorrow I may be dust—ashes—nothing. It's a fool of a
world, and that's the truth. And whoever dies for the
nation will live for ever and ever. Hooray ! long live Bulgaria ! And what am I ? an ass who's afraid of cold water."
* These are the first two lines of a patriotic song by M. Stambo*
loff, the present Prime Minister of Bulgaria.

212

UNDER

THE

YOKE.

Bezporteff stopped suddenly, for he saw that a Turk was
riding by on horseback, an unusual sight of late. Pointing
to the Turk, he began to sing:
" On to the struggle : the enemy draws near ;
Beats every heart, but it beats not from fear !
Courage, the brave band grows stronger and stronger,
We'll be submissive rayas no longer ! "

" Forward, forward !" cried Bezporteff, as though he was
urging on some invisible band, and rushed at the Turk.
The Turk, seeing Bezporteff making for him, stopped.
Bezporteff reached him, seized his arm, and cried :
"Turk, where are you going? How dare you pollute
this sacred soil? This soil is Bulgarian—your country is
not here, but in the wilds of Asia. Be off there at once !
Down, you brute, and kiss this soil. If you don't, the devil
take your sultan, and his pages, and his paramours !"
The Turk did not understand what Bezporteff said, but he
saw that he was very drunk : he became alarmed and
spurred his horse, but Bezporteff caught at the bridle.
"What do you want, Chorbaji?" asked the Turk, in
dismay.
" Get down or I'll drink your blood," shouted Bezporteff
fiercely, as he drew his glittering knife.
The Turk had some weapon or other in his belt, but he
forgot it, and got down trembling and submissive.
" What do you want, Chorbaji ? " he repeated, terrified by
the vindictive look of his assailant.
" Where are you going, Turk ? "
" T o K."
" A n d when are you going to Mecca?"
The Turk lost his presence of mind entirely—his voice
ssemed to stick in his throat—he could scarcely falter out:
"Chorbaji, leave me alone."
" Come along and we'll go to Mecca together," raved
Bezporteff; "wait till I get on your back—you've ridden on
the Bulgarians for a thousand years." And Bezporteff
nimbly leaped on his back and clasped him tightly round
the neck—" now then, step out, for Mecca ! " he cried.
And before the whole crowd, amid shouts and laughter,
the Turk set out, spurred on by Bezporteff.
The horse followed its master sadly.

MARKO'S PRAYER.

213

" Who knows ? who knows ? " thought Marko to himself
on his way home—he had not yet recovered from the shock
of surprise caused by the events he had just witnessed.
He had lived for fifty years, and could remember the time
when Bulgarians were forbidden to wear green, and were
obliged to dismount if they met a Turk: he had himself
seen, undergone, endured so many degradations as a raya,
that now he could not believe his eyes. He saw that
before the whole crowd, in sight of a thousand spectators,
a Turk had dismounted from his horse at the bidding of a
lame, drunken Bulgarian; that this Turk had forgotten his
weapons and his nationality and had submitted to be ridden
by Bezporteff like a beast of burden through the town.
And all this so simply, so suddenly—so terribly suddenly !
And yet it was not altogether by chance, or a mere drunken
frolic—it would have been impossible a day before—to-day
it was possible, and everyone applauded as if it was the
most natural thing in the world. What did all this mean ?
Why was the raya so bold, and the ruling race so submissive
to-day ? Had the death knell of the Empire really rung,
and were Beyzade and the youngsters right after all ?
" Who knows—who knows ? "
In his reverie he stopped to look at the children just
released from school. They were MerdivenjiefPs pupils,
and were formed in a long column two abreast. They kept
step as they marched, like soldiers, under the command of
officers who marched at the side : the general was at the head,
Marko's Asen held a stick with a red handkerchief tied to
it—this was their flag.
Marko stood amazed.
"They've all gone mad, from the old grey-beards to the
very school-children ! " he thought, "all gone mad !"
He took Asen by the ear, and asked him with a smile:
" And what's that you're carrying, you young monkey ? "
This reminded him that, at any rate, his elder children
had remained unscathed, that he had not noticed the same
fermentation of spirit among them as had spread to everyone else, himself included.
" Thank goodness, they're out of it at least. God bless
'em. I'm in for it, that's quite enough ! "
But a bitter thought occurred to him, he added sadly :
"What, haven't the rascals got blood in their veins?

214

UNDER THE YOKE.

Have I brought them up to be traders? But no—no—let
'em keep aloof, one in a house is- enough."
The sun was just approaching the meridian.
Marko reached his home uneasy and annoyed, went into
his room, and examined his pistols which were hanging on
the wall. Next he opened a large closet concealed behind
the door, with the intention of putting new flints to two
old pistols which had come down from his grandfather, and
long ago been thrown aside as useless. The closet was
quite dark, he tried to feel for what he wanted, but it was
impossible; he had to light a candle to see—when he
brought the light, what was his surprise ! Instead of the
two old pistols, he found an array of guns, pistols, and
revolvers, a complete arsenal; at the same time it seemed to
be a kind of military store, in a corner hung heavy cartridgecases, sandals, boots, uniforms of European cut, trimmed
and braided, and other strange and suspicious-looking
articles.
H e called grandmother Ivanitsa, who at once appeared.
"Why, mother, who's been opening the closet? Who's
been up to all these games, I should like to know ? "
The grandmother looked at him with surprise.
" Who's been opening it? Do you think I have ? Why,
all of them, Vasil, Dimitr, Kiro, t r ^ ' r e all in and out the
whole day up to something. Who knows what they're
doing in there in the dark ? "
Marko became confused.
" The devil take the young brigands," he cried, scratching
his head.
H e examined carefully, with the light, the contents of the
closet, and muttered, with an indescribable expression on
his face:
" Mad—mad ! God bless 'em !"
And he closed the door again.
H e went straight to the eikonostasis, and knelt humbly
before the image of the Saviour. H e was uttering some
prayer not to be found in his missal. He was praying for
Bulgaria !
For the first time in his life he was praying for Bulgaria !

A NATION

INTOXICATED.

215

CHAPTER VII.
A NATION INTOXICATED.

I N truth, as spring went on, the revolutionary movement
made giant strides. The whole of Western Thrace, where
the excitement was most general, resembled a huge volcano,
the dull rumbling of which announced the coming eruption.
A stream of apostles and agitators traversed mountain and
plain and organised the contest. Everywhere they met
with the same welcome—everywhere arms were opened to
receive them, hearts to absorb their words—the whole
nation thirsted after the stirring language of freedom, and
was impatient to bear its cross to the new Golgotha. A
long list of workers had already prepared the soil, and had
even sown there the seeds of a love for freedom. These
workers, beginning from Pai'ssi, a monk, and ending with
Levski, a deacon—both saints—had sown and watered the
field; the former had shed upon it his blessing from Mount
Athos, the latter from the gallows. Twenty years before,
Rakoffski had ventured in a village to advocate the revolt-—
he had to fly for his life, disguised in women's dress, from
the fury of the villagers. Now, when villagers heard that
an apostle was coming, they sent out deputations to welcome
him and herald his approach. They listened, they swallowed
thirstily every word of that life-inspiring speech, even as the
parched throat does the refreshing draught. In response to
the appeal, " Be ready, we must die ! " the church gave its
pope, the school its teacher, the field its ploughman, the
mother her son. The idea struck its roots everywhere with
invincible force—it spread over all alike—over Balkan and
valley, over the hut of the poor shepherd and the cell of the
monk. Even the Chorbajis, who formed a close caste
opposed to all national development, even these fell under
the sway of the idea with which every brain was on fire.
True, they took a comparatively small part in the patriotic
movement, but they did not hinder it, for they did not
betray it. Treachery and baseness were rife enough later,
but after the catastrophe, as always happens in such cases.
In vain would certain writers, blinded by party spirit, seek
to claim a monopoly of patriotic ardour only for the sheep-

216

UNDER THE YOKE.

skin clad and shod peasant, in defiance of historical truth.
No, the revolutionary spirit, like a flaming seraph, spread
its wings over peasant and university student—kalpak and
fez, priest's cap and tall hat alike. As in all the progressive
struggles of Bulgaria, science and the cross were in the front
rank. The martyrology of modern Bulgarian history proclaims this truth. True, the principal contingent, as at all
times, was furnished by the mass of the people. But it gave
what it could—that is, numbers. Thought and soul could
only be supplied by the intelligence. So the effervescence
increased daily and spread over everything. Every day it
assumed greater dimensions and acquired fresh strength.
The preparations went on with unremitting ardour; young
and old displayed equal zeal. The peasants left their fields
untilled to cast bullets, the citizens neglected their business.
Secret posts went day and night between the different committees and the central" committee at Panaghiourishte;
young lads spent the day in drilling with their guns, under
the command of centurions and decurions; the women
knitted stockings, made cartridges, and baked biscuit; the
bootmakers worked only at knapsacks, cartridge cases, military boots and such revolutionary gear; even the village
mayors, vekils, and other local functionaries eagerly took
part in the preparations. In every village the depot of arms,
bullets and gunpowder grew larger daily—the gunpowder
was supplied by the Turks themselves—cherry-trees, hollowed out, planed, and fitted with iron hoops formed the
artillery.
The silken standard embroidered with lions,
fancifully braided uniforms, bright ecclesiastical vestments,
and crosses were the adornments of the impending contest.
The influence of this general infatuation was felt even in the
children's games : tops, hoops, kites were left for the more
thrilling joys of playing at soldiers with wooden swords and
guns. The old people, amazed, said it was a visitation of
God. In truth, it was the only divine manifestation by
which people were persuaded to join in the movement, if we
except the miraculous logogram, " Turkey will fall—1876,"
which spread rapidly abroad and convinced the most sceptical. That year, spring was extraordinarily early; the whole
of Thrace resembled the Garden of Paradise. The rosegardens were one mass of scented bloom, more luxuriant
than ever before or since. Field and vineyard alike pro-

A NATION

INTOXICATED.

217

mised miraculous harvests, destined, alas! to rot unreaped.
As for the inaction of the Turkish Government, in face of
such open and unconcealed agitation, such boisterous preparations for the revolt, it is to be explained only by their
blindness and utter contempt of the despised raya. " They're
merely hares at play," said the complacent Effendis. " They're
only the Hurrahers . . . . ,"* said the haughty rulers,smiling
grimly and contemptuously. There are words which mark
an epoch. The "Hurrahers" were the expression of the
awakening of the nation when it emerged victorious from
the thirty years' struggle for its ecclesiastical autonomy.
But the hurrahers who saluted with their cheers the establishment of the Bulgarian Exarchate in 1870, had in 1876
become revolutionaries, and prepared bullets and cannons
to welcome Bulgarian liberty.
The Turks, however, could not discern the change : they
were unable to march with the times or to see the progress
in the ideas of the people. Indeed,if they had understood,
it was now too late—their dungeons were not vast enough,
their fetters too short, to curb the gigantic idea, the invisible
" King Marko " f lurking in the mountains.
Posterity will be astonished—nay, the very contemporaries
of the age, with a whole series of historical examples before
them, stand aghast before this moral intoxication, this
sublime infatuation of a people preparing to contend with a
mighty empire still great in its military resources—preparing
with the hope, too, of victory, and with such means,
ineffectual even to a point of ridicule, ready to take the
field in the very " jaws of hell," as Marko Ivanoff had said
not long before, without seeking for any ally save its own
enthusiasm—a will-o'-the-wisp, which flames and dies out, a
phantom, an illusion. History has but rarely furnished an
example of such self-confidence—verging on madness,
The Bulgarian national spirit has never risen to such
heights, and may never again reach them.
* An allusion to the boisterous crowds whose loud acclamations
heralded the establishment of the Exarchate, and the liberation of the
Bulgarian Chuich from Greek domination in 1870. The Turkish expression is " Dajivei'jilerdendir" from "Dajivei," the Bulgarian
"hurrah ! "
t A Bulgarian legendary " King Arthur,"

218

UNDER THE YOKE.

Especial attention has been devoted to this prelude of the
struggle, for it alone is striking, and may be taken as the
example of a great idea fostered in a fertile and favourable
soil. The struggle itself by which it was followed was
unworthy of the very name.
Nor will it be described in these pages. The story is
naturally taken up with a single episode of the contest,
which follows later, and which gives a glimpse of the
revolution, that utter downfall of the brightest hopes.

CHAPTER VIII.
TROUBLE UPON TROUBLE.

RADA'S departure for Klissoura had been quite sudden and
unexpected. The day after her meeting with Boicho, she
had found a peasant from Klissoura waiting for her: he
was returning in his cart from K. and had been requested
by Boicho, whom he had met on the road, to drive Rada to
Klissoura : so she set out with him in haste. It was not
altogether a sorrow for her to leave Bela Cheikva, for she
had of late been pursued by the attentions of the Russian
student, KandofT, who had also joined the revolutionary
committee. All her attempts to escape from his persistence
had been unavailing. While she still mourned for Boicho's
loss she could not listen to KandofT, and now that her
lover was restored to her these attentions were doubly
distasteful. Moreover, the loss of her only friend, Lalka,
deprived her of the only companion she had in the town,
where she had suffered so much already.
She took up her abode with Gospoja Mouratliska, who
had not long before settled at Klissoura. The good woman
had readily granted OgnianofPs request to take in the
homeless girl.
The windows of the house looked northwards upon the
whole town of Klissoura, the valley, and the Stara Planina.
The majestic peak of Ribaritsa (known hereabouts as
Vejen) which still wore its winter coronal of snow, towered
above the city nestling on its southern slopes: here and

TROUBLE UPON TROUBLE.

219

there the flocks of the nomad Wallachian shepherds grazed
on the grassy hillocks, which were dotted with the roughly
enclosed penfolds: to the east the town was surrounded by
high jagged rocks and crumbling ravines—in part bare, in
part covered with vineyards and rose-gardens. A narrow
path wound its way to the summit and led to the heights
beyond, known as Zli Dol, over which passed the road to
the valley of the Strema. Klissoura was surrounded by
hills on the other two sides also : it nestled in a deep valley,
covered with verdure and fruit-trees and rose-gardens, which
filled the air with their perfume. In winter it was lonely
and mournful, but now it was a delightful spot, shady, cool,
and fragrant.
Kandoff reached Klissoura the day after Rada, and
proceeded to the house of a relative, on a visit—a specious
pretence for being near Rada.
The next day he called on Rada. His visit overwhelmed
her with confusion, which was heightened by rumours of
the impending outbreak of the revolt at Koprivshtitsa and
her ignorance of Boicho's whereabouts. In her affliction
Kandoff's coming was most ill-timed.
" Why, Gospodin Kandoff, how is it you're here ? What's
the matter?" she asked uneasily.
" They talk of rebellion," said Kandoff drily.
" Whatever's going to happen ? My God ! and Boicho
isn't here. Nothing's been heard of him."
Kandoff looked listlessly out of the window towards the
Ribaritsa.
"And what do you think, Gospodin Kandoff?" asked
Rada impatiently.
"What, I ? "
"Yes!"
"About the rebellion?"
" Yes, about the rebellion."
He answered carelessly, without even turning towards
her:
"The rebellion, the rebellion? Oh, they'll fight, guns
will be fired, people will be killed, all for the liberation of
Bulgaria."
" And how about Klissoura ? "
" I suppose there will be fighting here too; it doesn't
matter."

220

UNDER THE YOKE.

" What do you mean, it doesn't matter ? And you ? "
" Oh, it doesn't matter about me."
Kandoff answered with the same indifference as if he
was describing the customs of the people of New Zealand.
But black despair was hidden under this apparently listless
manner, this cold indifference to the events which would
decide the fate of Bulgaria. However, neither he nor
Rada felt this.
" A n d what will you do when the insurrection breaks
o u t ? " asked Rada.
"I'll do whatever is necessary."
"What do you mean ? Won't you fight ? "
" There's only one thing for me to do, Rada, and that's
to die," answered Kandoff gloomily.
Just then there was a low knock at the door, repeated
thrice.
"Boicho !" cried Rada, as she ran to open.
Ognianoff entered, disguised as a peasant, dusty, and
footsore. H e was on his way back from Panaghiourishte.
H e had been present at the general meeting at Mechka,
where the first of May had been decided upon for the outbreak of the revolution.
H e was now hurrying to Bela
Cherkva to take the last measures necessary for the preparations during the few days which still remained, and to
raise the standard of revolt at BelaCherkvaonthe appointed
day. H e was passing through Klissoura to take a last
farewell of Rada. But just as he reached the house at the
outskirts of the town, which served as a refuge for the
apostles, he found a letter from Bela Cherkva : he hurried
to Rada before seeing any one else.
H e stood still, and threw a cold, piercing glance at
Kandoff, who stood quietly at the window.
Rada murmured a few words expressive of her joy at his
arrival, but when she saw Ognianoff's altered countenance,
she stood as if transfixed.
" I must apologise for disturbing your conversation at this
early hour," said Ognianoff, deadly pale, with a bitter smile.
H e scarcely looked at Rada.
"Boi'cho, what is i t ? " she asked, in a quivering voice,
advancing towards him.
" Come, come, miss, we've had enough of pretence : this
is shameful/' said Ognianoff coldly.

TROUBLE UPON TROUBLE.

221

She rushed towards him to embrace him. H e turned
away.
" You must really spare me these tokens of tenderness,"
and turning to Kandoff, he said in tones that quivered with
emotion :
"Gospodin KandofT, I cannot find words to thank you
for your courtesy, in responding to an invitation to come all
the way from Bela Cherkva."
His anger would not allow him to proceed.
Kandoff turned from the window.
" Invitation? What do you mean? " he asked coldly.
" What do you mean, Boicho ? " repeated Rada in amazement. " Mr. Kandoff has come to stay with his relations.
He
"
She broke down and burst into tears.
It was the first time she had ever been obliged to tell a
falsehood, unavoidably, against her will. During their short
meeting at Bela Cherkva she had not had time to tell him
of KandofFs strange attentions, which she did not venture to
repel. And now OgnianofT found him in her room, and at
this early hour. Evidently something must have reached
his ears of the student's visits, and some accursed chance
had contributed to fortify his doubts before she had time to
dispel them.
Rada hoped that Kandoff would say something to free her
from her difficulties, but he remained silent.
"Gospodin Kandoff, can't you tell me something that
will amuse me ? " asked Ognianoff spitefully,with a contempt
tuous glance at his rival.
" I've nothing to say—I'm listening to you," answered the
student coldly.
" O h ! this is disgraceful J" cried Ognianoff, eyeing both
of them.
KandofT grew still paler than before. His wounded pride
pierced through his gloomy apathy.
"Ognianoff!" he cried fiercely.
" Shout a little louder—try and frighten me !" answered
Boicho in the same tone. H e was trembling with rage.
Rada forced herself between them in terror, lest he should
commit some rash act; she knew his impetuous character.
" M y God! Boicho, what are you about? Wait till I
explain everything," she cried in tears.

222

UNDER THE YOKE.

OgnianofT cast a withering glance at her.
"It's not worth while, R a d a ; don't stoop to shed tears,
crocodile's tears, that you're always so ready with. I thought,
poor fool, that you were innocence itself. I've wasted so
much love on you—I've thrown my heart into the street.
What blindness!"
" Boicho !" cried Rada, sobbing in despair.
" That will do—there's nothing more between us henceforth. The mask has fallen. What infatuation ! To think
you could love a vagabond like me, with only torture and
the gallows to look forward to, when there are chivalrous
lovers waiting for you, with sounding phrases, deep learning, and loyal sentiments! My God! what a base world
this is !"
He turned to the door.
" Ognianoff, take back the words you've said !" cried
KandofT, following him.
Ognianoff stopped.
" Take them back ? I repeat them—it's base and disgraceful ! It's a foul abuse of friendly confidence. Do you
deny the evidence of my own eyes ? " he cried, with a glance
of scorn and hatred.
" Take back your words, or death ! " roared the student,
boiling over with passion.
" Death ? that can only frighten revolutionaries who wish
to save Bulgaria from behind a woman's petticoats !"
KandofT rushed at Ognianoff and tried to strike him on
the head. All his long pent-up sufferings and tortures
gushed forth in a flow of rage against the man who had
indirectly been the cause of them.
Ognianoff was a powerful man. He flung KandofT
back against the wall, and took two revolvers from his
belt.
" I won't fight like a street-porter—take this pistol," and
Ognianoff handed him the weapon.
Rada, in a frenzy of fear and despair, opened the window
that looked on to the street, and screamed aloud in the
hope of attracting the attention of the passers-by.
At that moment the sound of the church bells burst out,
loud and ominous. Their echoing ring pierced the air.
OgnianofT stood motionless, as he held the pistol towards
his opponent. Heavy footsteps were heard outside, and

THE

REBELLION.

223

the door was thrown open. A number of the townspeople
burst into the room, armed to the teeth.
" T h e Revolution's begun! Long live Bulgaria!" they
cried.
" Where are the people to meet?" asked OgnianorT, with
emotion.
" Outside the town, on the Zli Dol, near the monastery.
Make haste." And the insurgents hurried out again, with a
cry of " Long live Bulgaria," and began the song, " O n to
the struggle !"
The bells rang out wildly.
OgnianorT turned to Kandoff.
" I'm busy just now. If I come out of this alive I'll give
you your satisfaction. For the present you can keep the
young lady company to prevent her being frightened.'
H e rushed out.
Rada, quite overcome by this fresh shock, fell fainting on
the divan. Gospoja Mouratliska, whom her screams had
brought to the room, was busy trying to lestore her to
consciousness.
Kandoff listened to the bells like a man in a dream ; at
last he bent his eyes to the ground, and saw a crumpled
letter, which had fallen from Ognianoff's hand. H e picked
it up and read it. It was an anonymous letter, drawn up in
venomous terms, and bidding Boicha be on his guard against
Kandoff, who had never ceased his attentions to Rada,
which it hinted were favourably received, and who had now
followed her at her own request to Klissoura.
Kandoff tore up the base calumny and spat upon it,
after which he went out.

CHAPTER

IX.

T H E REBELLION.

I T was now five days since the rebellion had broken out at
Klissoura.
Every other employment had ceased; every other interest
was forgotten 3 unusual excitement was depicted on every face*

224

UNDER THE YOKE.

The whole town was in a state of frenzy and expectation, and
bristled with arms; the very air in the streets appeared
oppressive. During those five days, the people of Klissoura
seemed to have gone through five centuries of fear, hope,
ecstasy, and despair. All that they saw, and did, which before
had seemed so far away in the future, now appeared as an
evil dream, a gloomy fancy of some disordered mind.
On the 20th of April, the Klissoura delegate at the
General Assembly at Mechka, had returned from Koprivshtitsa—which had revolted on that day—embraced his
family and relations, and informed them that the hour for
the rebellion had struck. Soon the chief confederates
assembled in the school, and after singing the song, " On to
the struggle, the enemy draws near," KarajorT delivered
an impassioned harangue, and Klissoura, amid shouts of
enthusiasm, and the ringing of the church bells, declared
itself in a state of rebellion. Letters were at once sent to
the committees of the other Balkan towns, enjoining them
to support the movement begun at Klissoura and Koprivshtitsa, by following their example : decurions and officers
were appointed, weapons were hurriedly fetched from houses ;
the zapties were fired at and pursued, but without success ;
they managed to reach the Balkan. All the men were
summoned to the heights above the town. On each of
these strategical points was placed a guard of from fifteen
to twenty men to preserve the city from a surprise; trenches
were dug for their protection. Almost all the men in the
town between the ages of eighteen and fifty were drafted
into these garrisons. No one was now allowed to enter or
leave the town ; food and other necessaries were brought to
each man at his post by the remaining members of his
family. The rebels were armed with such weapons as each
could procure for himself.
On the next day, a solemn service was held in church at
which the women and priests (for the men were at the fortifications) prayed on their knees for the deliverance of
Bulgaria from bondage; the principal townspeople, who
had taken up the movement with enthusiasm, elected a
council of war, as well as a commander-in chief of the
rebels. At noon the lion-embroidered standard was planted
with much solemnity on the summit of Zli Dol, and a
special guard appointed to defend it. The rest of the day

THE

REBELLION.

225

was spent in naming the commandants of the different fortified positions, excavating a powder-store, and settling other
matters important for the arming of the insurgents and the
defence of the town. But the news they were able to
obtain from the outer world was not reassuring: no other
town had risen, except in the Sredna Gora. Night found
the insurgents somewhat despondent.
On the 22nd of April, the insurgents killed two Turks—travellers. Blood had now been shed, and the die was definitely cast. But in vain did they seek to descry from the
heights smoke rising from the burning Turkish villages in
the valley of the Strema, which was to be the signal that
Kableshkoff had induced the Bulgarian villages in that
neighbourhood to rise. They began to look for some place
of shelter and refuge in the mountains for their families,
and sent to Koprivshtitsa for assistance.
The rebels were gradually losing courage. St. George's
Day (April 23) did not inspire them with gladness, and the
bells which summoned the pious to prayer sounded dull
and mournful, more like a passing bell. But suddenly the
chimes became louder and triumphant; faces beamed with
joy; Voloff had arrived from Koprivshtitsa with reinforcements consisting of fifty men, mostly peasants from villages
in the Sredna Gora. H e marched straight to the church,
where a " Te Deum " service was solemnly celebrated. The
bells rang out still more joyously. After the service, Voloff
and his little band, accompanied by the priests chanting
hymns, proceeded to the heights. There several Turks and
gipsies, who had been captured, were sentenced to death
as spies. H e executed one of them himself, with his
sword ; when all was over, Voloff returned alone to Koprivshtitsa. The rest of the time was taken up in completing
the trenches.
On the next day, discouragement again set in. In vain
the outposts strained their eyes in watching for the eagerlydesired fires in the valley. Kableshkoff's expedition had
returned to Koprivshtitsa unsuccessful. The few travellers
who managed to reach Klissoura during the first few days
of the insurrection, declared that in the valley every thing
was peaceful, and that there was no sign whatever of an
impending outbreak.
Since the previous day there had
been no more travellers. In place of these, groups of
p

226

UNDER

THE

YOKE.

Turks could be observed on horseback in the distance;
they fired, and again retreated. The discouragement increased.
The promises of the most sanguine (whose
number decreased every day), news of fictitious successes,
severe reprimands, all were alike ineffectual to restore the
general confidence.
This lamentable condition of the defenders of Klissoura
became still further intensified on the 25th of April. They
saw that they were left to themselves—that is, to unadvoidable destruction. It was evident. The handful of defenders
which the town could supply, at most about 250 men,
was not sufficient to repel the frightful horde of bashibozouks who would fall upon them from east and west.
How could any fresh reinforcement be hoped for from
Koprivshtitsa, which was itself in need of aid ? Discouragement and despair gained ground every moment. Discipline
was growing weak; complaints, murmurings, regrets, the
forerunners of demoralisation, replaced the enthusiasm of
the first days of the revolt. The enemy had not yet been
seen, but all felt that he was near, terrible, inevitable. The
revolutionists now resembled an army which has been
defeated without a battle, a trembling herd of deer, crouching in some corner from which there is no escape, and
hearing the roar of the advancing enemy. A few preserved
their presence of mind, still fewer clung bravely to the last
hope of success. To their moral sufferings were added
physical hardships; icy winds blew down at night from the
Balkan, and numbed the garrisons in their damp trenches,
where they were obliged to spend the night without even
the comfort of a fire. These poor shopkeepers and clothspinners, who had lived all their lives by peaceful toil,
suddenly turned into rebels and bristling with arms, were
really to be pitied. Confused grumblings and sighs were
to be heard at night in the trenches, where everybody
trembled with cold and dismay.
" God bless the kingdom, dear ! " had been the greeting
of the old women to another, when they met in the streets.
" Ah ! we're ruined, my lad ! We're done for ! , ; the
most fervent of the confederates now groaned.
Despair increased every moment. It was clearly stamped
on each haggard face. However, there was no talk of
retreat or flight, but the thought of it was in every heart.

THE BATTERY

OF ZLI

DOL.

227

Such was the mental condition of the garrisons *at each
of the trenches. Such or almost such it was at Zli Dol,
the principal point of the defence.

C H A P T E R X.
THE BATTERY OF ZLI DOL.

T H E peak of Zli Dol, at the north-east end of the town,
was a valuable strategical position. It commanded the
surrounding valleys, and was the key to the pass which led
from Klissoura to the valley of the Strema. From there
one saw an apparently endless series of bare undulating
rocks stretching to the east, along which the outposts were
stationed.
The garrison of Zli Dol was the most numerous of all.
It had been reinforced by VolofFs Sredna Gora peasants—
the remnants of bands which had been repulsed—and was
preparing to greet with a shower of bullets the first onslaught
of the enemy.
The garrison was unusually alert to-day. A certain boldness was noticeable on the faces of the men. Yet they
were not turned in the direction from whence the enemy
might be expected, but towards the valley in which Klissoura
lay nestling. Every one was gazing expectantly along the
path which led up to the ravine. An insurgent of gigantic
stature was carrying a long, white, cylindrical article of some
sort on his shoulder. Behind him a woman, stout and
plump, in peasant dress, was toiling under the weight of a
load which seemed very heavy.
It was this pair that had attracted everybody's attention,
and there were some grounds for this excitement: they were
carrying the artillery up to Zli Dol.
It consisted of nothing more than a cherry-tree cannon,
which the giant was carrying on his shoulder.
The ammunition—consisting of scraps of iron, bullets,
nails, &c.—were on the woman's back.
The eyes of the rebels flashed with satisfaction : a general
enthusiasm prevailed on Zli Dol.

228

UNDER

THE

YOKE.

At last the giant reached the summit, bathed in perspiration, which streamed from his forehead and neck.
" God bless its soul! " he exclaimed, as he set the fatal
weapon on the ground.
The garrison flocked round with curiosity to examine the
cannon. There were twenty more like it, destined for the
other forts, but they were still in the town. This had been
brought up to test its strength, its report, and the distance
it would carry. It was taken up to the very summit, whence
it could command the pass and the bare peaks. It was
filled with gunpowder, firmly fastened into the ground by
means of stakes, and a trench was dug behind it to protect
the gunners.
The insurgents burned with impatience to hear the voice
of the first Bulgarian cannon. All were inspired with
childish glee and unspeakable enthusiasm.
Some even
wept.
" Listen when the Lion of the Balkan roars, boys. His
voice will shake the Sultan's throne, and proclaim to the
whole world that the Stara Planina is free !" cried the
commandant of the garrison of Zli Dol.
" The sound will stir up our other brothers in the valley
of the Strema—it'll remind them of their obligations—they'll
rush to arms and fall upon the common enemy !" said
another.
" We command the whole valley from here ; only let the
tyrants show themselves, we'll blow them to pieces."
" We won't leave one of them alive, God bless their
souls !" said Ivan Kill-the-Bear, who was still fanning his
heated face with his cap.
For the giant who had carried up the cannon was our old
acquaintance Kill-the-Bear; his wife had brought up the
rest. They had settled at Klissoura a month before, having
found work there, and had joined in the revolt.
The gunner, with his lintstock in his hand, was preparing
to set to work.
" Wait a bit, Delcho, we mustn't frighten the women and
children, we ought to give notice first," said Niagoul, the
cloth-worker.
" Quite right,7' said others, " let's send some one to cry
the news in the town—there may be women near their
confinement."

THE BATTERY

OF ZLI

DOL.

229

" Why send to the town ; we should only lose time ? Better
get some one to cry from here ; who's got the loudest voice ? "
" Kill-the-Bear, Kill-the-Bear," cried those who knew the
wonderful strength of his lungs.
Kill-the-Bear readily undertook the fresh task.
He
asked what he was to say, committed it carefully to memory,
and went half-way down the hill to be a little nearer to the
town. H e drew himself up to his full height, swelled out
his chest, raised his head, and cried in stentorian tones:
" Now then, you people ! Take notice that we're going
to fire the Bulgarian cannon, to try it, God bless its soul!
Women and children needn't be frightened. There are no
Turks yet to be seen, God bless their souls !
H e repeated this announcement several times, with a
minute's pause between each. The Balkan echoes replied
to his powerful voice. It penetrated to every house in the
town. After this reassuring warning, they set to work.
Delcho made a fire, lighted a truss of straw at it, fastened it
to his long pole, and approached it to the touch-hole. The
straw burned and crackled; clouds of grey smoke rose in
the air; in their feverish expectation of the report, the insurgents drew back to some distance; others threw themselves down in the trenches so as not to see anything; some
even stopped their ears with their fingers and waited.
Several seconds passed, during which the strain on their
nerves was frightful, inexpressible. The grey smoke continued to rise from the straw, which seemed powerless to
ignite the gunpowder. Hearts were beating furiously. The
torture became insupportable.
At last a white flame
appeared at the touch-hole, and suddenly the cannon
emitted a faint, angry, dull sound, like the crack of a board
that is being split, or a sharp cough, and the whole battery
was covered with a cloud of smoke.
The cannon had cracked, and the charge was carried only
a few paces fiom the mouth. Many of the insurgents did
not even hear the report.
One of them said, in jest or in earnest, that he had taken
the sound for Ivan Kill-the-Bear coughing.
This unfortunate result brought out only too clearly the
shortcomings of the artillery. They hastened to improve the
other cannon, by binding them firmly round with strong iron
hoops, and lining some of them inside with tin. That day

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YOKE.

two guns were taken up to each fort; they were loaded to
the muzzle, and firmly fixed in the ground. Every gun
was destined to serve only once, and in a particular
direction.
It should be added that no one thought of giving notice
in the town that the Bulgarian cannon had gone off. So
the poor old women waited expectantly till the evening,
with cotton-wool in their ears, for the explosion which was
to cleave the air and shatter all the windows in the town.

C H A P T E R XL
DISCOURAGEMENT IN THE FORT.

NEXT morning, as Ognianoff was anxiously scanning the
horizon through his field-glass, a decurion advanced
towards him.
"What is it, MarchefT?"
'' Things are as bad as bad can be," whispered the decurion;
" demoralisation's spreading all over the fort."
Ognianoff started.
" Whoever discourages the others will be punished by
death," he said fiercely. " W h o m have you noticed,
MarchefT?"
The decurion mentioned four names.
" Call them up at once ! "
The accused appeared. They were elderly men—clothworkers or tradespeople.
OgnianofF glanced at them sternly, and asked :
" So it's you, is it, who're discouraging the garrison ? "
" We're not discouraging anybody," answered one of
them sharply.
" You know the punishment imposed for such conduct
at critical moments like these ? "
They did not answer. But their silence was expressive
of obstinacy rather than fear.
Ognianoff was boiling over with rage, but he made an
effort to restrain himself, and said quietly :
" Go back to your posts, men. We've begun our

DISCOURAGEMENT IN THE FORT.
revolution and it's too late now to cry off We've to face
the enemy here: no one has any business to look back
towards Klissoura. You'll preserve your families and your
houses much better by stopping here than by going back to
the town. Don't place me in a difficult position, I entreat
you."
The insurgents did not move.
Ognianoff looked at them with amazement. This was
clearly a protest.
" Have you anything else to say ? "
The insurgents looked at one another: at last one of
them said:
" We're not meant for this kind of thing."
" I never had a gun in my hand before in my life," said
another.
" No more have any of us," said the third.
" We can't shed blood."
" You're afraid, are you ? " asked Ognianoff, thinking to
shame them with this question.
" Well, it's not a sin if we are."
" Yes, we are afraid," said the first, angrily.
"We've got wives and children."
" Y o u don't suppose we've picked up our lives in the
road, do you ?" said the boldest of them.
"What are your lives and your families, and your houses,
compared with the liberation of Bulgaria, and especially
compared with the honour of Bulgaria?" asked Ognianoff
in a voice that quivered with rage. " I ask you again : don't
show yourselves to be cowards, and force me to take strong
measures against you !"
" We're not meant for guns and rebellions ! "
"Well, what do you want?"
" We want to be set free, to go home."
" We've never fired at another m a n ; it's not our business."
Ognianoff saw that their obstinacy was not be overcome
by soft words. H e was bursting with rage, but managed to
keep calm. H e recognised with sorrow that only deep discouragement and fear could embolden these cowards to
confess aloud to their commander that they were afraid
without blushing.
From this to open panic and flight there was only one

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UNDER THE YOKE,

step. He resolved to be pitiless. The infection could not be
allowed to spread to the others. Discipline before everything.
" My men, will you return to your duty or not ? " he asked
resolutely.
And with a gloomy frown and a beating heart he awaited
their reply.
At that moment shouts were suddenly heard behind him.
H e turned round and saw, in the plain below, Kill-the-Bear
pursuing a gipsy. The other insurgents crowded to the
edge to watch the race, and cheered on Kill-the-Bear, who,
in spite of his gigantic strides, could not succeed in reaching
the bare-footed and agile gipsy. Some raised their guns to
aim at the latter, but OgnianorT ordered them to desist.
Clearly the fugitive had been concealed at Klissoura till
then, and was trying to escape to some Turkish village.
The gipsies, who had managed to escape during the first
few days, had been the first to give notice to the Turks of
the revolt, and details respecting the numbers, &c, of the
garrison. By nature and interest they were faithful allies to
the Turks, and such they showed themselves to be both here
and elsewhere in similar circumstances. Kill the-Bear continued to pursue the gipsy with enormous strides, but the
gipsy maintained his lead, and the two were getting further
and further away from the fort. The gipsy was almost out
of gunshot range. Suddenly he stopped bewildered : before
him appeared two insurgents from the outposts, and he found
himself between two fires. At that moment Kill-the-Bear
reached him, made one bound at him, and the two rolled
over together on the ground. Shouts of satisfaction were
heard from the fort. Many cried :
" Bring him here—here !"
Kill-the-Bear? enraged at his pursuit, forced the gipsy on
before him with a torrent of imprecations, which were clearly
audible at the fort.
The fugitive was placed under arrest.
The insurgents crowded round him with faces that boded
no good. Every one recognised the gipsy. H e had twice
before attempted to escape from Klissoura—the first time
from the Konak with a secret message for the village of
Rahmanlari, given him by a Turk kept in the town, but had
been punished only by a closer confinement. Now there
could be no question of pardon

A BAPTISM.

233

The commandant of the fort turned to the decurion, and
they consulted for some time in whispers.
" Yes, yes," finally said Ognianoff. " Any mercy or indulgence would now only be injurious. The sight of death may
inspire the cowardly with a little boldness. But the Council
of War must pronounce its verdict. Marcheff, go at once to
Zli Dol and report what has happened. My own opinion is
that the penalty should be death. Go at once."
The decurion went out.
Ognianoff turned sternly to an aged insurgent:
" Father Marin, put this gipsy under arrest."
H e then addressed two younger men :
" My lads, take these gentry, the cowards, to that side of
the fort; take away their guns, and keep them under arrest
until further orders."
The four demoralised insurgents grew pale, but offered
no opposition and proceeded quietly to the place of arrest.

C H A P T E R XII.
A BAPTISM.

OGNIANOFF was excitedly pacing up and down the edge of
the fort: his gloomy thoughts were reflected in his face.
H e turned mechanically to look at a group of insurgents
who were zealously digging the new trench; after a word or
two of encouragement, he mounted the rampart again,
scanned the eastern horizon and, with a still darker expression of countenance, returned to his former place.
" What a nation ! what a nation !" he muttered.
Marcheff returned.
" The sentence is—death !" he cried, panting.
" The Council of War has decided, has it? "
" Yes, death without delay ! " said Marcheff aloud, adding
something in a whisper.
Ognianoff made an imperceptible sign of satisfaction.
The words " Death without delay " were heard all over
the fort: they were repeated from mouth to mouth, and
reached to the corner where the prisoners stood under arrest.

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They were pale before; now their faces became as white
as a sheet.
They began to see that their fate was sealed. The
Council of War appeared to them as something terrible,
majestic, unavoidable—like Fate itself. God alone stood
above it.
An insurgent approached OgnianofF:
" The prisoners are begging for mercy."
Ognianoff replied coldly:
" The sentence has been pronounced ; it's too late now."
Then, in commanding tones, he added: " Braikoff, take
Niagoul, and Blagoi, and Iskroff, and march the four
prisoners to the valley down there, to undergo their penalty.
The judgment of the court-martial must be carried out to
the letter."
Braikoff, much moved, proceeded to carry out the orders
of the commandant of the fort.
Not a voice was raised in defence of the condemned: no
one wished to appear to share their ideas. Every one felt
that his life was at the mercy of the court-martial—the only
tribunal, and one from which there was no appeal.
The condemned insurgents, conducted by the four men
told off for the duty, passed through the fort and down the
valley.
" T a k e the gipsy down there as well!" cried Ognianoff.
Then, in a whisper, he gave certain instructions to the
decurion, who hastened after them.
The place selected was a moist, green meadow, through
which flowed a little brook. It was surrounded by rocks.
The whole garrison flocked to the heights above to witness
the execution.
To the left of the brook was a withered oak : two of the
insurgents conducted the gipsy to the tree, and bound him
to it with his red waistband.
Fear had rendered the wretched man speechless. From
his clenched lips blood was flowing.
Close by the bank stood the other four condemned men,
awaiting their turn.
Their features were distorted with
terror.
Marcher! cried :
" Bring them here, too I "
The victims looked at him helplessfy. Three of them

A

BAPTISM.

235

were unable to move : the guards were obliged to drag them
to the spot.
Marcher! placed them in a row ten paces distant from the
bound gipsy, evidently that they might witness the terrible
spectacle which their own fate would shortly supply to their
comrades flocking together on the heights above.
They were not bound; but terror had paralysed their
forces, and not one of them even thought of flight, which
would, indeed, have been impossible.
A minute's dead silence followed.
" Advance ! " cried Marcher! to the six armed insurgents
who had brought the prisoners.
They advanced firmly.
Marko then cried in loud and solemn tones :
" The gipsy Mehmed, of Klissoura, having been guilty of
three attempts at escape from prison with the treacherous
design of betraying the Bulgarian cause to the Turks, is
condemned to death by the supreme tribunal as an example
to all other traitors !" Then, turning towards the other four :
" Men, turn towards Mehmed !"
They did as they were ordered, automatically.
" Give each of them a gun !"
The insurgents, much excited, handed them their guns. The
condemned men took them, their faces stupefied with terror.
" Now fire at him when I give the word three. One !—
two!—three !"
A report was heard and a cloud of smoke rose.
The gipsy was still standing upright against the tree.
Not a bullet had touched him.
The firing-party had
evidently not aimed at him. But he was as pale as death.
" For shame, men ! Try again ! "
And he repeated the command. The guns again rang
out. This time the gipsy was writhing in his death agony.
Sounds of applause were heard from above.
" T h a t is to be your punishment, men, for this once.
You've had your baptism of blood. You have to thank the
indulgence of Ognianoff and the court-martial."
When the four men understood that they were saved,
they first looked piteously round them like men awaking
from some terrible dream. A faint smile of pleasure was
only just visible on their leaden faces, still pale with terror.
Fresh sounds of applause rose from the fort.

UNDER THE

236

YOKE.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE

VALLEY OF T H E STREMA IN FLAMES.

" STRANGE—strange, it's inexplicable ! terrible ! Nothing all
this time ! What can they be doing? What's Bela Cherkva
about? They're as silent as the dead ! Silent! Oh! this
silence is terrible. I don't dare to think about it! Have
they folded their arms and thought prudence best, after all ?
Yet there's Sokoloff there, and Popoff, and Bezporteff—all
my boys ! All eager and experienced lads. What can they
be waiting for? Are they waiting for me? Yes, but if I
can't come—if I'm knocked on the head—won't they do
anything at all? or are they deaf and blind ? Can't they see ?
Klissoura in open revolt, Koprivshtitsa in revolt, Panaghiourishte in revolt, the whole Sredna Gora in flames ! Only
the valley of the Strema still slumbering ! Can anything
have happened? is there any special impediment? But
it's not possible: if Bela Cherkva can't rise itself, at least it
might send us ten or a dozen bold lads to encourage the
others. And yet, not a sign ; and disaffection spreading
among us every day. And after such thorough preparations,
too ! Can this be going on in other places also ? If so,
God have mercy upon Bulgaria—only utter ruin awaits
her!"
Filled with these dark thoughts, Ognianoff, disguised as
a Turk, was cautiously making his way down the Stara
Reka to the valley of the Strema.
On the 20th of April, as we have already seen, he had arrived
at Klissoura, on his way to Bela Cherkva, with the intention
of raising the insurrection there on the day appointed for
the general rising. However, matters had come to a head
the very day of his arrival at Klissoura. H e had been overwhelmed by the outburst of the revolt at a moment of
terrible mental agitation, and had flung himself blindly into
the movement, trying to forget his pangs in the excitement
of the struggle, and perhaps to meet death fighting for the
liberty of his country. But the enemy gave no sign of life.
All communications between Klissoura and the valley were
cut off. Ognianoff had during five days and nights worked
with untiring activity at the organisation of the defences,

THE VALLEY

OF THE STREMA

IN FLAMES.

237

burning with impatience to hear that Bela Cherkva had
risen. But Bela Cherkva was quite peaceful, like the other
towns and villages in the valley. Ognianoff, with a bursting
heart, cursed the chance which had brought him to
Klissoura. H e saw the fearful effect produced on the
insurgents by this ominous silence, which paralysed the
whole movement. In vain he sought to encourage his
comrades with solemn asseverations that Bela Cherkva
would certainly rise, and that the other towns would
follow its example. Finally he began to despair himself,
and to foresee with terror the collapse of Klissoura and
of the whole revolt. He then resolved upon a bold,
almost reckless undertaking—to make his way through the
infuriated Turkish villages to Bela Cherkva and force it
to rise.
He was exposing himself to terrible peril. But the revolt
of Bela Cherkva would supply the spark which would kindle
all the other places ready to rise along the whole length of
the Stara Planina. The forces of the Turks would be
divided. Klissoura would be saved—the revolt extended
far and wide—and, who knows ? the revolution triumphant!
Many great events in history have been due to trifling
circumstances. The result was, therefore, well worth the
risk—and if any one could achieve it, Ognianoff was the
man.
It was past noon when he reached the valley, which was
now in full bloom, bathed in shade and verdure. Clear
crystal brooks flowed down the hill-sides past the
branching oaks. The air was heavy with the perfume of the
roses, like the boudoir of some royal favourite. The valley
beneath that azure sky and in the joyous rays of the sun
was enchantingly lovely—like an earthly paradise. But the
wayfarer saw nothing of all this—he would have preferred
to have seen it in flames.
His path lay through the Turkish village of Rahmanlari,
the nearest to Klissoura. He approached it fearlessly. As
he passed through the rose-gardens at the outskirts of the
village, he was stopped by some armed Turks, who were
evidently on guard.
" Where are you from, brother ? "
" From Altinovo."
" And where are you bound for ? "

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" For Ahievo ; are things quiet there ? "
Ahievo was the nearest Turkish village to Bela Cherkva.
"Yes, thank God."
Ognianoff felt a sharp pang at his heart.
" You'd better stop at the village; we're going to attack
Klissoura to-morrow."
" Thanks—we'll see. Good-bye."
And Ognianoff entered the village. There he found great
excitement prevailing, the streets were crowded, groups of
armed Turks were standing about, the cafes were thronged,
the grocers' shops and the inn were full of people. Evidently
there were several hundreds of Turks there from neighbouring villages, come to take part in the attack on Klissoura.
Rahmanlari was the place of meeting. Though overwhelmed with a terrible presentiment of what was in store
for Klissoura, Ognianoff was still more anxious for positive
information respecting Bela Cherkva: he yet hoped that
it might have risen at the eleventh hour. H e had almost
made up his mind to enter the inn, which was kept by a
native of Bela Cherkva. But he was afraid of treachery
and did not go in. H e went on, eyeing the various groups
of Turks, undecided which he should approach. He happened to reach the door of the mosque, into which worshippers were crowding; he looked in and saw that it was
nearly full. Something extraordinary was evidently going
on there. Ognianoff guessed that the khoja was going to
preach a sermon to excite still further the fanaticism of the
already infuriated crowd. An insurmountable curiosity
impelled him to squeeze himself in among the throng of
worshippers. He was not disappointed—at that moment
the preacher mounted the wooden bench which serves as
the pulpit in Mussulman places of worship. Ognianoff saw
at once that it was no common village khoja, but a softa,
who had probably come on purpose from K.
Amid profound silence, the softa began:
" Brethren and true believers ! There was a time in the
glorious reign of our great Sultans when the whole world
trembled at the name of the Osmanli. East and West
bowed down before them ; kings and queens prostrated themselves to lick the sacred dust before the throne of the Khalif.
Then Allah was great, and great was His sainted prophet
Mohammed. But it seems we have greatly sinned before

THE

VALLEY

OF THE STREMA

IN FLAMES.

239

God, we have given way to drunkenness and adultery, we
have fraternised with the unbeliever and adopted His laws.
And so God has abandoned us to be destroyed by the
vanquished, to be trampled on by the downtrodden. Ay
Allah! Allah! grant us the flaming sword of the angel
Azrail that we may drench east and west with the blood of
Thy foes—that we may redden the seas and glorify the
heavens. This is my prayer, true believers! Whet your
knives and make ready your weapons, for the hour has struck,
and we shall wash away our shame with the blood of the
Ghiaours, to the glory of the one and only God of Islam."
In this spirit the orator began his impassioned harangue,
which was a long one, and which his hundreds of hearers
received with rapt attention and increasing enthusiasm.
" So this is what's going on," thought OgnianofT, as he
went out into the street. " The croakers were right after all.
While we were preaching the insurrection against the Turks,
their apostles were preaching the extermination of the Bulgarian nation. The struggle will be a terrible one—it will
be nation against nation. Bulgaria is not broad enough to
contain the two races side by side! Well—so be it—no
retreat! The die is cast! Oh ! God ! protect Bulgaria in
her holy struggle! "
And he began again to walk up and down the market
place. The service was over and the congregation flocked
out: they formed in small gioups, all evidently still under
the influence of the words they had been listening to.
OgnianofT drew near one of these groups to catch what was
being said. H e soon understood the position of affairs.
At first the rising at Klissoura had terrified the Turkish
population of the neighbouring villages, because they were
convinced that there were Russian troops at Klissoura.
Under the influence of this idea, they had begun to prepare
for flight with their families and such portable property as they
could collect. But they soon learnt fiom Turks who had
succeeded in escaping unharmed from Klissoura—as well as
from the want of daring shown by the insurgents—that they
had to do with common rayas, mostly clothworkers, and a
few schoolmasters; and this at once restored their confidence
and courage. They resolved to settle accounts with the
people of Klissoura without waiting for the regular troops.
OgnianofT also heard that the villagers of Rahmanlari had

240

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YOKE.

ascertained through skilfully-planned reconnaissances the
disposition and approximate strength of each garrison.
Tossoun Bey was expected to arrive the next morning from
K. with a band of bashi-bazouks, and then they would at
once attack the revolted city.
These discoveries terrified OgnianofF. H e now recognised
still more clearly how indispensable it was to hasten the
rising in other Bulgarian towns.
Tossoun Bey must be anticipated.
He set out eastward. He passed unmolested through the
Turkish village of Tekkie. It was guarded only on the
western side, a sign that no danger was expected from the
east. Here also great activity was noticeable; here also
Tossoun Bey's arrival was being awaited; the villagers were
to join his horde.
" There's not a minute to lose ! Bela Cherkva—Bela
Cherkva. Tossoun Bey must first of all try his strength
against its walls of iron. They'll rise—yes, yes—they'll rise
the moment I get there. If I can only get hold of
Bezporteff we two will proclaim the rebellion, arid in half
an hour I'll have five hundred men under the colours.
Bela Cherkva must revolt, even though it means her ruin.
Forward, forward ! Oh, God, give me wings !"
And Ognianoff tore onwards to Bela Cherkva. In two
or three hours he would see from afar the white chimneys of
the town, and the pyramid-like frontal of the church. His
heart beat with insensate joy.
Not far from the village he had just left the path lay
through a thickly-wooded gorge which lay in a cleft of the
rocks. When he reached the valley he seemed to hear
distant sounds of drums and cymbals. Probably some
wedding was going on in a Turkish village, most unseasonably as it seemed. But soon all grew silent and he forgot
what he had heard. As he emerged at the opposite end of
the gorge the drums and cymbals echoed again; this time
quite close by. He climbed the heights, astounded : from
the summit he saw a spectacle which petrified him with
dismay,
The whole path before him was dark with Turks,
marching on to the sound of that barbaric music. Several
red banners waved in the air. The horde was moving on
without any order, tumultuous and noisy. In the sun guns,

THE VALLEY OF THE STREMA IN FLAMES.

241

scythes, axes, pitchforks, gleamed on the shoulders of the
bashi-bozouks. Most of them were in their waistcoats and
shirt-sleeves, on account of the noonday heat. The wave
had emptied the Turkish villages through which it had
passed. There was no semblance of discipline throughout
that frenzied horde; but a fierce, savage object united
them, inspired them, drove them onward : they all sought
alike blood and booty. For the first, they carried their
guns and scythes; for the second a whole train of waggons
followed behind. This rabble, drunken with fanaticism,
moved on to the sound of the drums and cymbals, advancing
slowly but irresistibly like a swarm of locusts.
Before them rode a tall, thin, dark man, with a white
turban : he was their leader.
H e beckoned to the gipsy musicians to stop.
" Come here, Mussulman ! " he cried to Ognianoff.
Ognianoff approached, bowing low.
" Where are you coming from ? "
" From Tekkie."
" What's going on there ? "
" Nothing—all's well, thank God ! "
" What do they say—are there many of them at
Klissoura ? "
" A good many they say—God save the Sultan ! "
" W h o are t h e y ? "
" Moskovs, they say."
"Silence, you pimp. They're nothing but rascally
rayas.
" Beg pardon, Bey Effendi."
" Where are you going ? "
" To K."
" T u r n back and come along with us !"
Ognianoff involuntarily turned pale.
" Bey Effendi, won't you let me
"
".To the rear," cried Tossoun Bey, spurring his horse.
The host moved on again—the drums and cymbals
struck up—Ognianoff was forced along with them.
It would have been absurd to resist or to try to pass
through the mob which blocked the whole path. The
wretched man, with despair in his soul, let himself go with
the throng. H e was utterly overcome—his last hope had
vanished. H e went on mechanically, as in a dream, driven
Q

242

UNDER THE YOKE.

forward by the noisy crowd, whose numbers and fierce
merriment increased every moment. And the human wave
pushed on, on, to the bare peaks behind which lay
Klissoura.

C H A P T E R XIV.
A FRESH ATTEMPT.

I N the evening Tossoun Bey's horde reached Rahmanlari, still more excited and fanatical. It was met there
by a fresh detachment of Turks who had flocked in from
the surrounding villages. Tossoun Bey would march
against Klissoura the next day with a force of about two
thousand men.
The village was a mass of light. It would scarcely
contain these new arrivals. As the night was a fine one,
most of them lay down to sleep in the streets.
OgnianofT unwillingly followed this example.
H e lay down by himself on a mound near the inn, which
was kept by a man from Bela Cherkva.
Though it was late, there were still lights in the windows
of the inn, which was crowded.
OgnianofT was resolved not to sleep. H e determined to
make an attempt to escape from that hornet's nest of Turks
into which he had fallen—to-morrow this would be
impossible.
Deep in thought, he fixed his eyes on the brightly illuminated windows of the inn. He was trying to contrive some
means of passing through the numerous guards that
protected every exit from the village.
H e hoped that this would easily be accomplished owing
to his costume and thorough knowledge of the Turkish
language. But, alas ! what would his escape avail, even if
he was successful ?
Bela Cherkva remained peaceful, and nothing could save
Klissoura from destruction.
To try to make his way to Bela Cherkva that night was almost
out of the question \ the guard on the east side of the village
had strict orders to let no one pass, so as to keep back any

A FRESH

ATTEMPT.

243

casual deserters. Next day it would be still more impossible.
Indeed, had it been possible, he would not have gone to
Bela Cherkva now. H e felt he had no right to be absent
from Klissoura at so terrible a moment. His absence would
be considered as a cowardly desertion. No, it was not to be
thought of. But how could he send word to Bela Cherkva ?
Could be not make one last attempt? And he strained
every nerve to try and hit upon some plan.
At last an idea struck him. H e decided to propose to
the innkeeper to send one of his sons to Bela Cherkva
next morning: the messenger might for safety's sake be
accompanied by some travelling Turk, as to-morrow was
market-day at K.
The plan seemed a feasible one, though the difficulties
in the way of its realisation were very great, but its importance was worth the effort and the risk. For the danger was
undeniable : he must begin by revealing himself to the innkeeper, and place his fate in the man's hands.
Fortunately he knew him and his family, one of the sons
having been his pupil: this somewhat encouraged him.
H e rose from the mound, passed boldly through the gates
of the courtyard, traversed the yard, and drew near to a
small window in a little room at the end of the yard next to
the stable : there he began to walk up and down, waiting
till chance should" bring out one of the family. H e did not
venture to knock at the window or the door, for fear of the
noise being overheard by the Turks.
For a long time he paced up and down before any one
came out.
The innkeeper and his sons were doubtless
busy in the inn, and there was no one but his wife and
the younger children in the room. So at last he resolved
to knock at the door.
But chance came to his aid. The door opened and a
female figure appeared.
Ognianoff recognised the inn
keeper's wife. She was going towards the stable with a
measure of barley under her arm. Either she did not see
him in the dark, or more probably she took him for a Turk
who had come to look after his horse.
Ognianoff went up to her, and said clearly in Bulgarian:
" Good evening, Sister Avramitsa."
She turned round in surprise, or rather in terror.
" Don't you know me ? " he added in a fawning voice

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and, to quiet her fears, he hastened to disclose himself to
her.
" I'm Ognianoff, your son Nanko's teacher."
" What, the Count ? " she asked, astounded, putting the
measure of barley under her other arm. " What are you
doing here ? "
Then, as she suddenly understood his situation :
" Come in, come in. Wait till I fill the horse's bag with
barley, and we'll go in."
Half a minute later Avramitsa and Ognianoff had entered
a dark little room. The innkeeper's wife struck a match
and lighted a tin lamp, which at once cast a dim light over
the room and her visitor.
"There's a way out into the garden by this door, and from
there you can get over the fence into the street. It may be
useful for you to know it," whispered Avramitsa, pointing
to a trap-door so small that a man could scarcely crawl
through it. " But what have you come her for ?" she
asked.
" I was going to Bela Cherkva from Klissoura, but
Tossoun Bey met me beyond Tekkie, and turned me
back."
In response to her hospitality Ognianoff felt himself
obliged to be perfectly sincere with her.
H e could do
nothing without her assistance.
Avramitsa looked compassionately at him.
" Dear, dear ! the poor people: it's terrible to think of
what's in store for them. All this band's going to
Klissoura."
" Klissoura must fall, Sister Avramitsa : it'll be reduced
to dust and ashes. I did my utmost to save it, but it's no
good. I can't get through to Bela Cherkva."
"What good would that be? What could you do
there ? "
" I'd have got Bela Cherkva to rise, and the villages
round it as well; and Tossoun Bey would have had to
come back."
" The Lord destroy the black gipsy ! But what are you
going to do n o w ? " asked Avramitsa again, not knowing
what Ognianoff wished her to do.
"Where's your Nanko—is he h e r e ? "
" Yes."

A FRESH ATTEMPT.

245

"AndKouzman?"
" He's here too."
"Where are they?"
" In the shop helping their father—to see that these
scoundrels don't steal anything."
Ognianoff thought for a moment.
" Couldn't we send one of them—either Nanko or
Kouzman—to Bela Cherkva to-morrow morning ? "
The mother looked at him with dismay.
" He might go with some Turk from here whom he
knows. It's market-day at K. to-morrow, and there must
be plenty going from Rahmanlari."
"Yes, but it's terrible just now, teacher."
" It won't be terrible if he has a Turk with him. Besides,everything's quiet over there. No one'll touch him."
"And what do you wantto send him there for? "
" Just to take a letter for me to a friend of mine; he can
be back here again by noon."
Avramitsa thought of Boicho's words a moment before,
and guessed what was the message he wished to send by
her son to Bela Cherkva. Her face became still gloomier.
" Well, teacher, I must ask their father's leave first."
" Sister Avramitsa, please don't say anything about it to
Avram. Can't you send word quietly to Nanko to come
and see me ? "
Ognianoff knew that his former pupil idolised him, and
would do anything he asked him.
The woman's face grew stem.
" N o , no ; I'll do nothing without Avram's leave."
" But he'll never let the boy go."
Evidently the good will she had borne him a moment
before had disappeared. Before her mind appeared the
thousand dangers which might befall her child if he went
to Bela Cherkva. She began to tremble before this strange
and terrible man. She regretted inwardly that she had not
at once sent him about his business, and began to look
around her uneasily. But her kind heart would not allow
her to yield to the cruel thought which suggested itself to
her.
Ognianoff remarked her violent agitation. He saw that
it was impossible to settle so important a question with a
weak, irresolute woman. Time was going by, and he must

246

UNDER THE YOKE.

begin to think of his escape. He resolved to know the
worst.
"Well, Sister Avramitsa, go and call the master; I want
to talk to him for a miuute."
Avramitsa was at once relieved.
" I'll go and whisper to him. You stop here, and
remember the trap-door, if you hear anything wrong."
And she went out.

CHAPTER XV.
AVRAM.

OGNIANOFF remained alone. He resolved to be quite open
with Avram. He must have complete confidence in the
man, and trust to his honour. The object he had in view
was worth a hundred lives like his own, if it cquld only be
attained. At all events, Avram was a Bulgarian; he might
refuse his request, but he would not betray him. He heard
steps in the passage outside : he guessed that this must be
Avram. And he waited quietly by the door.
The door opened and the innkeeper came in. His fat,
ruddy countenance was smiling all over. He closed the
door behind him,
" Oh ! welcome, Count, welcome ! How are you ? all
right, eh ? That's a good idea of yours to come and see us,
and have a talk; well, I am glad. We're all glad to see
you, the wife's glad too, and won't the children be glad
when they know. Why, Nanko hasn't seen you for six
months : he's always saying how kind you were to him.
Welcome, welcome—well, I never."
And his joy and rapture seemed boundless.
Ognianoff was overjoyed. He went boldly to work,
explained in a few words his position to Avram, and repeated
the proposal he had made to his wife.
Avram's face continued to beam with satisfaction.
" Of course, of course—that's all right—why not ? It's
not worth talking about? Who wouldn't do as much for
the nation?"
"Thanks, thanks, master Avram," said Ognianoff with

A VRAM.

247

emotion; " at this great moment every Bulgarian is bound
to make some sacrifice for the country."
" A n d who wouldn't help? There isn't a single Bulgarian
who wouldn't. Whoever refuses to assist in a sacred cause
like that deserves God's curse. No, no, that's all right.
Which boy shall we send ? "
" Better send Nanko, he's the oldest and the sharpest."
" Very well, that's all right, he's your pupil. He'd give
his head for you. Won't he be glad when I tell him ?
Have you written the note?"
And Avram's voice trembled with joyful excitement.
" I'll write it in a minute." And Ognianoff fumbled in
his pockets. " Haven't you got a bit of paper ! "
The innkeeper took out a piece of paper, handed it to
Ognianoff, and said:
" There you are—you write the letter, while I give a look
round at the shop. These fellows are regular thieves."
" Make haste back, master Avram, and bring my Nanko
with you. I've already told you I must be off myself."
a
I ' J l be back in a minute." And the innkeeper, with
one last smile at his visitor, opened the door and went
out.
Ognianoff scribbled off his note in a moment. It consisted of the following lines :—
" The insurrection's ablaze! Don't delay a moment;
proclaim the revolt at once ; send a detachment to fall upon
Tossoun Bey's rear, and another to raise the villages.
Courage and confidence ! I will soon come to you to die
for Bulgaria. Long live the revolt.—OGNIANOFF."
H e congratulated himself on his success. H e would
never have expected to find such readiness and patriotism
in Avram. He now listened impatiently for the father and
son's footsteps. The noise and bustle of the street scarcely
reached that remote room. The lamp was burning down
and emitted thick clouds of smoke.
Suddenly, he heard a piercing, heartrending shriek—a
woman's wail—in the next room.
Ognianoff shuddered.
He recognised the voice as that of Avramitsa.
What was the meaning of this lamentation ?
H e was seized with involuntary terror.

248

UNDER THE YOKE.

H e listened intently in the semi-darkness ; he thought he
heard steps retreating in the corridor outside.
H e rushed to the trap-door and tried to open it. But it
resisted his efforts ; it seemed to be firmly fastened. It was
a terrible position ; his hair stood on end.
" They've betrayed me ! " he thought to himself.
At that moment he heard a noise at the trap-door as if the
lock was being tried with a key. Suddenly it opened, and
the night air blew fresh through the aperture. Ognianoff
peered into the dark hole which opened on to the garden.
H e then distinguished a human form.
It was Avramitsa.
" F l y ! " she whispered low.
In the dim lamplight,
Ognianoff could see that she was bathed in tears.
H e crawled through and hastened across the garden.
" This way," whispered Avramitsa, pointing to a plumtree in the hedge. And she vanished in the darkness.
Ognianoff leaped over the garden hedge and found himself in the back street, which was quite deserted.
H e passed hurriedly along the street, which led him past
the front door of the house.
There he ran against a throng of armed Turks. They
passed through the gates and made straight for the end of
the yard.
Ognianoff went rapidly on till he too was lost to sight.

CHAPTER

XVI.

NIGHT.

I T was long after midnight when Ognianoff, after many
hair-breadth escapes, returned to the fort.
The garrison was still awake; the men lay rolled up in
rugs and blankets brought from their houses. They were
talking quietly as they watched the moonless, starlit sky.
Ognianoff penetrated noiselessly among them and lay down
exhausted, physically and mentally. H e was trying to
gather his wandering thoughts, or at least to get a little
sleep, which he required so much, so as to be able to face

NIGHT.

249

the next day boldly. But his thoughts were dispersed like
a swarm of startled bees, and sleep fled from his eyelids. It
is not easy to sleep on the eve of a battle, or rather a
disaster.
By his side a low conversation was going on among a
small group of insurgents lying there: the conversation
attracted his attention.
" Do what you will, we're all done for," said one.
" Ah, they've deceived us, they've deceived us," sighed
another.
" What fools we were to listen to the scoundrels. We've
burnt our own houses down over our heads," declared a
third.
"What did we want with a revolt, I should like to
know ? "
" It's too late now to cry over that."
"Well, what t h e n ? "
" We must find some way out of it."
" There's only one way out of it, and that's to leg it," said
a voice which was familiar to OgnianofF.
" Yes, yes, Hook-it's mother doesn't weep."
" No, but Hold-hard's will," added another.
" We'd better cut it to-morrow, towards Vrlishnitsa."
" Better do it now."
" No, we can't, we'd be stopped by the patrol."
" To-morrow, to-morrow."
" To-morrow everybody'll take to their heels, they'll show
us the way."
" Only take care Ognianoff doesn't see us, the dog ! "
" Oh 1 he cleared out this morning."
"Did h e ? "
" Yes, we're the only fools left behind."
Ognianoff leaped to his feet and cried :
" It's a lie, you wretches, here I am !"
At that terrible voice coming from out of the darkness
they all disappeared.
Ognianoff had listened to the conversation with mingled
disgust and terror. There could be no doubt that it
expressed the general turn of mind of the insurgents at
that fort as well as the others. The voice of one of the
speakers seemed to be familiar to him of old, but he could
not call to mind where he had heard it.

250

UNDER THE YOKE.

" My God, my God !" he thought to himself, drawing his
cloak carefully round him to keep out the chill night air.
" W h a t a state of things: what disenchantment: what a
disaster ! Who can care for life, or wish to live any longer,
after this ? To-morrow we'll have to fight, and I can see
what will be the end of that. The panic's in their hearts,
the fear of death has paralysed their arms and their minds,
and yet they were ready to meet death when they first came.
The nation was fearless—it hoped—it believed, like a child,
and now it trembles like a child. The cowardice of one
has infected many. Bela Cherkva and the rest have demoralised Klissoura. It's cowardice—it's base treachery
against the common cause. That intriguing city is only
good for producing traitors and treachery ; it can beget a
Kandoff, an Avram, a Rada ! Ah ! how that girl has poisoned
the last few hours of my life—how I seek death ! how
gladly I'd welcome it. How proudly and gladly I would
have died, convinced that at least one honest tear could
be shed over my unknown grave! But to die when
everything in this world is dead to you, when you see your
two great idols in the mire, your beloved ideals trampled
on—Love and Revolution! Ah ! how hard and hopeless
it is to die now. And yet how desirous, how indispensable
it is for hapless wretches like me."
The mountain wind whistled shrilly down the slumbering
valley. A dull and ominous rustling arose from the thickets
around, which the darkness made still more weird. All the
peaks, valleys, and hills around, all Nature, seemed to be
sobbing in terror. The stars twinkled hastily and uneasily
in the sky. But for the hooting of the owls, no sign of life
was audible. From time to time the insurgents would
wake up and peer into the night, only to fall asleep again,
and see in dreams the ghostly phantoms of terror, while the
wind imprinted its icy-cold kisses on their brows.
Only one human form seemed still awake on the
trenches. This man, this insurgent, paced up and down
without stopping—quietly, regularly, mechanically.
He
seemed completely absorbed in his thoughts, and to be
moving quite unconsciously. One would have taken him
for a sentinel, but the guards were in front, at some distance
from the fort. Hours passed on, and the solitary walker
still kept on his pace unaltered. From time to time his

MORNING.

251

figure became invisible against the dark background of the
opposite rocks, then it shone out again in the bright starlight. The second cockcrow sounded at Klissoura. This
seemed to awake him.
H e started, and remained for
some minutes motionless, turning towards Klissoura : then
he made an almost imperceptible sign without moving from
his place. Suddenly a tiny flame flashed before him
and was at once extinguished : it was accompanied by a
loud snap, which was not repeated. It was clearly the flash
of some flint-lock weapon, which had failed to ignite the
charge. The man had fired at something. But at what ?
The slight flash and noise attracted no attention from the
sleeping insurgents, numbed with cold. Meanwhile, the
ringing note of the cocks of Klissoura penetrated the night
air and filled the lonely mountains with its cheerful sound,
the forerunner of dawn, of the golden sun, of life, and the
renewed festival of spring.

C H A P T E R XVII.
MORNING.

I N spite of his agitation of mind, Ognianoff at length fell
asleep and slept soundly for two hours. Such slumber,
they say, is enjoyed by the condemned the night before
their execution. At dawn he woke, and scanned the
horizon carefully. Nature was awaking : the morning star
still shone in the bluish grey heavens, which were getting
brighter and brighter towards the east: there a red, fiery
glow rested on the summits of the mountains, like the glare
of some distant fire. Dark mists still overhung the steep
precipices of the Ribaritsa, but its crown of snow was
growing rosy under the reflection of the eastern dawn.
Only the Bogdan was still wrapped in mist and wore a cold
and forbidding look. But slowly the mist dispersed, the
light became brighter and more powerful, and the green
hills, forests, and valleys around smiled joyously beneath
the blue heaven of that spring morn. Here and there the
morning nightingale's note could be heard in the glades.

252

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YOKE.

Ognianoff rose, glanced at the sleeping garrison, wrapped
in furs and cloaks, and proceeded in the direction of Zli
Dol. H e was going to confer with the Council of War.
Soon he was lost to sight in the valley through which his
path lay.
It was now broad daylight, and the sun had fairly risen.
The insurgents in the fort were now all afoot and beginning
to work at new trenches, under the supervision of the
decurions. They seemed bolder now. Marcheff had
whispered to them that Ognianoff had reconnoitred as far
as Tekkie, and that he knew positively that Eela Cherkva
would rise that day. This news slightly restored their
courage. The lads were more at their ease now, their
faces seemed even cheerful, and some went so far as to
sing songs. The humour which is indigenous to the soil
was not slow to appear. Jests were made at the expense of
the four Klissouriots who had been sentenced to fire at the
gipsy on the previous day.
" Fancy not being able to hit Mehmed at five paces! and
having to fire a second time : poor fellow, his sins are
upon you now. The one minute you lengthened his life by
was like a hundred years of torture. All his sins are
forgiven him now/' said one.
"Confound you," said another, "you've made a martyr
of him. Now he's in Paradise with Mahomed."
" It's not true," said a third. "Dicho and Stamen the
Crow threw them in the ditch there—I saw him myself—and
now he's with the frogs."
They all laughed.
" So near, and not a single bullet in him !" cried another ;
" why I could have spit on him at that distance."
" I'd bet anything you never aimed at him !"
" Of course not—my grandmother could have hit him at
that distance."
" We did aim at him," said one of the four.
"Well, you aimed pretty badly then."
"Just as I was firing, I winked, and
"
More laughter followed.
" What are those fellows beckoning for," said some one,
turning to the east.
They all looked in that direction.
The outposts were giving the conventional signal that

THE FIGHT.
253
they had seen the enemy, At the same time two men
hastened from thence to the Zli Dol battery, to report to
the Council of War what they had seen.
Just as these reached the fort in question, two bands of
mounted Turks, each about twenty strong, came in sight
from the direction of Rahmanlari. One band was following
the path, the other took to the thicket. The insurgents gazed
anxiously to see if any fresh forces appeared behind these,
but nothing could be seen.
At once two detachments of infantry more numerous
than the Turks, hurried down from the forts to meet the
enemy. The larger detachment came from Zli Dol.
" Who's their leader ?" asked the insurgents of each
other, looking curiously at the commander, who was very
like a Turk.
"Why, Ognianoff, can't you see?" said several all at
once
The Turks stopped when they saw the Bulgarians
advancing, and retreated.
" They've taken to their heels," said some one joyfully.
" We'll fight 'em to-day."
" It seems to me they'll have trouble with Bela Cherkva
yet," declared another.
And the fort was busy with activity and cheerful conversation.

CHAPTER XVIII.
T H E FIGHT.

NOON came and went. The sun was now at its highest.
The men in Ognianoff's battery had finished their dinner
and were hurriedly putting away in their knapsacks the
scraps that remained. Anxiety was depicted on their
haggard, dusty faces, unwashed for the last week, discouragement was again visible there : a slight success in the
morning had given them a little confidence, but only for a
moment They knew that if the decisive struggle did not
take place that day, it would inevitably be on the next.
They felt that the storm was gathering over them with

254

UNDER

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YOKE.

terrible rapidity. And from time to time they cast uneasy
glances towards the east upon the bare heights, whence the
distant outposts appeared.
The sun was very hot. On the right-hand side of the
battery, which had been marked out and prepared on the
previous night, Ognianoff was busily* engaged with several
insurgents who were rapidly throwing up another trench.
A reinforcement of ten men had been sent to the fort on
the previous day and the trenches required to be enlarged,
" Teacher," said a peasant, fifty years of age, who came
up just then.
Ognianoff turned round.
" What is it, Father Marin ? "
The peasant from Verigovo gave him a paper, roughly
folded in four.
" There's abetter come for you."
" Who brought it ? " asked Bo'icho before opening it.
" Ivan Kili-the-Bear. He was looking for you here last
night, but he couldn't find you, so he gave it to me to give
you when you came back."
" Did he say who it was from ? "
" From the schoolmistress."
Ognianoff felt a pang at his heart, as if a serpent had
stung him there. H e crushed the letter convulsively with
the intention of throwing it away; but it occurred to him
that this would be noticed, and he placed it in the pocket
of his tunic.
H e returned to his work hurriedly and
feverishly to deaden the feeling of torture which the sight
of the letter had caused him.
" What does this Rada want of me, at this moment; too ?
Can't I be left alone, to see the struggle, to meet death at
last, so that all may be over !"
Just then something unusual had evidently occurred.
All the insurgents flocked to the edge of the fort and gazed
towards the east.
Ognianoff raised his head and glanced in that direction.
The outposts were making signals of distress. Several guns
were fired, a sign that the enemy was advancing in force.
Soon they began to retreat rapidly from their posts,
crying :
" They're coming—crowds of them !

THE FIGHT.
255
The fort was thrown into a state of confusion. The
garrison flocked hither and thither, panic-stricken.
" To your posts, I command you," cried Ognianoff,
seizing his Martini from the heap where all the guns lay
piled.
At this order the insurgents started and each returned to
his place in the trenches.
At critical moments the courage and presence of mind
of one man acts like magic on the mass-: any one who
wishes may then command them.
Several men from the outposts arrived just then, wearied
out by their rapid flight. Ognianoff met them.
" What did you see ? " he asked.
"Turks—a terrible horde advancing—there must be a
thousand of them. The road's black with bashi-bozouks."
Ognianoff made a sign to them to be silent.
" Hold h a r d ! " he cried, seeing that several of the
garrison had again left the trenches.
" Crowds, crowds of them !" muttered several, as they
raised their heads over the rampart.
" To your places—every one to his arm ! " commanded
Boicho authoritatively. They all returned to their posts.
" Here they come ! "
In truth far away on the main pass where it emerges on
the summit of the mountain the head of a thick column
could been seen: its length increased every moment—it
resembled a gigantic caterpillar. This was Tossoun Bey's
horde. The nearer it approached the more numerous and
redoubtable it appeared. The Turks were marching four
abreast: twenty small flags and three great banners, white,
red, green and other colours, waved over the column. It
soon filled the whole road from the Tower to Bela Voda—•
a distance of a mile and a half.
Confusion again prevailed in the ranks of the garrison.
No one could be induced to remain at his post. All looked
despairingly at the advancing enemy.
Only OgnianofFs fierce glance restrained them a little.
The black column continued its march along the road,
till it reached the fountain, about gunshot distance from the
fort.
Then from the garrison from Zli Dol several guns were
fired : and a volley was discharged also from OgnianofFs

25^

UNDER

THE

YOKE.

fort, at his command. A cloud of smoke covered the
trenches, and the mountains echoed with the report.
Several men in the front ranks of the column were seen
to fall.
At that moment Ognianoff caught sight of the heads of
three men stealthily making for the path towards the Stara
Reka brook. These were insurgents deserting the fort under
cover of the smoke and general confusion. Ognianoff instinctively recognised in the fugitives his neighbours of the
previous evening who had planned their flight aloud.
H e leapt to the verge of the rock down the side of which
they were descending. The fugitives were climbing down
one after another by a steep rocky path hollowed out by the
winter torrents.
" Back—back to your places, or I'll fire," he cried, pointing his gun at them.
The fugitives turned round and remained fixed to the
ground as if petrified. They had left their guns behind
them. In one of them Ognianoff recognised Deacon
Vikenti, shaved and in peasant dress. The lad blushed to
the eyes for very shame; it was his voice that OgnianorT had
tried in vain to recollect the night before.
The fugitives turned back mechanically.
"Father Marin, take these cowards and put them to work
in the trenches. If one of them attempts to escape, blow his
brains out," and OgnianorT returned hurriedly to his post.
il
Why, you wretched cowards, you might have fired off your
guns at least before trying to cut it," grumbled Father Marin,
as he led them to the trenches with his gun pointed at them.
The commander's vigorous action calmed the remainder
of the insurgents. They repressed all tokens of fear, but
for a few minutes only. Their lips were tightly clenched,
and the panic would soon become general
The Turks had not yet fired off a single gun. The fall
of their comrades occasioned by the first volley from the
fort, had for a moment thrown confusion into their ranks.
They carried the wounded into the rose-gardens close by
and retreated hurriedly. This first success emboldened the
insurgents, who kept up an energetic fire upon the enemy.
The whole mountain seemed to tremble under the uninterrupted firing. White puffs of smoke hung over the various
peaks and showed where the forts were. The fire was kept

THE FIGHT,

257

up even when the Turks had retreated out of range. Far
away behind the horde could be seen a knot of horsemen.
These composed Tossoun Bey's staff. The fugitives
approached them and formed a thick group round them,
which remained there for some time. Evidently the plan
for the attack was being concerted. Soon a movement was
noticeable in that armed throng: it formed into several
groups, which separated the one from the other. Then, as
if at a given signal, all these groups rushed forward with
wild and excited cries. Some advanced along the bare
summits towards the mountain, others towards the heights
of Zli Dol, others in the direction of the Sredna Gora
towards the valley of the Stara Reka, through which ;lies
the pass to Klissoura, and others again towards Ognianoffs
fort. The insurgents greeted their advance with a volley
while they were yet far distant, but the Turks reserved their
fire till they came within range.
In a few minutes the fort was completely hidden in clouds
of smoke from the constant firing, but the numbers of the
garrison decreased steadily every moment. OgnianorT, black
with powder and mud, with the bullets whistling round him,
rose every moment to discharge his Martini, and then sank
down again into the trench.
From time to time he cried without turning round: " Let
'em have it! fire ! courage, brothers !"
Suddenly he heard Father Marin's voice near him; the
old man was saying to some one:
" Stoop down, lad, can't you ? you'll be hit!"
OgnianorT involuntarily turned to the right and saw
through the smoke an insurgent who was firing away at the
enemy, bolt upright, and completely exposed to their fire»
Such boldness was perfect madness.
OgnianorT, to his surprise, recognised KandorT.
So struck was he that he went mechanically towards him,
and held out his hand through the smoke, saying:
" Give me your hand, brother."
The student turned, threw a calm, icy look at OgnianorT,
but pressed his hand warmly. The greeting exchanged by
the two rivals was a sign of reconciliation before their
bleeding country—perchance an eternal farewell.
A drop of blood fell on Ognianoffs hand as he held
KandorT's—it flowed from the student's arm.
R

258

UNDER

THE

YOKE.

Ognianoff noticed the blood, but it did not surprise him,
nor did he think at all about it. What most astonished him
was Kandoff's presence there.
In truth the student, who had been sent with the
reinforcement on the previous evening, had not yet been
noticed by OgnianofT in his feverish excitement and agitation.
Kandoff was the nocturnal somnambulist who had made the
unsuccessful attempt at suicide with his eyes fixed on Rada's
dwelling.
OgnianofT turned away and looked round him.
He then saw to his dismay that the trenches were almost
deserted. The insurgents had vanished from the fort. Only
fLwe or six men still remained and kept up the fire, which
was gradually dying out on the other forts as well, also
deserted by their defenders. The enemy's bullets now
poured in still more frequently, and it" was an enterprise of
great peril to show one's head above the trenches.
Ognianoff, despairing, beside himself with rage, maintained
with his few brave comrades the unequal combat, resolved
to die at his post. It was the only fort which still continued
to fire.
Suddenly he heard a sharp cry of pain beside him.
Ognianoff looked round trembling. Close to him lay
Vikenti, lifeless. A stream of blood was pouring from his
breast and reddening the earth beside him. That blood had
washed away his disgrace.
Father Marin carried the body under cover, where it might
be taken by others and carried into the town. But there was
no one there. The heights were deserted.
A deadly silence prevailed in the empty trenches. Only
a few shots fired now and again from the still garrisoned
forts to the north and west of the town made an echo,
perfectly useless to all intent, to OgnianofPs fort, which now
attracted all the enemy's bullets. The Turks continued to
advance, firing unceasingly. They moved cautiously through
the vineyards and rose-gardens which were still between
them and the fort, stooping behind every chance shelter, for
fear of a sudden attack from the heights above them. One
by one they reached the forts deserted in the panic. In
place of insurgents or their bodies they found arms, knapsacks, cartridges, and other munitions of war. They found
even the cherry-tree cannons which had been carried up the

RAD A,

259

day before—two or three to each fort. These were still
loaded, no one having thought of firing them in the panic
of the moment: this was also the case in OgnianofFs
battery.
The Turks had now reached the heights over the town
itself. They were fired at from the streets—their standardbearer and another fell. But the fate of the battle and of
the town itself was now decided in favour of Tossoun Bey's
horde. They poured down the cliffs towards unhappy
Klissoura like a black swarm of crows upon a fresh carcase.

CHAPTER XIX.
RADA.

As soon as the first shots on the heights above Klissoura
announced that the fateful battle had begun, the townspeople,
overcome with wild panic, began to flee towards Koprivshtitsa, through the Vrlishnitsa, a narrow pass over the
Sredna Gora, with a brook of the same name, that eventually
joins the Stara Reka, flowing through it, on the south-west
side of the town.
Gospoja Mouratliska, in whose house Rada was staying,
hurriedly collected together her children and the most
precious of her possessions, and prepared for flight with the
rest. She went to Rada and sought to persuade her to
accompany them. But in spite of all her entreaties, the
girl remained firm. She refused to leave the house. Kind
Gospoja Mouratliska besought her, on her knees, with tears
in her eyes, to leave at once; she could not abandon her to
such a terrible fate. The Turks were already to be seen on
the heights over the town, and every moment was precious.
" You go, Anitsa dear ; take the children, but leave me
alone, I beseech you!" cried Rada, urging her hostess
to fly.
Gospoja Mouratliska looked at her terrified. She
clasped her hands in despair. Through the window the
Turks could be seen already nearing the town. She did not
know what to do,

26o

UNDER THE YOKE.

Evidently it was only despair that could strengthen Rada
in her unreasoning obstinacy ; and, in truth, she was a prey
to deep despair.
Since that terrible encounter between Ognianoff and the
student, she had remained overwhelmed by the crushing
contempt of her lover. In her agitation she was unable to
justify herself, and since then she had not seen him again;
so that Ognianoff still persisted in his terrible infatuation,
with his heart filled with hatred and aversion towards her.
If he was killed in the fight, he would die with a curse on
his lips and with cruel sufferings at heart. The thought
filled her with dismay. She had not a moment's rest. Her
conscience upbraided her for doing nothing when she had it
in her power to comfort and convince him. The poor
fellow would die resolutely, desperately; he had gone to
seek death—he was not afraid of it. It was her duty at
least to make his death less painful, to quiet and comfort
him with the thought that he died beloved and idolised>
Perhaps she might even rescue him from the jaws of death,
for then he would seek death no longer. She might preserve him for herself and for the country. But he had never
once come down into the town. In vain she had tried
several times on various pretexts to visit the trenches and
see him just for once, even though she drew down his
wrathful glance on her. Access to the fortifications was
ruthlessly denied her. Her only consolation lay in the
visits of Staika, Kill-the-Bear's bride, and her neighbour.
Kill-the-Bear had three times come down to the town on
various errands, and each time had paid his wife a flying
visit and brought some news of Ognianoff. Thus by means
of Staika, Rada had learnt that Ognianoff was well in health,
though much dispirited; but that was all. During those
six days, which seemed to her as long as centuries, her love
for Boicho increased with her sufferings—he was so brave
and so unfortunate. She almost worshipped him now. He
appeared to her such a chivalrous nature. She saw him in
the full beauty of his manhood, armed, and with the aureole
of glory round his brows, meeting death on those heights
yonder with a bitter smile on his lips, never turning back to
cast one last look, to whisper one last farewell to her who
could not live without him, and on whom he had trampled
with scorn. The night before, when she had met Ivan

RAD A.

261

Kill-the Bear for the first time, she had been unable to
restrain her feelings, and had wept bitterly before him. The
good Ivan had consoled her as best he could, and had promised to take a letter for her to Boicho, which she had at
once hurriedly scribbled off in pencil. (For reasons which
we have already seen this letter reached Ognianoff only as
the fight began.) But she had not received any reply, not
even a verbal message ; and her grief and despair knew no
bounds. She felt that life would be impossible for her if
Boicho should carry his scorn with him to the grave, to
which she had so evidently driven him. Life appeared to
her hateful, since the source of love and happiness was now
eternally dried up. What was now left to her ? Hopeless
sufferings, bitter sorrow, the contempt of the world, and
despair—everlasting despair. What was her life worth now ?
To whom could she turn without humbling herself to the
dust? Bela Cherkva now appeared to her black and
hideous as the grave. Should she go and abase herself
before Hajji Rovoama again? or go and beg Marko to
protect her ? She would have died with shame rather than
face that good man now. He had surely heard foul
calumnies about her, and doubtless regretted the good he
had done her. No, no, Boicho alone could console her and
save her, and he would die up there! This Mouratliska
was quite right in her desire to live. She had something to
live for; she had some one to mourn for her, for there was
some one who loved her. But she, Rada ! She could not
bear the burden of her unhappiness; she was too weak.
She had nothing left in this cruel world, to which no ties
now united her. Yes, but if Boicho survived? How
terribly he would despise her for not being able to justify
herself. All the appearances were against her. His wounded
vanity could not pardon her. The blow dealt to his heart
and to his pride was a crushing one, and Boicho would
never, never see her again. She knew that he was not to be
moved on the point of honour. No, no, she must die.
Now she might meet an easy and even a glorious death
under the ruins, the noble ruins, of that heroic town. Let
Gospoja Mouratliska go her way; she would stay there to
die 1 Yes ! since Boicho had not bidden her to live—had
not honoured her with a single word of response—she must
die. And if death should spare him, let him know that

262

VNDEk THE YOKE.

Rada was an honest girl, that the Bulgarian maiden does
not fear death, and that she had sacrificed herself to her
love for him.
These or such as these were the thoughts, begotten of
despair, in a tender and sentimental soul, overwhelmed with
grief, which hovered like clouds in poor Rada's head while
Gospoja Mouratliska begged and entreated her with tears
to follow her. But Rada was immovable.
At that moment cries were heard in the street Gospoja
Mouratliska looked out of the window: she saw the
insurgents in full flight: she called to one of them :
"Why, Christo, what's going on up there? Where's
Ognianoff? Where are you all running to ? "
The insurgent replied, panting :
" It's all over, Anichka, we're done for! OgnianofT—he's
still there, poor fellow! The whole world's topsy-turvy.
Fly at once towards the Vrlishnitsa!" and the insurgents
vanished from view. Evidently Christo was from
OgnianofFs fort. Rada shrieked like a madwoman. Then
Gospoja Mouratliska, seeing that all efforts were useless,
left the house.
It was high time, for not long after Rada heard women's
despairing shrieks from the northern side of the town, which
was now overrun by the Turks. As she stood overwhelmed
with grief and terror she saw from the window a crowd of
bashi-bozouks rushing down a street with drawn swords in
their hands: they caught up two Bulgarians, who were at
once cut down. She saw perfectly, plainly a red flood
gushing from the fallen. She saw death—terrible death, in
its most repulsive form, and was seized with wild fear. The
desire of life awoke with redoubled force in the young girl,
and overcame all other feelings, paralysed all her resolutions
to die with which despair had inspired her.
She attempted to escape, to save herself from death, or
from the life these lewd and bloodthirsty assailants might
have granted her. She opened the door to fly downstairs,
but at that moment she heard the door of the courtyard
burst open with a loud crash and through the branches of
the fruit-trees she saw an armed bashi-bozouk followed by
another figure hurrying towards the stairs on which she was
standing transfixed with terror. She turned, fled'back to the
room, bolted the door, and half dead with terror tried to

THE TWO STREAMS.

263

conceal herself in the opposite corner. She had scarcely
done so when a loud knock was heard at the door and a
fierce frightful voice began to roar outside. As the door
was not opened the person who sought to enter began to
kick and hammer at the door. Gradually it cracked and
yielded on one side: the barrel of a gun immediately
protruded through the chink, and the door began to be
forced open. Rada heard the boards crack as they yielded,
she saw an enormous foot pushing its way through, the
assailant was almost in the room.
Then inexpressible terror overcame all her other thoughts.
Death appeared to her a thousand times preferable to the
terrible moment which was approaching. She flew to the
eikonostasis, lighted a taper at the lamp burning before it,
and hurried to the corner. There on the table stood a sack
of gunpowder which had evidently been forgotten by the
insurgents. Rada sat down beside it, took the taper in her
left hand, and with her right thumb began*to force open
the mouth of the sack: she soon penetrated the coarse
sacking.
Just then the door fell to the ground with a loud crash
and a gigantic figure burst into the room.
Ivan Kill-the-Bear stood before her.
Behind him was Staika.
Rada did not see them—she approached the candle to
the gunpowder.

C H A P T E R XX.
THE TWO STREAMS,

AT that very moment Ognianoff was far off in the mountain.
He was the last to leave the fort, the rampart of which
the Turks were already scaling : he had escaped death by
a miracle : his cap had been pierced in two places. He
sought for death, but the instinct of self-preservation,
stronger than any other feeling, had saved him.
Now he stood on the summit of the Yrlishnitsa, on its
left ridge, beneath which flowed the streamlet,
Tears were coursing down his blackened blood-stained face.

264

UNDER THE YOKE.

Ognianoff was weeping.
He had stopped to see the terrible picture of the wreck
of the revolution. He was bareheaded.
Below him in the valley a panic-stricken throng of
insurgents, women, and children, fled with wild terror
towards the mountain. The shrieks and groans of these
unfortunates were clearly audible where he stood.
On the opposite rock Klissoura in flames lay before him.
Suddenly his glance fell on his right hand, which was
blood-stained. He remembered that the blood was
Kandoff's. And Kandoff reminded him of Rada. His
hair stood on end: he sought in his pocket and drew
out Rada's crumpled letter, which he opened.
He read the following lines, written in pencil in a weak
and trembling hand :
a
Bo'icho ! You left me in scorn. I cannot live without
you. I entreat you to send me one word in reply. If you
wish it, I will live—I am innocent. Do answer me.
Boicho, I'm suffering agonies. If you won't, then farewell, farewell, beloved ; I shall find a grave beneath the
ruins of Klissoura.
RADA."
Inexpressible pain was depicted on Ognianoff's countenance. He glanced towards the town, where theflameswere
spreading rapidly. At different points of the town fresh
flames were bursting from the roofs; their pale red tongues
shot out and seemed to be licking the air. Dense black
smoke rolled behind the town and mingled with the clouds
which had now covered the sky : this made it grow dark
earlier. The flames spread with great rapidity on every
side. Their ruddy glare lighted up the valley, the slopes of
the Ribaritsa, and the waters of the Stara Reka. Ognianoff
was trying to distinguish the two-storied house where
Gospoja Mouratliska lived. He soon found it out and
recognised with terror the two windows of Rada's room.
The fire had not yet spread to the house, but around it
all was ablaze, and it would soon be in flames.
" Poor girl, she's there ! oh ! it's horrible, horrible !"
And he flung himself down the slope towards the
stream. He rushed madly down the ravines and thickets
and sped back towards the mouth of the stream, towards
Klissoura.

THE TWO STREAMS.

265

The narrow pass of the Vrlishnitsa was blocked by
fugitives of every sex, age, and condition. That terrified
human mass, extending along the whole course of the river,
resembled another stream flowing in the opposite direction.
The panic had in an hour emptied Klissoura and filled the
mountain pass. Every one fled panting and panic-stricken,
as if the pursuer was already close behind. Some had
hastily snatched up a few clothes as they fled, others carried
various articles of furniture or other household goods,
sometimes most useless and cumbersome. The effect was
occasionally almost comic. Thus a wealthy citizen who
had left house and home was flying with a large Dutch
clock under his arm. Further on a woman was carrying
her sieve, which considerably impeded her flight. Old
women and girls might be seen flying barefoot over the
rocks and carrying their shoes in their hands, so as not to
soil them. Ognianoff at every moment came into collision
with these terrified groups, or tripped over women who had
fallen fainting to the ground, and were shrieking desperately
without any one coming to their aid. He saw all these
horrors as he fled wildly towards the town, bareheaded and
bewildered with only one thought—to save Rada. Instinctively he sought her among the fear-distorted faces of
the women and girls whom he met, but in vain—he fled
on again. These people were strangers to him—they were
phantoms—they did not exist for him. He could not even
understand why they were flying—he did not think about
them, nor did they think about him—no one wondered or
asked why he was going back when they were all going
forward. At every step the scenes of horror became more
frequent and more terrible. At a turning in the pass he
saw a little girl who had been thrown down in her flight
and had fallen into the river, where she lay shrieking
wildly for aid. Further on a baby was crying bitterly for
its mother, who had apparently deserted it as an encumbrance
in her flight. Old women, men, mothers passed by the
poor creature, but no one saw or heard it. Every one
thought only of himself. Fear hardens the heart and is the
highest and most loathsome form of egoism. Shame itself
does not so abase the human countenance as terror.
Ognianoff mechanically stooped, picked up the child, and
went on his way. In a thicket at the side of the path a

266

UNDER THE YOKE.

woman lay groaning in travail with a face distorted with
suffering. She held out her hands to implore the passers-by
for aid. Groans, piercing shrieks, and the wailing of children
filled the air. As if to crown all this misery rain began to
pour in torrents. The storm increased in fury every
moment: foaming streams soon flowed down the slopes
towards the river, drenching the feet of the unhappy fugitives,
while the rain beat against their faces and soaked their
garments ; children dragged along by their mothers uttfered
heartrending shrieks as they slipped and fell in the torrent.
The cries and lamentations grew louder and louder.
The rocks on each side of the pass reverberated the
wild echo, to which the roar of the swollen river was now
added. Suddenly Ognianoff recognised a woman in an
approaching group of fugitives—the first person he had
noticed in that procession. It was Gospoja Mouratliska,
with one baby in her arms, and three older children
following behind.
"Where is Rada? " he asked.
She was unable to speak, and could only point in the
direction of the town.
" In your house ? "
" Yes, yes, make haste," she could hardly mutter.
Weak as she was, Gospoja Mouratliska kept on her way
energetically, though her face showed how exhausted she
was by the almost impassable path. But energy replaced
muscular force with her, and she had inspired her children
with it.
" Where are you carrying that child to ? " she asked in a
faint voice, scarcely audible in the turmoil.
Ognianoff looked down. He hardly knew he was carrying the child, and had no recollection of having picked
it up.
He looked at Gospoja Mouratliska, bewildered.
" Give it to me, give it to me."
And she took the child from Ognianoff, pressed it to
the left side of her dripping breast, on the right side of
which nestled her own child, and went on. It was quite
dark when Ognianoff reached the mouth of the Vrlishnitsa.
From there the whole of Klissoura was visible. The
rain had extinguished most of the fires, but here and
there flames still flickered under the roofs and threw

THE TWO STREAMS.

267

from the windows a lurid glare upon the town. Now
and then a house would fall in with a loud crash, and the
flames shot out and spread to other houses. Suddenly
Ognianoff saw a new fire break out in the southern part
of the town. Great flames and showers of sparks burst
forth and scattered in every direction. Ognianoff recognised Gospoja Mouratliska's house in the midst of the
flames: just then the upper storey fell in with a cloud
of flames and yellow smoke. Rada's room was there !
He flung himself like a madman into the flaming streets,
filled with infuriated Turks, and was lost to sight.

PART III

C H A P T E R I,
A RETROSPECT.

IN a few days the insurrection* was everywhere stamped out.
The contest died away—its place was taken by panic fear.
The revolution ended in capitulation. History furnishes
examples of risings as sacred and as ill-fated, but of none
so tragically inglorious.
The April insurrection was like a still-born child, conceived under the impulse of the most ardent love, and
stifled by its mother in horror at its birth. It expired before
it was born.
The insurrection has no history—it was too short-lived for
that.
Golden hopes, profound faith, gigantic strength and enthusiasm, the heritage of centuries of suffering, all vanished
in a moment. It was a terrible awakening.
And how many martyrs it caused—how many victims—
how many deaths and downfalls ! Ay ! and some slight
heroism—but what heroism !
Peroushtitsa was its Saragoza. But Peroushtitsa has no
place in the history of the world.
Batak ! f that is the only name which has shone out amid
the struggle; out of the flames and the smoke it has
* The three places wheie the revolutionary movement was most
serious were : Panaghiourishte (in Turkish Otlouk Keui), Koprivshtitsa
(in Turkish Avrat Alan), and Peroushtitsa. According to the official
report by Mr. Baring (see the Blue Book, issued in 1877, P« I49), at
Panaghiourishte 760 Bulgarians were killed, 14 Mussulmans having
been slain there at the beginning of the outbreak; at Koprivshtitsa, 130
Bulgarians fell, while 72 Mussulmans were first killed : Peroushtitsa,
after some resistance, was captured and burnt by Rashid Pasha on May
12, 1876 ; 750 Bulgarians are officially reported to have fallen there.
t At Batak the terrible massacre of almost the entire population was
treacherously effected by Ahmed Aga of Tumrush.

272

UNDER THE YOKE,

blazed forth over the whole world, and has perpetuated its
memory among the nations.
Batak—~a worthy characteristic of our revolt: fate sometime perpetrates such puns.* But if the rising gave us
Batak, it also raised up for us Alexander I I .
If this movement, and its ill-fated results, had not brought
on the war of liberation, then it would have been pitilessly
condemned on all sides; common sense would have stigmatised it as folly; nations would have set it down as a
disgrace, and history—a meretricious harlot that bows only
before success—would have branded it as a crime. Poetry
alone might have forgiven it and crowned it with the laurel
of the hero, in memory of the patriotic infatuation which
urged the humble Anatolian clothworkers to take their stand
on the heights of the Sredna Gora—those sublime heights !—
with their hollow cherry-tree cannon.
It was a poetic folly: for young nations, like young people,
are poetical.
*
-x
*
*
-x
*
Ognianoff had for three days and three nights been
wandering upon the Stara Planina. t H e kept on towards
the east, so as to reach Bela Cherkva, being quite ignorant
of what was going on there. It is a six hours' journey from
Klissoura in ordinary times, but for a rebel flying from the
gallows sixty hours are insufficient.
During the day Ognianoff crouched in the woods and
thickets; he slept in copses of trees, like a wild beast, to
avoid being seen by the patrols ; and at night he wandered
along the dark and deserted paths, at random—sometimes
going backward instead of forward. H e lived on grass—that
is to say, he was as hungry as a wolf. H e did not dare to beg
for hospitality at the sparsely scattered huts on the Balkan—
the probability was only too great that he would be roughly
repulsed, through terror, or else betrayed to the Turks.
Often as he shivered on some mountain peak he could
see a red glare in the sky, to the south. First of all he took
this celestial phenomenon to be the after-glow of the sunset.
But as night went on the glare became still brighter and
extended over a still wider horizon. It was like the
reflection of an aurora borealis appearing in the south.
* The Turkish word "Batak" means a snare, a pitfall; lit. : marsh.

A SHEPHERD'S HOSPITALITY.

273

It was caused by the flames that reduced many a
flourishing village to ashes.
It was a terrible but majestic sight.
Through a gap in the Balkan the view to the South
became more extensive. Ognianoff saw with horror that the
Sredna Gora was in flames. It was like a volcano emitting
fire from twenty craters at once. The whole firmament was
lit up by the fires.
Ognianoff tore out his hair.
" It's the ruin, the ruin of Bulgaria ! " he said in despair
as he saw the flames. "This is the result of our sacred
efforts. This is what our ardent hopes have come to : blood
and fire! My God! my God! And there," he added,
pointing towards Klissoura, " there my heart lies under the
ruins. My two ideals were scattered at the same time—the
two idols I worshipped. I am like a lifeless phantom, that
cannot find its grave !"
H e resembled, if not a phantom, a skeleton. To every
sheepfold and Bulgarian hut strict instructions had been
given not to afford hospitality to any suspicious-looking wayfarer. The Bulgarians did even more : they pursued all such
and hastened to inform the patrol; indeed their zeal often
went so far that they finished off with a bullet some wounded
or half-starved insurgent. A fortnight before, these same
shepherds had welcomed the apostles as the dearest of
guests. The Stara Planina, that kindly mother of brave lads
sung of in many a brigand song and old legend, proved
herself a cruel stepmother. The panic and cowardly baseness of cities and villages had migrated to her most deserted
glades, and taken up their abode in her brigand fastnesses
and wildest solitudes.

CHAPTER II.
A SHEPHERD S HOSPITALITY.

T H A T night Ognianoff slept in a thicket which covered the
northern slope of one of the spurs to the east of the bare
Ribaritsa.
H e was emaciated by hunger and exhaustion—-he had
s

274

UNDER THE YOKE.

eaten nothing but grass and herbs during those three days;
and a hundred yards away he could see a sheepfold, where
bread, cheese, and milk were to be had. He was in the
position of Tantalus, condemned to eternal thirst before a
cool stream of which he could not drink.
But the wolf never dies of starvation when there is a flock
of sheep to attack. The teeth of the watchdogs are not so
sharp as the pangs of hunger. OgnianofT resolved to follow
the wolf's example. He left the thicket, crossed the brook,
and walked firmly towards the shepherd's hut.
There were two women in the hut, the shepherd's mother
and his wife, mending clothes, and two boys, engaged in
plaiting something. The dogs were probably with the herd
somewhere close by.
The women screamed when they saw this stranger,
bareheaded, blood-stained, with his eyes starting from his
head.
"What do you want?" cried some one from outside.
A tall, gray-haired old shepherd appeared with his gun on
his shoulder.
OgnianofT recognised him as the Greek shepherd Yani,
who often came down to Bela Cherkva to sell his butter, and
who knew him quite well.
"Good morning, Master Yani; give me a piece of bread,
in God's name," said Boi'cho hurriedly, to show his pacific
intentions.
The shepherd examined him from head to foot. Whether
he recognised him or not, the scrutiny seemed to displease
him. H e entered the hut with a frown, broke off half a cake
of bread, and at the same time whispered something to one
of the boys.
" There, you'd better be off, or there'll be trouble.
Some one '11 see you here, Christian," he said sternly, as he
gave OgnianofT the bread.
OgnianofT thanked him, and hurried towards the stream
to hide himself again in the thicket where he had spent the
night.
" My God !" he thought to himself with bitterness, " this
half-savage Greek had pity on me, while the Bulgarians drove
me from their huts yesterday with their dogs, like a wild
beast."
OgnianofT swallowed his bread hurriedly and greedily,

A SHEPHERD'S

HOSPITALITY.

275

while his eyes lightened up with eagerness. Famine had
dimmed the noble fire of his glance, which had become dull
and fierce as a beast's. At that moment OgnianofT would
have refused to share his bread with his father; for hunger
is a more savage counsellor than despair itself.
Boicho quenched his thirst at the stream, and began to
make his way up the slope towards the thicket. H e felt
the beneficent action of the food; his forces seemed to be
returning. But just as he had reached the cover the sound
of distant voices made him turn round. From the hill on
which the sheepfold stood, a band of Circassians were rushing towards him, and beckoning to him to stop. Before
them ran several dogs. (As is well known, the patrols at
this terrible time consisted chiefly of Circassians, who were
accompanied by hounds trained to follow the track of a man
and to hurl themselves at him.) On the top of the hill stood
Master Yani, in his white wrapper of coarse homespun, watching with curiosity the chase he had prepared; for, while
breaking off the piece of bread he had given the fugitive,
he had sent his boy to give notice to the nearest patrol.
Hospitality and treachery—these two harmonised simultaneously with the cunning nature of that semi-savage nomad.
H e had carried out both with perfect conscientiousness. In
feeding the hungry he had accomplished a duty of humanity;
in betraying the rebel he had relieved himself of all unpleasant consequences. He now watched the result quietly.
OgnianofT saw the danger that awaited him. With his
unfailing presence of mind, which so often deserts one at
moments of danger, he began to calculate his chances.
Across the stream there was a slight acclivity which might
conceal him for a minute or two from the eyes of the patrol
while they rushed down the slope on the other side. During
that time he might gain the thicket; but that would avail
him nothing—they would soon reach him there. It was
hopeless to attempt to escape by flight from the bullets and
the hounds. In the brook itself there were low bushes
between the two steep banks; but he could not conceal
himself there, for, even if he escaped the notice of his
pursuers, the dogs would soon find him out. Everywhere
there was destruction for him 1 But there was no time to
hesitate—he must make up his mind. Instinctively he
chose the brook, and dashed down the slope like lightning.

276

UNDER THE YOKE.

In a moment he was wading among the bushes in the brook,
the banks of which were rocky. At the foot of the rock deep
cavities gaped, as if they had been dug out. Ognianoff
crept into one of these lairs, and determined to sell his life
dearly.
For some seconds he listened, revolver in hand: those
seconds seemed hours. The barking approached—then grew
fainter, and gradually died away. He waited. What could
this mean ? The patrol had evidently lost his track, but not
for long. Ognianoff guessed that they were looking for him
in the thicket, and that, not finding him there, they would
naturally search the stream, where the dogs would at once
discover him. The animals' instinct would not be at fault
a second time. How long his agony of anxiety lasted he
never knew. His eyes were fixed on the stream, with its
scanty bushes which rustled in the water. Every moment
he expected to see the muzzles of the hounds—the animal
seemed to be fatal to him—plunged into the cave where he
was, or to hear their bay.
Suddenly he heard a dog bark. His eyes swelled out and
grew fierce ; his hair stood on end; he clutched his revolver
convulsively.

CHAPTER

III.

TO T H E NORTH.

THE barking which Ognianoff had heard close by to the
right was not repeated. It was replaced by another sound,
the sound of human footsteps. Several men were coming
that way, down the hill, for the ravine crumbled beneath
their feet, and pebbles rolled down to the very mouth of the
cave where the fugitive was secreted. Soon he saw two
sandalled feet pass by the opening—two more followed, and
were succeeded by a third pair : these all passed silently and
noiselessly. Yet a fourth appeared. But instead of going
by he stopped and stooped down. Ognianoff saw the
profile of an enormous elongated head—the head of a
gorilla: the owner of the head was tying up the fastening of
his sandal, which had become loose and was dragging.

TO THE NORTH.

277

Ognianoff remained like a statue, with his revolver
pointed towards the outlet.
The head looked into the cave : then it was raised, and a
shrill whistle sounded. This was evidently a signal for the
others to return.
The head again bent down and peeped in—Ognianoff
resolved to fire.
" Who's there ? " asked a sonorous voice.
"Ivan ! " cried Ognianoff, thunderstruck.
For in truth it was Ivan Kill-the-Bear.
" Why, it's the teacher ! " cried the others, who had now
come up. Ivan Kill-the-Bear, without waiting to be asked
crawled into the cave and pressed Ognianoff's hands with
tears in his eyes. The other three followed. They were all
from Klissoura.
Boicho's first question was : " What was that dog barking ? "
The Klissouriots answered:
" There wasn't any dog—it was Kill-the-Bear,"
Ognianoff smiled as he remembered the giant's peculiarity. He assailed them with questions.
"We've made a pretty mess of it, God bless its soul,"
sighed Kill-the-Bear in a voice of thunder.
" Courage, Ivan my boy ! God won't desert Bulgaria ! "
" Yes, but Klissoura's done for," declared one of the
Klissouriots, gloomily.
" There's nothing left of it but ashes," added the
second.
" Dear ! dear ! " sighed the other.
" What's the good of crying over it now, brothers ? We
did our best—and failed. Courage and patience. Our
sacrifices won't have been useless. . . . Have you had anything to eat ? "
" We haven't seen a piece of bread since we took to the
mountain," answered one of them, almost tearfully. Indeed,
there wTas no need to say it * Ognianoff saw their famished
.
and emaciated countenances. He divided what was left of
his bread and gave it to his three guests.
They fell to ravenously. Only Kill-the-Bear declined.
" Keep the bread for yourself—you want it. I've got my
dinner here;" and Kill-the-Bear took from his bag a hare,
skinned and bloody. He pulled off a piece, dipped it in
the salt; and began to devour it with his sharp teeth.

278

UNDER THE YOKE.

" Yes, but it's raw ? "
" Raw or hot, it's all one to a hungry\ man. Flying
rebels can't light fires," said Kill-the-Bear, as he munched
the tough flesh. " These Christians turn up their noses at
meat; they'd rather feed on grass, like tortoises," he added,
wiping the hare's blood from his lips.
" How did you kill the hare ? Did you fire at it ? " asked
Boi'cho with some curiosity.
" I killed the hare because I didn't fall in with a wild
boar; if I had, Fd have caught that and throttled it."
In truth, Kill-the-Bear had surprised and caught the hare
in a thicket, without firing at it.
"But what made you get into that bear-pit?" asked the
giant, looking round the cavern.
" There was a Circassian patrol after me, and how they
lost my trail I can't think : they had dogs with them."
"Oh, that's why you asked about the barking, is it?
Well, the dogs must have come upon the scent of some
other game—a hare, likely ; take my word for it, they went
after that. Kill-the-Bear knows something of that kind of
thing. . . ."
"That must be the heathens we saw right away over
there on the other side," said one of them.
a
May God destroy them ! You can't show your head for
fear of patrols; the Balkan's black with Turks and
Circassians. God bless you for the bread, Ognianoff. Fd
have been done for without it."
Ognianoff began to feel relieved. He saw that he had
been saved only by a miracle, not for the first time in his
life.
"Where are you going now ? "
" We'll try to get through to Roumania. And you ? "
"For the last three days Fve been making for Bela
Cherkva, and you see where Fve got to."
One of the Klissouriots remarked :
" Ah, they're a cunning lot at Bela Cherkva: they
haven't risen, not they—they know better than that."
This was said in tones of anger: not so much because
Bela Cherkva had not revolted, but more from envy that it
had not suffered like the rest. Alas ! such is human nature :
all sufferings are endured more easily when one knows
they are shared by others, even though these be one's

TO THE

NORTH.

279

friends and relations. It is that cruel feeling, so strongly
developed in our hearts, which stimulates the soldier to
heroism and gives him unflinching courage in the presence
of death while his comrades fall right and left round him.
Leave the hero by himself, exposed to danger, and he will
fly in panic fear. One of our proverbs says : " What's for
the whole world is like a marriage-feast."
" Have you heard anything about Bela Cherkva ? " asked
Ognianoff
" Don't I tell you ? They've shown themselves very smart.
We were the only ones ready to liberate the Bulgarian
kingdom !"
" It's wonderful—wonderful! " said Ognianoff, thoughtfully. " Everything was prepared, and they were all so keen
at Bela Cherkva."
" Well, never mind—it's better so. What 'd be the good
of their being burnt down too ? "
" I say, have you seen the sky at night—how red it
is ? What a heap of villages they must have burnt," said
another.
" Yes, yes, I've seen it," said Ognianoff, gloomily.
"The world's topsy-turvy. Call that a revolt ? It was a
disgrace ! And we, poor fools, we're still in for it. Let
them as deceived the nation give an account of it to God!
Why couldn't they keep quiet till things were ready ? "
Ognianoff listened silently to these reproaches. They
grieved him, but he could not resent them. If not quite
justifiable, they were at least most natural in the mouths of
the poor ruined victims. He himself had in his mind more
than once reproached the people, just as they reproached
their leaders : such are the sad but logical consequences of
failure.
"Come, it's no good snivelling—God knows what's
happened. It was written by God and the Blessed Virgin :
if Klissoura's lost, Bulgaria isn't lost, is it ? " said Kill-theBear, trying to console them.
" I say, Ivan, what's become of the wife ? Where have
you sent her to ? " asked Boicho.
" Staika? Oh, she's all right, God bless her soul. I took
her to Altinovo, and from thereWell, I never. I forgot
to tell you about the schoolmistress !"
Ognianoff started at these words. He had a presentiment

280

UNDER THE YOKE.

of Rada's fate, but-did not dare to ask about the terrible
story. H e had seen in the night how the house fell in ruin,
with the flames around it on all sides; the girl must have
been crushed to death there—if, indeed, she had not put an
end to her life before. H e had come too late to save her,
and this thought lay like a terrible weight on his soul.
Besides, some other feeling he dared not analyse agitated
and tortured his whole soul.
" It was touch and go with her, bless her pretty soul."
" What! —is she alive ? " cried Boicho.
" Yes, yes, teacher; but if it hadn't been for Kill-theBear
"
"Where is she now? " asked Boicho, excitedly, as if he
wished to read the whole story in a moment upon Ivan's
great, rough, kindly face.
" Don't be afraid—she's in good hands," said Kill-theBear, reassuringly.
An ineffable feeling of relief came over Boicho. His face
beamed as he said with emotion to the giant:
" Thanks, thanks, Ivan ! You've relieved me of a
frightful torture ! "
"Well," added Ivan, "it's a good thing Staika told me in
time. You see, Anichka met Staika as she was leaving the
house, and said to her: ' Staika, tell Ivan (that's me) that
Rada won't fly, for all my begging her; but don't leave her
there, poor thing; take her away by force.' When I heard
that, God bless its soul, what was I to do ? When I got
in, she locked the door. I hammered and shouted; she
wouldn't open—I had to break the door in. What do I
see ? There she was at the table, holding a lighted candle
to a canvas bag."
" T h e bag of gunpowder! " ciied Ognianoff, shuddering
as he thought of the death Rada had prepared for herself.
" That's it—the gunpowder. Enough to blow the whole
place up to the sky in a thousand pieces. There's a silly
girl for you ! But I didn't know it was powder," continued
Kill-the-Bear; " and I went straight up to her. Well,
whether God did it, or whether theie was a draught from
the door, the candle blew out. * What are you doing there,
teacher ?' says I. ' Everybody's off to the mountain. What
are you stopping here for?' And I takes hold of her, and
off we go to the Balkan, with Staika following behind.

TO THE NORTH.

281

Staika kept telling her it was all right, while she cried and
groaned. My stars, teacher, how she did cry for you ! I
made sure you were killed, but I wouldn't tell her so. I
said, ' The teacher's safe and sound, teacher; never fear,
teacher.' But we were late; the Vrlishnitsa was full of
Turks ; there was no getting through. Here's a fix—what's
to be done ? Well, we took to the mountain, and got to
our village at midnight. I took the teacher and Staika to
our Vlko—my brother-in-law—and made for the Stara
Planina.
And here you are alive—God bless your
soul!"
Ognianoff silently pressed Kill-the-Bear's hands.
" I left them at Altinovo, but they must be at Bela
Cherkva by now. Vlko was going to take them there in
the morning, dressed as Turkish women. It's frightful just
now with the Turks at Altinovo; but they say things are
quiet at Bela Cherkva. When you get there, teacher, find
out Staika—my wife, that is—and give her my kind love.
Say you saw me here, fit and well, and living on roast hare
and white bread, so as she shan't fret."
" Yes; but I don't think I shall go to Bela Cherkva now,
Ivan."
Kill-the-Bear looked at him with surprise.
" What! You're not going ? "
" No ; I don't want to, now."
" And where are you going, then ? "
"We'll see."
" Then come with us to Roumania."
" N o ; you'd better go by yourselves, and even separate.
It doesn't do for too many to go together."
The darkness of the night had now spread over the valley
and penetrated the cave. The brook rippled past mournfully. The fugitives could hardly see one another. Killthe-Bear and his comrades rose to go.
" Come, teacher, let's kiss each other before we go. God
knows which of us '11 survive !" said Kill-the-Bear.
They took leave of each other, and separated.
Ognianoff remained alone. H e threw himself on the
ground, face downwards, and sobbed like a child.
The long pent up volcano of suffering now burst from his
heart in a flood of tears. It was the first time that that man
of iron had ever wept aloud, His strength of mind had

282

UNDER THE YOKE.

given way. Suffering, cruel disappointment, the pangs of
conscience, regret for the countless victims sacrificed so
uselessly; his love destroyed without hope of revival; grief,
inconsolable grief at his solitude, and detestation of life—a
whole series of reminiscences, some bright, others gloomy,
but all bitter alike : all these flowed forth in his tears. He
had encouraged those poor people who had lost their all in
the fire kindled by him and his comrades, while he himself
was crushed and disconsolate. H e had tacitly brought
down this terrible punishment upon them. H e had made
an effort to restrain himself before the Klissouriots, while
blood was flowing from his heart, which throbbed within
him like a wounded snake. And that Rada, too ! H e
could not forget her—she had wept also. He was vexed
with himself for thinking of his own personal sorrows before
his country's ruin; but he could not help it. Never mind ;
that was all over now. Every tie was broken. H e would
never return to Bela Cherkva—the cradle of his love. It
appeared to him black and gloomy as a grave now. H e
had told her at Klissouia that all was over between them :
he had withered her with his glance, trampled upon her in
scorn. True, he had risked his life in the flames to try and
save her, but he had done so through some other impulse—
not from love; perhaps from a feeling of chivalry—almost
unconsciously. No, he would not go there to gaze upon
his fallen idol—not even from afar: his pride revolted at
the thought. H e would make for Roumania ; he would get
there somehow, like so many others. At Bela Cherkva he
could only hide himself like a wild beast, at the risk of
being betrayed by his enemies; besides, there was nothing
for him to do there. In Roumania, that hospitable land of
freedom, he might still work for Bulgaria until her wounds
were healed : there he could breathe freely once more. To
the North—to the North !
And Ognianoff turned his steps northwards.
The sky was cloudy. Utter darkness reigned over the
silent solitudes of the mountain.
All night he wandered over the peaks and across the
valleys, avoiding as far as possible his former direction.
His new resolution gave him redoubled strength, which the
food he had eaten contributed to increase.
At dawn he stood on a mountain peak; before him

THE FLAG.

283

stretched a broad green plain to the south. He recognised
the valley of the Strema. Bela Cherkva lay at the foot of
the mountain. He bowed silently to destiny.

CHAPTER IV.
THE FLAG.

OGNIANOFF, as though awakening from deep slumber, saw
too late that he had come to the very place he was seeking
to avoid.
He had taken the wrong direction : he was on the bare
rock above Bela Cherkva, far from any thicket or other
place of concealment: to seek to retrace his steps would
be madly to rush into destruction. The only thing left for
him to do, was to plunge into the deep valley of the
Monastery stream, which afforded a good shelter, and from
thence to make his way as best he could.
But when he reached the springs from which the
Monastery stream takes its rise, and saw the scanty firthickets on the rocky slope, the sight of these familiar
scenes at once changed his resolution.
" No ! " he said, " I'll stop in this brushwood all day and
start back again to-night. I'll manage to get a change
of clothes jin some Balkan village, and then off to Roumania.
Never, never again to Rada!"
And he lay down to rest beneath the pines, in the tall
weeds and grass which rendered him invisible. For hours
he lay there patiently waiting for nightfall.
Late in the afternoon Ognianoff suddenly remarked
on the heights behind him something black streaming
and fluttering in the wind. It resembled some gigantic
bird waving its motionless wings in the air. He gazed
at it with surprise.
" It's a flag!" he said in amazement. He saw that
it was a red banner planted among the rocks at the summit.
The wind was peacefully waving the flag, which must be
easily visible at Bela Cherkva.
No one was to be seen near the flag. Who could have
planted it there? For what reason? Was it a signal of revolt ?

284

UNDER THE YOKE.

Ognianoff took it to be the latter. There could be no
other rational explanation of its presence there.
Ognianoff could no longer restrain himself. Dismissing
all thought of further precaution, he hurriedly left his
hiding-place, hastened up the heights from whence he had
descended, and gazed attentively towards Bela Cherkva.
It seemed to him that he could hear distant reports of guns
being fired. Where could they be coming from? H e
strained his eyes in the direction of the town. Thanks to
the extraordinary clearness of the atmosphere, he was able
to discern white puffs of smoke, such as are emitted by
firearms, at the upper end of the town.
u
It's a revolt—a revolt at Bela Cherkva!" he cried
joyously : " my true comrades Sokoloff, Popoff, and Micho
haven't been standing with their arms folded. The revolt
must have broken out in other places as well. This flag
must be the sign agreed on. The smouldering flame has
burst out at length. My God! there's still some hope left!'*
And he flew down the steep cliff as though he had wings.

C H A P T E R V.
THE SLAIN.

I T was completely dark when Ognianoff emerged from the
black and rocky valley of the Monastery stream.
H e passed by the Monastery, but did not think it necessary to look in to see Father Natanail: it would have been
a loss of precious time. The thought that the revolt had at
last broken out at Bela Cherkva had as it were galvanised
him and restored to him all his moral and physical forces.
H e took the main road to the town, and soon distinguished in the dark the black outline of the familiar houses,
chimneys, and trees. Then he left the road and climbed
the hillock which rises above Bela Cherkva to the north,
and at the foot of which the schoolhouse lay.
From that height he searched the city with his gaze ; all
seemed wrapped in slumber ; there was no light anywhere ;
he could discern no noise or any other sign that a revolt

THE SLAIN.

28S

had broken out in the town; the only sign was the usual
barking of the dogs. This surprised Ognianoff: he began
to wonder what was to be done. To go down into the
town and knock at a friend's door seemed to him imprudent, to say the least. He resolved to go to the boys'
school, which was close by: the old caretaker could give
him such news as she had of what was going on in the town.
He hastened down towards the western side of the school,
and climbed the fence which surrounded its enclosure. On
examining the place, he found that he was in the cemetery,
which took up the greater part of the yard. In the middle
the ancient church loomed tall and silent, itself like a
gigantic tombstone. At the end of the courtyard could be
seen the black mass of the school buildings, all plunged in
darkness and slumbering. This deadly silence which greeted
OgnianofT, instead of all the noise and confusion to be
expected in a revolted city, took him by surprise and
inspired him with the gloomiest forebodings. A cold wind
seemed to issue from the terrible quiet and darkness of the
gravestones : these loomed silently before OgnianofPs eyes
with those mysterious shapes which night lends to every
object; they seemed like living creatures, or like the dead
emerging as far as the waist from their graves. He could
not restrain a painful feeling at heart—a secret desire to
leave as soon as possible that chilly abode of darkness and
mystery. At such an hour the human soul is overcome
with involuntary terror. Our nature cannot endure any
contact with the other world without a cold shudder. The
coffin-lid which falls over the corpse divides the two worlds,
which do not recognise one another, which are at enmity
together. Mystery and darkness instil terror. Night is an
enemy, a grave is a mystery. Few are so brave as to pass
unmoved through a cemetery at night, or so impious as to
laugh at such an hour—their very laughter would appal
them. Who knows if Hamlet would have jested so airily
upon skulls if alone at night in a graveyard ?
Suddenly, through the dark, to which his eye had now
become accustomed, OgnianorT remarked a dim, motionless
light, almost like an eye, issuing from the church itself
through the low window. It must be a candle or a taper.
This faint light was a welcome break in the darkness, the
only sign of life visible in the town—it flickered so hos-

286

UNDER THE

YOKE.

pitably and almost gaily. Impelled by an invincible curiosity, Ognianoff advanced over the tombstones, approached
the window in which the light was shining, and looked
through. The candle was burning in the great brass candlestick near one of the columns of the church. Its dim light
scarcely threw a faint flicker a few feet round the candlestick
on the floor. The rest of the church was in darkness.
Within that dimly-lighted circle Ognianoff remarked certain
indistinct forms laid out. There was something there.
What could it be ? He pressed his forehead to the glass
and peered in. Then he saw what it was. Three human
figures lay there on the matting—three corpses. Upon
them and on the matting were deep stains of blood. The
candle threw a tremulous and shrinking light upon the
scene. The faces, distorted and with gaping mouths, bore
the signs of a painful death. The eyes of one of them,
staring wide, seemed to be looking fiercely and reprovingly
at some point on the dark ceiling of the church. The other
had fallen forward. One eye on which the candle-light fell
seemed glaring straight at Ognianoff s window. The apostle's
hair stood on end. Yet he could not tear himself away
from the window. The dead man's glance held him there
transfixed—like a living man's who recognises you and wishes
you to recognise him. Suddenly Ognianoff started with a
cry. It was Kandoff. There was a deep wound under his
chin. He was killed.
Ognianoff left this terrible sight and hurriedly retraced
his steps. How could Kandoff have come, wounded, to
Bela Cherkva ? How had they been killed here, he and the
others ? Had there been a revolt in which he had fallen a
victim, or else had he simply sought death—simply revealed
himself and been killed ? What was the meaning of the flag
on the Balkan and the firing in the town, and this silence
now ? Ognianoff could not think of any answer to these
questions. Clearly some great misfortune had happened.
He pondered over what he should do next. To enter the
town now at night and knock at any door, in his complete
ignorance of what had taken place, would be reckless. This
death-like silence which prevailed at Bela Cherkva froze his
very soul. It was more terrible than the most unwelcome
sound. He resolved to wait for dawn in the Monastery
valley, and to see what was to be done in the morning.
And he climbed back over the fence again.

THE

MESSENGER.

287

C H A P T E R VI.
THE

MESSENGER.

OGNIANOFF spent that night in a deserted mill on the
Monastery stream.
Very early in the morning he climbed up the slope
behind the sacred spring,* where the great rocks lay
scattered about as if they had been thrown down there. H e
lay hid among these unperceived; from that height he could
see everything that went on below.
The valley was still deserted. The stream murmured as
it flowed between its banks of granite: the mills and a few
water-wheels groaned and rumbled. The heavens were
clear and blue; the first rays of the morning sun had just
reached the top of the Balkan ridge. The early swallows
flashed through the air, pursued each other in twittering
zigzags and bathed in invisible water. The morning breeze
rustled among the weeds with which the rocks were overgrown : over the green plain the golden rays of the sun
gradually spread—they reached the black clump of pines,
penetrated the weeds, and gilded the height on which
Ognianoff stood. But as yet no one appeared on the path.
Ognianoff was weary of waiting in that place: the uncertainty began to be insupportable. H e fixed his eyes on the
valley in the hope of seeing some one from whom he might
learn what was going on, and, if possible, beg a change of
clothes, so as to make his entry into Bela Cherkva less
perilous. But no one appeared, and the fugitive was growing more impatient every minute. Only the noise of the
stream replied to his disquieted soul.
At last his eyes flashed with satisfaction. The door of a
mill opened; a little girl came out and began to bathe her
face in the stream.
" I t ' s Marika!" cried Ognianoff joyfully, for his piercing
glance had recognised the girl as poor old Stoyan's orphan
daughter. H e now remembered that since her father's
* Sacred springs (a/yfooyw) are common in the East, and much
resorted to on the special saint's day to whom they are consecrated, by
votaries of all creeds,

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death she had lived with her uncle at the mill. Providence
was coming to his aid.
In a moment he had made his way down to the river, and
crouching behind a rock, he called her by her name.
Marika was already drying her face with her apron. She
turned round and recognised Boicho at once. She ran
towards him.
" Is that you, Boicho ? " she asked.
" Come here, Marika," cried Ognianoff from his hidingplace.
The girl looked at Ognianoff with eyes wide with pleased
surprise. His face was terribly emaciated, his clothes
ragged and blood-stained, he was bare-headed, exhausted, as
is natural in a man who for ten days and nights has battled
with hardships, sleeplessness, pursuers, the elements,
hunger, want, and danger at every step. Any other person
appearing at that hour and in that solitude would have
frightened the girl, but Ognianoff exercised a strange fascination over her.
" What's going on in town, Marika ? " was his first question.
" T h e Turks are there, Boicho."
Ognianoff clasped his forehead with both hands and began
to think.
" What was the firing about yesterday, do you know ? "
" Yesterday, Boicho ? I don't know, Boicho."
" Didn't you hear the guns ? "
" No, Boicho, I wasn't in town yesterday." Marika did
not know what to answer, but Boicho now saw what had
happened. There had been an attempt at insurrection,
which had been immediately stamped out by the Turks,
who were now masters of Bela Cherkva, He had come
too late. An hour or two earlier, perhaps, his presence
might have given affairs a different turn. This delay was
one of those fatalities which sometimes exercise an influence
on the destinies of nations.
After two minutes' thought, Ognianoff asked:
" Is there any one else at the mill, Marika ?"
" Only Uncle Mancho—he's still asleep."
" Marika, do you know where Dr. Sokoloff lives ? "
" Yes ; at old Mother Yakimitch's."
" That's right. And do you know where Brzobegounek's
house is—the Austrian, I mean—with the whiskers?"

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289

" The man who makes the-little black people? "
" Yes, yes, that's right, dear," said Ognianoff with a smile
at this innocent satire on the poor photographer.
" Do you think you could go and take a letter to them,
darling ? "
" Oh, yes, Boicho," answered the girl, joyfully.
Ognianoff drew from the pocket of his tunic a pencil and
a piece of paper, much crumpled. It was Rada's letter.
The sight of it filled him with dismay. With a trembling
hand he tore off the blank part, and, spreading it on a flat
stone, wrote a few words on it, after which he folded it up.
" Now, Marika, you're to take this letter to Dr. Sokoloff:
if he's not at home, take it to the Austrian. Put it away
carefully in your pocket.
" Yes."
"If they ask you where I am, you can tell them—but only
those two, do you hear ? Say I'm in the empty mill, behind
the HambarofT Mill."
Marika glanced towards the northern side of the valley,
where the solitary mill lay, half in ruins.
Ognianoff had not put his name nor his hiding-place in
the letter, fearing lest by some mischance the paper, instead
of reaching its destination, should fall into dangerous
hands. H e was quite convinced of Marika's devotion, but
dared not entrust her with a verbal message, lest in her simplicity she might make some slip, of which the consequences
might be fatal.
To impress still more deeply on her mind the importance
of her errand, he added quietly :
"Because if you lose the letter, dear, or tell any one else
by mistake that you've seen me, or where I am, the Turks
will come and kill me. Be careful, darling."
At these words Marika's face assumed a grave and
frightened look, and her hand involuntarily sought the place
under her arm where she had inserted Boicho's letter under
her dress.
" I'll go and tell uncle I'm going to fetch the bread."
" That's right, Marika—mind you remember what I told
you."
Marika went into the mill.
Boicho returned to his hiding-place behind a rock, and
waited to see Marika start.
T

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H e waited for a whole hour, with terrible impatience.
At last he saw the girl picking her way barefoot across the
stones in the path : he watched her disappear in the direction
of Bela Cherkva.

CHAPTER

VII.

MARIKA'S FAILURE.

W H E N she reached the meadow before the Monastery,
Marika stopped, out of breath, and looked anxiously round ;
but she saw that she was unobserved, and continued her
journey hurriedly. All the way to the town she did not
meet with a single person; the fields were deserted, as also
the street which the orphan was about to enter appeared to
be. Suddenly Marika stopped. She saw three Turks coming
towards her from the other end of the street. Filled with
terror at the sight of these men, she turned round without
hesitating, and fled down into the rose-gardens, intending
to enter the town by the other street on its western side.
This was going considerably out of her way, and increased
the distance between her and SokolofFs house. At last
Marika reached the western side of the town. To the right
stretched the great bare plain; to the left was the town, with
its narrow street, and the row of low shops on either side.
The shops were completely deserted; neither Turk nor
Bulgarian was to be seen there. All the shops, doors, and
windows that had shutters were closed : this solitude encouraged the poor girl, and she ran down the street. But
she had hardly advanced ten paces when something made
her turn back: she remained transfixed with surprise. Not
far away on the plain a huge cloud of dust was rising, from
which proceeded a confused clamour of heavy footsteps,
trampling of horses, and loud human voices. Soon, through
the dust, could be seen the origin of all this disturbance.
It was the horde of Tossoun Bey, returning victorious and
triumphant after three days' plunder from the ruins of
Klissoura. Men on foot and horsemen advanced in inextricable confusion, loaded with arms and booty. Soon
the throng surged like a wave into the street, which it com-

MA RIKA'S

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291

pletely filled, and passed through it with wild clamour. It
was only a part of the horde, consisting of a few hundred
Bashi-bozouks, all natives of the neighbouring villages to the
east of Bela Cherkva. They were now marching in triumph,
with their banners displayed, to the sound of music, and
with such trophies as they could bring with them. The
rest was stored in the endless line of waggons which came
behind. For the sake of ease, the Bashi-bozouks had put
on the most precious clothes plundered from unhappy
Klissoura, so that the bloodthirsty array had in some
respects a comic appearance—it resembled a carnival procession, in Asiatic taste.
Many had put on women's
valuable fur jackets, fine shirts, and quilted satin vests, in
spite of the heat. Some Bashi-bozouks had even decked
themselves, doubtless in contempt, in rich ecclesiastical
vestments stolen from the churches at Klissoura. Their
leader, Tossoun Bey, wore a magnificent European dressing-gown of grey cashmere, lined with red cloth, with long
hanging red tassels.
Evidently Tossoun Bey was unacquainted with the use of this garment, which he took to
be some luxurious overcoat, most appropriate for his return
to Bela Cherkva.
It was a repulsive sight.
But Marika hardly saw it. At the very moment that the
horde came into sight she disappeared from the street and
passed through others still more silent and deserted. At
last she reached Sokoloff's door. She knocked : there was
no reply. She knocked again and again.
" Who's that knocking ?" asked the old housekeeper
from inside.
" It's me. Open the door, mother Yakimitch," was all
the girl could say.
" What do you want here ? "
" Dr. SokolofF. Open the door—do !" cried the girl
tearfully.
The old woman muttered something angrily, but opened
the door.
" What do you want ? He's not at home," she said curtly.
"Where is he, mother?"
" Tell me, and I'll tell you. They've been looking for
him since yesterday, and there's not a sign of him. Be off
with you."

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And the old woman slammed the door.
Marika stood in dismay outside.
She ran back. The photographer's door was close by :
she knocked at it.
" What do you want, little girl ? asked a woman in rags,
haggard, and sorrowful.
" The Austrian."
" What do you want him for ? "
" Let me in to see the Austrian !" cried Marika, as she
tried to force her way past the woman.
"Are you mad, child?
Haven't they killed the Austrian ?" answered the woman wildly, pushing Marika into
the street.
These words terrified the poor child. She now began to
think that Boicho would be killed too, that the Turks were
after him, and that they would take the letter away from
her, because some one had told them she had got a letter
from Boicho. What could she do ? She looked round
her, and noticed that the street was quite empty, and that
there was no one there. She became frightened and began
to cry. Just then some one stumbled against her from
behind. She looked round : it was Kolcho.
" What are you crying for, my dear ? " asked the blind lad,
fixing his sightless eyes upon Marika, as if he sought to
recognise her.
If Marika had known Kolcho better, she would have
transgressed OgnianofPs orders and told him the whole
story: Kolcho would have replaced SokolofF. But she
was afraid of this strange man and fled down another
street.
" Stop, stop, Marika !" cried Kolcho, who at that minute,
through his wonderful faculty recognised by her weeping
that it was old Stoyan's daughter. H e had knocked
immediately after her at SokolorT's door, to ask the old
woman about the doctor: from her he had learnt that a
little girl had just been to look for him. Some presentiment told him that the girl was Marika, and that if she was
looking for the doctor it must be for some very serious
reason, as indeed was shown by the fact of her crying
because she had been unable to find him. Who could
have sent her to SokolofT at such a time as this? Only
some one who did not know what was going on—some

MA RIKA'S

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293

stranger.
Could it have been he ? Since the previous
evening a rumour had been current that Boi'cho had not
perished, but had escaped to the mountains, and was
probably in hiding there now. Perhaps it was Boicho who
had come down to the Monastery stream, where Marika
lived at her uncle's mill, and had sent her to inform
Sokoloff of his arrival. Yes, yes, this Marika was an instrument of Providence. The supposition strangely excited
Kolcho. He cried, advancing in the direction the girl had
taken:
" Marika, Marika, come here, child."
But there was no answer.
Kolcho groaned in despair.
By that time he had reached the market-place.
This at least was not silent nor deserted : loud talking
and the trampling of horses' hoofs could be heard.
It seemed like a procession,
Every one was talking Turkish. What could this be ?
Kolcho stopped, astounded, near the cafe, and listened to
what was being said.
H e heard a loud voice inside, saying, in Bulgarian :
" Theie, just think of it—its shameful: to try and burn the
town down over our heads ! It was touch-and-go they
didn't kill every one of us, like dogs, and not leave one stone
standing on another. Where are the brigands now, I should
like to know: bring 'em here and I'll read out their sentences for 'em. Revolt, indeed ! Against whom ? Against the
Sultan, their father and benefactor, who watches over us as
the apple of his eye, to see that we come to no harm. So
many hundred years we've been under the shadow of the
Sultan's throne, our grandfathers have prospered, and our
fathers, and we ourselves—aye, and our grandchildren '11 be
put to it to find anything better. Let's have a little common
sense, bother you all! Whoever isn't comfortable here can
go to Moskovia. We're all right."
Kolcho recognised Chorbaji Yordan's voice.
" Long live His Majesty the Sultan !" cried another.
This time Kolcho recognised Fratio.
These two expressed the panic which had overwhelmed
the town. The former was hateful only, for he was sincere
in what he said—he had spoken and thought thus even
before the outbreak; but the other was repulsive, for he

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was actuated only- by cowardice. His cry met with no
response, but he found it in the very silence which followed.
In such times as the present, the Yordans were right and
the Fratios honourable. Every outrage upon the fallen
was permissible—every brutality of the victor condoned.
Vce victis.
The April insurrection was less terrible in its massacres at
Batak than in the baseness of its downfall.
Kolcho sighed deeply.
He turned back towards Mother Ghinka's house.

CHAPTER

VIII.

THE MEADOW.

T H A T day, about noon, a family was to be seen sitting in a
delightful meadow, under the shade of the green trees, just
outside the town. At the southern end of the meadow rose
the stone fence round a garden, the gate of which opened
on to the meadow : to the north stretched the panorama of
the Stara Planina, with its gaunt, spare peaks, steep slopes
seamed by the ravines, and the picturesque and blooming
plain below.
The meadow and garden belonged to Chorbaji Yordan,
whose family it was sitting there. With this exception, not
a soul could be seen stirring outside the town ; for
although since the capitulation things were quieter and
some life appeared in the streets, no one ventured abroad
either on business or simply to enjoy the beauties of
nature. Only Yordan's family could hope to do so unmolested.
For Yordanitsa had fallen seriously ill in consequence of
her grief at Lalka's death, and had been confined to her bed
for many days. The doctor had insisted on the necessity of
a change of scene for the sufferer, and, as the streets were
not quite safe, she had been conducted through backyards
and gardens to Yordan's plantation in the suburbs, where
she could breathe in and enjoy the pure fresh air. The
change at once revived her. From the garden they had

THE

MEADOW.

295

ventured out into the meadow, where two great buffaloes
were grazing, also Yordan's property.
A zaptie sitting some distance off protected the party
from insult or annoyance.
There were amongst them two who did not belong to
the family : these were a stout and lusty peasant girl, and
Rada.
The peasant woman was Staika, Kill-the-Bear's bride,
whom Ghinka had engaged to help in the house-work : she
had also extended a hospitable welcome to R a d a ; nor had
this given rise to any objections on the part of Yordanitsa
or any other member of Yordan's family. On the contrary,
the sight of Rada, their lost Lalka's dearest friend, seemed
to afford them a sweet but painful consolation, and their
former contempt and hatred gave way to more humane
feeling towards the poor homeless girl.
We have already seen that Staika and Rada, who had
become friends at Klissoura, had both alike suffered in the
ruin of that town. Thanks to Staika, Ivan had been in time
to save Rada. On the way, she had done her best to console the weeping girl, and when they arrived, two days before,
at Bela Cherkva, refused to he separated from her. Simple,
half wild as she was, she understood, nevertheless, Rada's
painful position, and shared her woes. There had been
some talk just before of Boicho, and Sister Hajji Rovoama
had averred that he had been killed in the fight: this had
made Staika look pitifully at Rada's face, which grew pale
at the news; and she conceived a violent hatred for the
nun who spoke so calmly of Boicho's death.
" One 'ud think she'd seen the teacher killed with her own
eyes. Why should she be glad, the old owl ? " whispered
Staika angrily to Rada.
" Hush, hush !" Rada answered softly.
Staika listened for a while to the conversation, and then
whispered again to Rada : " Rada, the old cat's got whiskers.
Why doesn't she shave them ? "
Rada smiled involuntarily. " Hush, dear."
It was the first time Staika had seen sister Hajji Rovoama:
she did not know she was her mistress's aunt. To be
revenged on her she had slily cut the string of the nun's
rosary and stolen some of the amber beads; and she was
now watching with glee the discomfiture of the old woman

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as she looked fox her missing property. At last Staika
nudged Rada and burst out laughing.
" What are you laughing at, Staika ? " asked Ghinka.
" Why, at the fuss the old crow's making over a couple of
grains of maize."
"You mustn't say that, Sister Hajji Rovoama, dear,"
whispered Raja, correcting her.
Fortunately, Staika's uncomplimentary expression passed
unnoticed : just then every one turned to Stefchoff, who had
come from the town.
H e at once began eagerly to describe the doings of the
deputation in which he had taken part. This deputation,
headed by Yordan Diamandieff, had been sent that day to
meet Tossoun Bey, who was on his way to attack the city as
having revolted, and to entreat him to spare it. After much
trouble, the deputation had succeeded in saving Bela
Cherkva from the fate which had befallen Klissoura, but
upon three most onerous conditions : 1st, the town was to
pay down on the spot one thousand liras * to Tossoun Bey as
a compensation to his band, thus baulked of their promised
spoil; 2ndly, all weapons, down to the very penknives,
were to be handed over to him; and 3rdly, all suspected
persons were to be given up to the authorities.
This complete capitulation, which was powerless to save
Batak from Ahmed Aga of Tumrush, saved Bela Cherkva.
Tossoun Bey entered only with a part of his forces, to take
over the arms. Hence Chorbaji Yordan and in some
measure Stefchoff were now looked upon as the saviours of
the town. As he explained all these doings with pride,
Stefchoff cast from time to time a spiteful glance at Rada,
who did not even look towards him. But the presence of
that hated man weighed on her like a heavy burden. The
harsh tone of his voice affected her nerves: every sound of
it awoke a painful echo in her heart. She saw personified
in him the fatal ruin which had befallen her dearest hopes,
and he inspired her with nameless fear and aversion. My
God, she thought, so many good people have been killed,
and this monster lives and rejoices ! He's honoured and
looked up to—why ? Because he's so bad and vile ? But
suddenly she turned towards Stefchoff with a look of interest,
because he was now talking of Boicho, and mere glee* A lira is about 18s. 6d.

THE

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297

fully than ever before when he had mentioned Boicho's
name.
" What! do you mean to say the scoundrel's alive ?"
asked Sister Hajii Rovoama, doubtfully.
" Y e s ; he's fled to the mountain/'said Stefchoff; " b u t
whether he's still alive I can't tell Perhaps the vultures
have picked his bones by this time."
Rada pressed her hand to her heart with a painful
emotion.
" I tell you the Count's alive—he's not dead," said Hajji
Simeon. " He's been dead so often, and comes to life
again every time. I don't believe it. It reminds me, when
I was in Moldavia they all said the brigand Yankulesco
was dead; the newspapers wrote about him. Well, we all
said * God rest his soul,' when one day, as I was travelling
near Tourgou Namtsou, whom should I meet but Yankulesco—curse him ! ' Good morning, Domnule Yankulesco,'
says I : he just took my watch—as a keepsake, he said.
What I mean is, he didn't kill me, as he might have done.
I mean to say a brigand never dies."
And Hajji Simeon.winked in a friendly manner at Rada,
as much as to say, " Take my word for it, the Count's alive."
" Provided the ruffian doesn't come here and burn the
place down, like Klissoura."
" Come ? I wish he would come, that's all, and that
confounded bear-trainer too. I should like to get hold of
him and settle his business, like Master Kandoff and the
others," said Stefchoff.
" Ah, it's a pity, but somebody must be sacrificed to save
thousands," said some one.
" Of course. What do they come here for, the vagabonds !"
" What for ? Why, to hide themselves," answered Ghinka,
eagerly.
Stefchoff stared at her with astonishment.
" Well, Ghinka, I suppose, according to you, Father
Yordan's done wrong ? "
" No—he's done well; you've both done well, you and
father! My word ! one would think you were Jews or
Turks, not Bulgarians ! Don't you ever think what made
the poor fellows go out on the mountains to die ? "
Ghinka's face flamed, and her eyes flashed.

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" You're mad, girl; you're mad," said her sick mother.
" As for these friends of yours," sneered Stefchoff, " these
patriots : to hear you talk, we ought to go ouUo meet them,
to send the school children to sing hymns when they come,
to open our doors to them and cook sweetmeats for them,
like some people, who baked biscuit."
" Yes, I know, I know," interrupted the enraged Ghinka:
"betray them to the Turks, kill them, shoot them, drink
their blood, like you did to those poor lads yesterday!
When I think of KandofT's poor mother, how she shrieked
and fainted in the middle of the road ! Ah ! Lalka, darling ! My God—my God !"
And Ghinka sank down at the foot of a walnut-tree and
sobbed aloud, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Her
sudden outburst was caused by the thought of the insurgents who had been shot the day before, but those present
attributed it to Lalka's death. Rada hastened to her side to
comfort her. The mention of her daughter had also disturbed Mother Yordanitsa, who began to cry.
Their grief drove Stefchoff wild : he guessed them to be
crying over the insurgents.
The zaptid, who understood something of what was being
said, approached Stefchoff and Hajji Simeon, and said in a
low voice :
" Have you heard ? There's another Koumita from
Klissoura come down the mountain to the Monastery
stream."
" What! Who told you so ? " asked Stefchoff with a start.
" T h e gipsy woman Arabia; she saw him while she was
gathering herbs."
" When ? "
"To-day, at noon."
" Has she given notice about it ? "
" I don't know."
" O h , we must see to this at once," cried Stefchoff,
snatching up his fez from the grass : " we were all but being
put to fire and sword to-day, and here comes another bandit
upon us."
"That's the man, I'll be bound," said Hajji Simeon
suddenly.
" Who ? " asked Stefchoff.
" The Count—didn't I say he was alive ? "

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299

" So much the better—there'll be more butchery.''
Hajji Simeon was now frightened at his own words, spoken
without meaning any harm. He grew pale.
" Kiriak, are you going ? "
" Yes, of course."
" W h a t business is it of yours ? Let the poor fellow alone,"
said Hajji Simeon, in tones of entreaty: " we'll find some
corner in the whole town where he can remain hidden.
Every one likes the Count."
" You're mad, Hajji/' cried Stefchoff with a sudden flash
of anger. " Bela Cherkva must be saved."
And without bidding farewell to the company he hastened
towards the town, continuing his whispered conversation
with the zaptie, who accompanied him as far as the garden
wall.
Hajji Simeon stood as if petrified.

C H A P T E R IX.
AN ALLY.

STEFCHOFF'S sudden departure had scarcely been noticed by
the family, who were all busy round Yordanitsa, trying to
comfort the old lady.
" Missus, you'd better be off into the garden. I see our
Turks are beginning to come this way through the orchards,"
said the zapti£, who approached and took his rifle before
joining Stefchoff, who was waiting for him.
Mother Yordanitsa rose to go into the garden. Ghinka
supported her under the arms as she walked, the others
followed. Last of all came Rada and Staika : Staika pressed
her friend's hand warmly and said, " Rada, the teacher's alive,
did you hear ? " But Rada did not answer, being seized by
new terrors. For some presentiment told her that this fresh
victim of the disaster of Klissoura, who had come down from
the Balkan that day, and whom Stefchoff was eager to betray
with a light heart, was no stranger to her—that it was he
himself; and her heart throbbed with inexpressible dismay.
" Why, look at that little girl running along barefoot," cried

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Staika, pointing to a little girl who was darting across the
meadow.
It was Marika. The child was returning disconsolate,
after trying vainly for several hours to find out where Dr.
Sokoloff was. With delight she saw Rada, the only friend
of Boicho's whom she knew, and who could assist her.
Though she had not forgotten Boicho's instructions, Marika
felt that Rada would not be dangerous, that Boicho had
most likely forgotten to say she might tell Rada, and that
there was no harm in trusting to her.
Rada rose to meet her.
"Come here, Marika. What is it, d e a r ? "
The little girl stopped, looked round her timidly, and
asked:
" Rada, dear, do you know where the doctor is ? "
" Sokoloff, dear? No, I don't know. Is anybody ill ?"
Marika shook her head.
" Who sent you for the doctor, then, dear ? "
"Rada, dear ; it was—Boi
"
Marika in her terror did not venture to complete the
name.
But Rada understood. She grew pale, and tears started
to her eyes. At the same moment Stefchoff returned, and
fixed his piercing eyes on Marika. H e had noticed her,
and come back for that reason.
" What have you got in your hand, little girl ? " he asked.
Marika trembled. She started back guiltily, and hid her
hand in her dress.
" Give me the paper; I want to see it," he said, advancing towards her.
The girl shrieked wildly, and fled across the meadow
towards the rose-gardens.
A dark suspicion formed in Stefchoff's mind. H e guessed
that there was some important secret in the letter the terrified
child was trying to conceal: he had also recognised old
Stoyan's orphan. Why had she come to Rada, and who
could have sent her with a letter at such a moment ? Could
it be from OgnianorT, and was he the rebel who had come
down from the Balkan? The thought made his face beam
with evil joy, and he hastened after Marika.
Rada, sighing deeply, followed Marika, who, seeing the
buffalo drover in the way, turned back and fled in the

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opposite direction : this would throw her right into
StefchofFs arms, who was running towards her.
Marika saw this new danger and shrieked aloud, as if to
implore assistance against her cruel pursuer.
Staika was watching this scene with much surprise. She
could not understand why Stefchoff was so anxious to
secjre the paper, but from Rada's face she saw that he
must at any cost be prevented from getting hold of it. The
moment she understood this she ran like a hare across the
meadow, and seizing Stefchoff by the coat-tails, held him
firmly, so as to give the child time to escape.
Stefchoff turned round and saw the peasant-woman.
Her boldness surpassed all belief.
" Guv'ner, what are you chasing the girl for ?" asked
Staika angrily, holding him.
" Let me go, you pig," shrieked Stefchoff in a fury, struggling to get free. '• Ah ! I see it all; she's sent you, you
infernal village hussy. Kosta, Kosta, confound you, catch
hold of her !" he cried to Yordan's drover, who had been
startled by Marika's screams. H e cut off her flight. The
poor girl stopped in terror when she saw this fresh pursuer,
turned back like a frightened fawn, and hid herself between
the buffaloes, as if to beg for protection against her fellow
human creatures.
Staika, whose wild instincts had been roused, tried to
throw herself upon Stefchoff and the drover at the same
time; they stood before her like hens facing an eagle, but a
despairing sign from Rada held her back.
The amazed peasant girl did not dare to go on. She
sorrowfully watched the poor child, half dead, as she fell
fainting on the grass by the buffaloes. Ever since that
terrible night in the mill Marika was subject to hysterical
fits whenever she was frightened. One of the buffaloes, who
was standing upright, bent his great head over the motionless girl, sniffed gently and compassionately at her face, and
raised his damp nose again, looking round quietly and
unconcernedly out of his wide blue eyes.
Stefchoff hastily searched Marika's dress, for he had seen
the child put the letter away there as she fled. But he
could not find it. They hunted all over the field, but the
paper had vanished, as if it had sunk into the ground.
Stefchoff turned round angrily.

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" I wonder if he's swallowed it," he said, looking savagely
at the buffalo.
Golio, as if he understood that he was suspected of theft,
opened his huge mouth wide ; only a few half-munched
blades of grass were to be seen in his capacious jaws.
Stefchoff was bewildered. H e could not understand what
had become of the letter.
" No doubt the little devil has dropped it somewhere in
the field," he said, and he and Kosta began to search again.
Marika soon came to herself. Her first impulse was to
feel in her pocket; she began to cry when she found nothing
there. The poor child rose and went away sobbing.
Stefchoff and the drover searched for a long time. At
last Stefchoff went off hurriedly to the town. H e had
probably found the letter. As he passed by Rada he
muttered with a savage look : " We'll see his head stuck on
a pole to-day."
Rada, overcome with dismay, was unable to move.
Staika stood bolt upright by the buffaloes. She shared
Rada's fears, but could not understand why she had not
been allowed to help Marika to escape. She still looked
fiercely in the direction in which Stefchoff had disappeared,
while she unconsciously stroked Golio's shaggy neck.
Golio sniffed at the hand of this stranger who was caressing him, and turned away.
" Here's the letter, Rada," she cried, picking up a muddy
scrap of paper which had been concealed under the beast's
hoof. Golio had indeed placed his foot upon it while
sniffing over the fainting Marika.
Rada seized the letter, unfolded it with a trembling hand,
and glanced at it hurriedly.
" From Boicho !" she cried.
She pressed her hand to her heart, overcome with emotion.
The letter consisted of two lines only:
" I've come down the Balkan. Bring or send me clothes
and news at once."
There was no signature to the letter.
Rada read it over again and again : she noticed with
emotion that these words were written on the blank portion
of the very letter she had sent by Kill-the-Bear at that
frightful moment. Her signature " Rada," in pencil, was
still on the other side. Her tears flowed afresh.

LOVE AND

HEROISM,

303

" What does it say in the letter, Rada ? " asked Staika.
" He's alive—alive, dear," exclaimed Rada with a sigh.
Staika's broad face grinned all over with joy.
"Teacher's alive, is he, Rada ? Didn't I tell you the old
cat knew nothing about it, for all her talk about the
teacher ? "
" He's alive, dear, he's alive; tell Ghinka I'm not well,
and that I've gone home. Don't say a word about the
letter!"
And she went towards the orchards.

C H A P T E R X.
LOVE AND HEROISM.

WHAT Rada required above all was time to collect her
thoughts, and to take a rapid decision. She crouched behind some neighbouring bushes, which concealed her from
view, and began to think earnestly what she should do.
Things were most critical. Boicho's life hung on a single
hair, and he suspected nothing, for it could only have been
Boicho whom the gipsy had seen; yes, yes, it must have
been he. H e must at once be informed of the danger, and
be supplied with the means of escape. For her, for a girl,
this was no easy task : the fields were now deserted except
by occasional Bashi-bozouks prowling round in search of
plunder. She shuddered at the thought that she might
encounter some of these semi-savages : but Boicho's life was
at stake, and she must risk everything. Her love would
brave all the cruelty of fate or of man. Yes ; she must start
at once. But he asked for clothes, ordinary clothes of
course, the clothes of some peaceful citizen, so as to avoid
arousing suspicion.
Properly disguised, he might even
enter Bela Cherkva. This was a great difficulty. Where
could she find such clothes ? Who would incur the evident
danger of lending his ? Where could she search for clothes
when every moment was precious ? Then another thought
struck her, which ought to have occurred to her from the
first: where was Ognianoff hidden ? The letter did not

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say. Probably out of precaution he had enjoined Marika
to reveal the secret only verbally to Sokoloff. And now
Marika was gone ! Oh ! why had she not thought of asking
her just before where Boichowas? Thank God, at least
she knew he was in the valley of the Monastery; she had
heard the zaptie say so. The valley of the Monastery was
immense, but she would find Boicho if she had to search
every inch of it. But, oh dear ! his enemies would not lose
all that time; they knew exactly where he was waiting for
the reply to his letter. But she would find him ; she would
get there before them, long before, for her feet would be
winged. If she could only have found the clothes, and they
were the most necessary of all! My God! and time was
going by so fast, and there was no one to advise her.
All these thoughts presented themselves to her in a
moment with lightning rapidity. She resolved to leave her
hiding-place, and hasten towards the valley of the Monastery.
But first of all she looked carefully through the
bushes towards the garden. By the gate she saw a man
standing in a tall fez, dressed in a suit of grey tweed. She
took him at first for Stefchoff. But n o ; this was a shorter
man, and quite different in appearance. She recognised
blind Kolcho.
Her heait quivered with joy, although
Kolcho, being blind, could be but of little service to her.
But at least she would discuss the matter with him. God
alone could have sent him there.
But she saw with dismay that Kolcho was already passing
through the gateway into the garden.
She called aloud.
" Kolcho,, Kolcho ! stop ! " and darted towards him.
Kolcho heard her cry, and stopped.
In a moment Rada was at his side.
" Kolcho! "
" Rada ! I was looking for you," said the blind lad.
And drawing near to her, he whispered:
"Boicho's alive !"
" Yes, yes; I know he is, Kolcho," said Rada, panting.
" He's in the mountain," added Kolcho.
" No, Kolcho j he's come down into the Monastery
valley."
Kolcho started.
" What do you mean, R a d a ? "

LOVE AND

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305

" He's there, he's there now, Kolcho; I've just had a
letter from him. H e wants clothes, Kolcho, he must have
clothes. They've brought word to the Turks; the gipsies
saw him. But I'll fly to him and warn him. He'll escape.
They won't catch him; but wherever he goes they'll know
he belongs to the rebels, because of his clothes.
My
God ! my God ! and there's no time."
While Rada sobbed out her broken ejaculations, Kolcho
was thinking : he had hit upon a plan.
"There's clothes to be had, Rada," said he.
" Oh, Kolcho, tell me where. Where can we find them ? "
"Close by, at a friend's house."
" Quick, quick, dear !"
" Wait here half a minute."
And Kolcho hurried away.
Rada waited impatiently hidden among the bushes. Not
more than a minute or two passed, but they seemed to her
hours. Moreover, she was trembling lest some one should
come out of the gardens and find her there alone and in
that state of excitement.
She groaned aloud.
But at that moment a little girl came towards her carrying
a bundle.
The blind lad had placed in it a fez, a long coat and a
pair of trousers of grey tweed. H e had been wearing them
a moment before. His tender solicitude had also thought
of two other things which Rada in her confusion had forgotten : in the pockets he had put a loaf of bread and a
hundred piastres.
But Rada did not even look at the bundle : she took it
from the little girl and hastily went northwards, through the
orchards.
" My God, my God ! " she thought to herself bitterly, " he
doesn't want to see me any more! What have I done to
him ? And I love him so."
As it has already been stated, the fields were deserted,
not a single Bulgarian dared to venture outside the town:
only Bashi-bozouks were occasionally to be seen lurking
there ; and for a lonely girl the danger was still greater and
more terrible.
But Rada did not even think about it.
Love has only one thought—self-sacrifice.

u

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CHAPTER XI
T H E BASHI-BOZOUK.

OGNIANOFF, hidden in the deserted mill, was awaiting the
appearance of some friend, or at least of Marika.
The dilapidated mill, which was crumbling in ruin, stood
solitary at the topmost end of the stream, not far from the
thundering waterfall: beyond it there was no other building.
In its walls were great chasms, where the doors and
windows had formerly been, and a part of the roof had been
carried away by the wind.
The breaches in the walls served Ognianoff as portholes
through which he could watch the path which followed the
stream up to the very waterfall, where it crossed to the
other side and wound up the slope to the mountain.
Ognianoff was much disturbed. The terrible feeling of uncertainty grew stronger every minute : his anxiety and dismay
were increasing. He could not understand the reason of
this delay. But his worst fear was lest Marika should not
have succeeded in finding either the doctor or Brzobegounek, who were perhaps obliged to remain in hiding.
He never for a moment suspected the terrible danger which
was threatening him. He could not guess that his presence
there was now known to friends and foes alike, and that his
fate depended upon the solution of the question who should
arrive first, the former or the latter.
He saw some one coming up the path, to his dismay. It
was a Turk, tall and powerfully-built, with a green turban
round his fez; a long yataghan gleamed in his belt; he was
dressed in a blue jacket and breeches, and carried a bundle
on his back. It was probably one of the Turks of whom
Marika had spoken, a Bashi-bozouk.
But what could he be doing there ?
Ognianoff drew his revolver and watched the stranger
carefully.
The Bashi-bozouk continued up the path, walking with
very long strides.
He gradually approached the deserted mill, but at fifty
paces from it he turned off and passed to the other side.

THE

BASHI-BOZOUK.

3o7

Ognianoff was astounded; but he was obliged to remain
silent and motionless. H e could only wait and look on.
The Turk kept on his way up. H e crossed the stream on
the stepping-stones, passed through the tall spreading weeds
at the foot of the cliff, and stopped. Ognianoff noticed that
he stopped at the very place where the path up the
mountain began. H e grew pale. This path was the only
one by which he could escape to the Balkan in case of need.
The steep and jagged rocks were quite inaccessible elsewhere. Could this man have come to cut off his escape ?
was he followed by others ?
Just then the Turk took off his turban, one end of which
had become unrolled. The whole of the Bashi-bozouk's face
and head were thus discovered to OgnianofFs gaze.
H e now saw a young and handsome face with a broad
white forehead, over which the thick fair hair fell in curls.
Ognianoff involuntarily uttered a cry of surprise—then,
standing at the empty-window frame, he put two fingers to
his mouth and whistled.
The shrill sound was echoed by the rocks.
The Bashi-bozouk fixed his eyes on the mill from whence
the sound came; he saw Ognianoff beckoning significantly, arid hastened forward. It was Sokoloff.
The two friends embraced each other warmly.
"What, Boicho, Boicho! you're alive, brother? what are
you doing here ? " cried Sokoloff moved to tears.
" A n d you, doctor, in this get-up?"
" What are you doing here ? when did you come ? "
" Last night—what kept you so long ? "
" Kept me ? " asked Sokoloff with surprise.
" Yes—couldn't Marika find you at first ? "
" Marika ! who's she ? "
"What—didn't she find y o u ? " cried Ognianoff. " I sent
her to you with a letter this morning."
" She didn't find me—nor any one else either—I was in
hiding," answered Sokoloff.
Ognianoff looked at him with surprise.
" What for ? where are you going ? "
" I ? I'm flying."
"Flying, doctor?"
" Yes—can't you see by my clothes ? "
" And when did you leave Bela Cherkva ? "

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" I managed to get out last night. I've been hiding all
day in the HambarofF mill."
" Fancy ! we've been close together all day without knowing it. How strange! But what can have become of
Marika ? " said Ognianoff, who was again becoming anxious ;
" and where are you going now ? "
" To the mountain. IVe been waiting till now for my
passport and some money. But now I won't leave you—
we'll live or die together. A h ! Boicho, Boicho, what
terrible misfortunes have come upon our country; who'd
have thought it, brother ? "
" Sit down, sit down, and let's talk,"

C H A P T E R XII.
T H E HISTORY OF AN UNREVOLTED CITY.

CROUCHING together in a corner, the two friends related to
each other respectively what had happened at Klissoura and
at Bela Cherkva during the last nine days. From SokolofFs
words, or more properly report, everything now became
clear to Ognianoff. Bela Cherkva had in truth not risen
immediately after Klissoura. It had not risen like so many
other towns and villages as well or better prepared for the
revolt—everything had been lost through the premature
outburst. At the first news of the movement at Klissoura,
the committee had split up into two parties—the first anxious
to avoid an attack being made on the town, against which
they would, however, defend themselves, but determined to
rise only in case reinforcements were sent to them from
outside; the second of opinion that the standard of revolt
should be raised at once, come what might. But the
majority of the townspeople decided to capitulate. The
extreme members of the committee, who wished for immediate action, that is to say, the doctor, Popoff, and
Bezporteff, were decoyed into Pope Stavri's outhouse and
locked up there, and a deputation, headed by Chorbaji
Yordan, was sent to K. to express submissive and loyal
sentiments on behalf of Bela Cherkva, and to ask for a
garrison to protect them.

THE HISTORY

OF AN UNREVOLTED

CITY.

309

The Government, somewhat dismayed at the revolt,
joyfully accepted this offer and sent fifty Bashi-bozouks to
Bela Cherkva to collect all the arms in the city and defend
it against attack. Soon a whole heap of guns, pistols and
daggers was piled up in the courtyard of the Konak.
This lightning conductor—the capitulation—saved Bela
Cherkva. Only one victim was sacrificed—Marko IvanofT,
who was carried off to Philippopolis loaded with chains
on account of his cherry-tree.
Five days later, a banner appeared on the summit of the
Balkans : this gave rise to various conjectures, explanations
and rumours, and fresh hopes were aroused. There was
great excitement: it was said that several thousand
insurgents were marching from the Balkan to the rescue
of Bela Cherkva, headed by Russian and Servian officers.
No one knew positively from whence this unexpected
succour was coming : it seemed to be falling from the sky.
Kableshkoff had so often spoken of a mysterious army ready
to appear at the appointed time, that the most sceptical
began to believe.
Every one looked hopefully at the
banner on the summit of the Balkan. Some even averred
that they could see men with guns on their shoulders on
the mountain ridge—they took the bushes for an army.
Others who eyesight was still sharper could distinguish
Russians among them by their great shaggy kalpaks.
Then Pope Stavri came and unlocked his outhouse, and
said to the captives :
" It's a sin to keep you under lock and key any longer,
children; Micho was right! Come and see what there is
on the mountain."
The three prisoners rushed from the door. Half an
hour later they had taken possession of the Konak, Bey,
arms, garrison and all. The whole city was in ecstasy.
Bela Cherkva had revolted. But almost immediately terrible
news came, which struck dismay into the hearts of all. A
cattle drover had come down with all speed from the mountain, and brought word that there was no one at all on the
Balkan. And Tossoun Bey had already started for Bela
Cherkva, to level it to the ground. Meanwhile the panic
was doubled by the news of the fall of Klissoura, brought
by three fugitives, who had come down from the mountain
and taken refuge at the school in the upper part of the

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town. These were Kandoff, who was wounded in the arm,
and two others from Klissoura. The old housekeeper took
them in and concealed them in the rafters of the schoolhouse. She had also provided them with bread, for they
had for two days eaten nothing but herbs; and at their
request given notice of their arrival to Brzobegounek, who
had brought them clothes, fezzes, and tobacco. They had
not finished their first cigarette when through the chinks in
the roof they saw that the school was surrounded on all
sides by Turks. Brzobegounek happened to be still in the
rafters. There was no hope of escape. The Turks began
to fire at the roof from outside, through the windows. The
two men from Klissoura, being wounded, fell down and gave
themselves up. They were cut to pieces on the spot.
Brzobegounek managed to fire his revolver twice, and
wounded a Turk, but fell at once pierced by a dozen bullets.
H e was also despatched. Kandoff alone remained. Every
gun was levelled at the spot where he was expected to
appear. But he did not show himself. Suddenly the rafters,
which were rotten, gave way, and Kandoff fell to the ground.
H e rose to his feet, folded his arms, and cried: " Fire, I'm
ready for you !"
The Turks thought he was the commander and had
surrendered, as he spoke in Bulgarian and they had not
understood him. They waited.
" Fire, you savages, other Bulgarians will still remain ! "
he cried again, This time they understood what he meant.
In reply thirty guns were fired at once, but not a single
bullet seemed to have touched him. He rushed down the
steps and made for the church through the courtyard. Again
they fired without effect. H e had reached the church door,
when two bullets struck him and he fell in the church itself.
They despatched him with their yatagans. From there they
hastened in search of the doctor. Several citizens joined
the Bashi-bozouks. Dead or alive, he must be found, to
avert Tossoun Bey's wrath from the city : the doctor must
be sacrificed to save Bela Cherkva. In the dark the
terrified landlord of the house where he was hidden turned
him out. The band of pursuers caught sight of him in the
street and followed in his track, but he managed to get a
start of them. As he fled along the long Moukhliss street
he tried the doors which he passed in the hope of being

THE HISTORY

OF AN UNREVOLTED

CITY.

311

able to slip into one of them; but every door was firmly
barred, and he continued his flight. When he reached the
market-place it seemed to him that there were now two bands
pursuing him, for he saw a dozen men ahead of him barring
the road. H e turned to the left and flew down a side
street: his pursuers lost sight of him and he was able to
stop for a few seconds to rest himself. But the danger
was as great as ever. The band would not be long before
searching that street also, and at best there was but little
chance of his escaping their bullets, thanks to the clearness
of the night.
To try to get out of the town was hopeless. Every outlet
was closely guarded by sentinels. There was only one hope
of safety—to take refuge in the house of some friend. Fortunately, he remembered that Pope Dimcho's house was
close by. H e hastened to it, and knocked at the door:
it was opened by Pope Dimcho himself, a member of the
committee.
" Pope, hide me ! " said the doctor.
" Impossible, impossible, doctor ! You'll be seen coming
i n : it'll only ruin me as well," whispered the pope, as he
gently pushed him from the door. In truth, SokolofF could
hear the patrol advancing in the street opposite. H e fled
wildly back, and turned into a blind alley, where one of his
relations lived. H e knocked at the door, and implored to
be admitted.
Necho, his relative, who let him into the hall, at once saw
the gravity of the situation.
" Are you mad, doctor ? Do you want to burn my house
down over my head? You know I've got a wife and
children." And with these words he opened the door and led
him out. The doctor hastened out of the alley into the
PetkanofT street. Fate brought him face to face with his
pursuers.
" If you.don't s.top we'll fire ! Stop, doctor ! " cried one
of the constables to him from behind. In truth SokolofF did
stop, but not, however, where the zealous Bulgarian constable
ordered him to. H e knocked at SaratofFs door—he was his
family doctor and one of his best friends, and resolved to
try his luck there also.
" Who's that knocking ?" asked Saratoff.
The doctor answered.

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But Saratoff's only reply was to bolt the door more
carefully, and not another sound was heard from
inside.

CHAPTER

XIII.

THE HISTORY CONTINUED.

" WHAT a disgrace ! My God ! " groaned Ognianoff, much
distressed.
" I tell you there's a panic in the town, brother; nothing
but cowardice and treachery on every side. It's no longer
the same Bela Cherkva/' said Sokoloff gloomily.
Ognianoff drew a deep sigh.
" Cowardice and treachery, you say ? They're the
natural offspring of our ill-fated revolution. They follow
behind it, as wolves and crows do the battle army. And
who put the flag on the top of the mountain ? "
" I don't know."
" Who do you think did ? "
" The Turks, they say."
Ognianoff looked at him with surprise.
" Yes, the Turks," continued the doctor, " because it
was seen on the previous day, when Tossoun Bey left
Klissoura to fall on Bela Cherkva with the intention of
destroying it. H e was heard threatening to do so before
he left Klissoura: he was only looking out for some
pretext. No doubt it was for the same reason that they
spread reports of the great army that was coming to relieve
us, instead of which we got Tossoun."
" Then he's at Bela Cherkva to-day ? "
" Yes."
" No doubt frightful scenes are going on there !" cried
Ognianoff excitedly.
"Well, more shameful than frightful," replied the doctor;
" the man I sent to the town to-day brought back word that
Tossoun Bey- had spared Bela Cherkva because they sent
a deputation to receive him in state. H e saw them piling
up a whole heap of arms in the courtyard of the Konak,

THE HISTORY

CONTINUED.

313

brought in by the townspeople themselves—the cherry-tree
cannon was there too. Ah ! poor Marko ! I'm sorry for
him most of all! "
Ognianoff sighed.
" Yes, poor Marko ! that's the worst of all. H e was the
victim of some loathsome treachery—so was KandorT," added
SokolorT.
" Yes. Who betrayed KandorT and his comrades ? " asked
Ognianoff, while deep wrinkles formed on his brow.
" I forgot to tell you—it was Yordan Diamandieff; the
stupid old woman went and told the pope secretly, and the
pope told Yordan. H e stood there himself, urging on the
bashi-bazouks—" Fire, what are you waiting for ? we won't
have brigands and traitors in our city."
" My God, my God ! Poor KandorT! I saw him righting
at the fort at Klissoura like a hero, and like a hero he fell!
What a frightful shock it was when I saw his corpse last
night! But how did you get away, after all ? "
" I managed to get taken into a house at last. By this
time I expect they've got the hue-and-cry out against me
at Bela Chervka. Let them catch me if they can !
" What are your intentions now, doctor ? where are you
going?"
" T o Roumania, of course."
" Yes; I'd thought of going there too, but the flag
made me come down from the mountain."
" As it's made me go towards it. But you can't go in
that cloak, and you've got no hat !"
" That's why I sent Marika to you with a letter asking
you to bring me things to go in. It's strange she should be
so long."
" T h a t doesn't matter," said the doctor. " As soon as it's
dark we can go to the HambarorT mill, and old Lilko will
give us everything we want. Fortunately, I happen to
have an old passport; that'll do for you. And there's food
in the bundle."
" That's splendid. But I didn't come here to escape again.
I came in the hope of finding a rebellion."
"Well, it's missed fire," said the doctor, bitterly. All
we could do was to get into this mess."
" Haven't you any news from elsewhere ? "
" Only vague rumours: there's the same tale on all

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sides. The revolt didn't spread, and ended in disaster.
You know more about it than I do."
"Yes; from this mountain I've seen twenty villages
blazing at the same time," said OgnianofT.
"Ah, brother, the nation wasn't ripe for this kind of thing.
We made a terrible mistake," said the doctor; "and
Bulgaria's paying dearly for it now—so many victims, and
all in vain ! "
" Mistake ? of course we were mistaken. But the
revolution and the victims were bound to be. I could
even have wished they were more numerous and more
terrible. We can't destroy Turkey by force of arms, but
we can gain the sympathies of the world, at least, by our
frightful sufferings, by our martyrdom, by the rivers of
blood that are now flowing in Bulgaria. It's a sign of our
existence, at least. No one troubles about the dead—only
the living have a right to life. If the Governments of Europe
don't take action on our behalf, they don't deserve to be
called Christian and civilised. It's all the same—if nothing
had happened we should have had nothing to regret.
We've carried out a human obligation ; we tried to purchase
our liberty with our blood—we failed. It's matter for
regret, but there's nothing to be ashamed of. The shame,
the crime, will be for us if we remain with our arms
folded—if we trample on our fallen idol—if we forget the
blood and the flames that cover Bulgaria to-day !"
" OgnianofT," said the doctor after a short pause, " it
seems to me that there's no one who thinks so except us
two: the whole of Bulgaria is cursing us as the authors of
her misfortunes. Or, listen—everybody thinks Stefchoff the
real liberator."

CHAPTER XIV.
A SERIOUS CONVERSATION.
THIS was the first time StefchofFs name had been mentioned. OgnianofT frowned.
"Do you mean to say that contemptible creature's still
alive?"

A SERIOUS

CONVERSATION.

3T5

"Contemptible creature? Stefchoff's the wisest, the
proudest, most respected man in the town now," said the
doctor. " H e and Yordan are triumphant—he passes as
the saviour of the city, while they'd shoot us down like
dogs if they saw us."
" Never mind, he's a base and cowardly creature. How
unhappy poor Lalka must be."
" What! don't you know ? Lalka's dead."
" Dead ? you don't say so ! "
" She died on the 18th of April," muttered the doctor.
" How much sorrow in such a short time! H e must
have killed her, the scoundrel! " cried Ognianoff.
"Yes, he killed her—a few months with him were
enough."
Ognianoff much moved, seized him by the hand.
" Ah S Brother, we're both equally unhappy."
The doctor looked at him inquiringly.
" Lalka, the being you loved is now in the grave," added
Boicho, sorrowfully; " and the other being I loved is in
the grave, lost to me for ever."
" No, your Rada's alive, she's at Bela Cherkva ! " cried
the doctor, eagerly.
" Alive ? yes, she's alive—but dead to me."
The doctor looked at him with surprise.
" Yes, dead to me for ever," repeated Boicho, gloomily.
" Poor Kandoff! God rest his soul! Why did I , survive
him?"
The doctor's astonishment was increasing.
"Boicho, do you mean to say you quarrelled with Kandoff
at Klissoura ? "
"Yes, to the death."
"About R a d a ? "
Ognianoff frowned. "Don't let's talk about that," he
said.
" Are you mad, Boicho ? To suspect Rada ! The things
absurd!"
" Absurd ? I thought her innocence itself, brother—and
what was the end of i t ? " groaned Ognianoff. " I believed
in her. I loved her so ardently. My country seemed dearer
to me then, my confidence in myself greater, my courage
unbounded! And what awakening! Just fancy. Well,
I need only tell you that I fought at Klissoura, not with the

316

UNDER

THE

YOKE.

hope of repulsing the enemy, but to meet death in the field.
Don't talk about i t ! " and Ognianoif bent his head to the
ground.
" You're deceived. Rada loved you faithfully, and still
loves you ; but she's very unhappy, and unjustly accused—
by you first of all," said the doctor with displeasure.
Ognianoff threw a reproving glance at him.
"Doctor, for the sake of poor Kandoffs memory, don't
talk any more about this sad business."
"It's precisely Kandoffs memory that I wish to clear from
your suspicion. Don't imagine that he acted treacherously.
True, he fell in love with Rada. As you know, he was
passionate, and easily carried away. His inexplicable infatuation made him give up society, the committee, and
everything—but all this had no effect on Rada's feelings,
and he never insulted her with any improper proposal. She
never told you of it from feelings of modesty, but she often
complained to Lalka of Kandoffs platonic attention. Ah !
now I think of it, here's the letter he wrote her on the 19th
of April, the day he followed her to Klissoura. Netkovitch
gave it to me. Read it."
And Sokoloff drew Kandoffs letter from his pocket-book,
and gave it to Ognianoff.
Boicho glanced hurriedly over it. His eyes filled with
tears. An expression of joy at once lighted up his face.
" Thanks, Sokoloff, your words have taken a terrible load
off my heart. This is not the language of a favoured lover;
it's the despairing confession of one who knows he has no
hope. How could I ever have suspected her ? Thanks,
thanks, you have restored me to my senses; you've given
me new life."
" Poor Rada, how happy she'd be if she knew. I wasn't
able to see her, but I heard she was in despair for you, of
course, since, like every one else, she thought you dead.
Write her a line or two before we go, to comfort her, poor
thing."
" How do you mean write to her ? "
"Why, humanity demands it."
" N o , humanity demands not that I should write to her,
but that I should go to her and ask pardon of her on my
knees. I've been cruel to Rada to the degree of cowardice,"
cried Ognianoff.

THE

MEETING.

317

" Yes, I'd have advised the same, only now it's impossible."
"Impossible or not, I'm going," said Ognianoff resolutely.
" What, you'll go to Bela Cherkva ?" cried the doctor,
astounded. " O h ! it's absolute madness. I tell you the
town's ablaze. Yordan and Stefchoif are saviours there
now. You're only exposing yourself to certain destruction !"
" Doctor, you ought to know that I care little for my life
when my honour's at stake. Tossoun's entire army couldn't
keep me back. I must beg pardon of my suffering Rada
for my cruel conduct, which led her to the desperate
resolution of putting an end to her life in the ruins of
Klissoura."
And in two words Ognianoff described the incident.
" T h e n I won't restrain you, brother," said the doctor,
with emotion.
Ognianoff thought for a moment, and added quietly :
" Besides—that's not all: Rada's mine; I plighted my faith
to her before I left her here for the last time. I plighted my
faith to her before God, and instead of a ring we exchanged
solemn vows. I can't leave her, you see, and if I should
reach Roumania safely I should send for her to share the
poverty, want, and sufferings which make up the life of an
emigrant. Oh ! how gladly she would come to share my lot,
as she shared it here. She's a heroine in her love, doctor,
and I wouldn't give up her heart for the whole world."
The doctor's emotion was visible on his face.
" As soon as it's dark I'll be off, and this very night I'll be
back again, safe and sound, I promise you. Now I don't
want to die, doctor, for Rada still lives for me, and Bulgaria
is not yet freed ! "

CHAPTER

XV.

T H E MEETING.

T H E doctor was peering through a hole in the wall.
"There's some one coming," he said; "it must be
Marika."
Ognianoff turned and glanced down the valley.

3i»

UNDER

THE

YOKE.

" N o , it's not Marika; she's not so tall, and had a blue
dress on."
" This one's in black, carrying a bundle."
" It's Rada," cried Ognianoff with a start.
The doctor shared his surprise.
Ognianoff drew himself up at full length in the doorway
of the mill, and beckoned with both hands.
Rada, who for some time had been wandering over the
rocks, hunting for Boicho, now caught sight of him. She
flew towards him, and was in the mill in a moment.
" Rada ! " he cried.
" Oh, Boicho, Boicho!" she sobbed, half fainting,
pressing her lips to his cheek. The doctor watched the
scene with deep emotion.
" And how is it you're here, Rada darling ?" asked
Ognianoff as soon as he had mastered his feelings.
" Marika brought me the letter you'd given her for the
doctor. Ah, Boicho ! why are you so cruel to me ? " said
Rada, amid tears of joy. " You're not angry with me now,
are you ? You'd no right to be angry, you know, don't
you ? "
" Forgive me, pet, forgive m e ! " and Boicho kissed her
hands. " Sokoloff s just been showing me how mad I've
been : it's terrible to think of! I was coming to the town to
ask you to forgive me for my cruelty. I'm unworthy of the
love of an angel like you. But you'll forget and forgive,
won't you, Rada ? " And Ognianoff gazed anxiously at her
eyes, moist with boundless love and devotion.
But Rada suddenly grew as pale as a ghost, started up
from Boicho's side, and exclaimed :
" Fly, Boicho ! I forgot to tell you. Fly ! You've been
seen here, the Turks are coming !"
Ognianoff and Sokoloff were thunderstruck.
" Quick, quick, fly to the mountain!" cried Rada in
terror.
" W h a t ? " cried Sokoloff, who could not believe his
ears.
" A gipsy woman saw you and came and brought word,
before I even met Marika. As I was coming here I saw a
whole band of Bashi-bozouks going towards the vineyards;
they've blocked the road, they're coming after you, Boicho.
My God ! I forgot to tell you, the first thing. I lost a

THE

MEETING

319

whole hour looking for you in the valley. We'll meet some
other time. Fly, fly!"
In spite of the presence of mind for which Ognianoff was
remarkable at critical moments, he was quite overwhelmed
by this terrible news coming at such a joyful hour as this, at
his unexpected meeting with Rada, comelier and more
charming than ever in the light of her heroic love : he was
unable to take a rapid decision. He felt powerless to part
from her at such a moment. And time was precious.
u
Fly—yes ! but what about you ? " said Boicho.
*• Never mind about m e ; I shall be all right—only fly,
quick ! Take this, the clothes are in it, but fly, Boicho !
Farewell, we'll meet again, if you'll only fly. Boicho, dear
Boicho—farewell!"
And Rada, handing Ognianoff the bundle, seized him by
the arm and forced him to the doorway.
" No," said Ognianoff resolutely; " I can't leave you like
this. If these savages get hold of you
"
" Oh ! Boicho, they're coming !"
" Yes, and if they find you alone in this wild spot, those
brutes ! No, better die here defending you I "
But Boicho saw at once the madness, the complete uselessness of this desperate resolution.
H e asked Rada
abruptly:
" Rada, will you go with us ? "
To this most unexpected proposal Rada replied with
rapture:
" Of course, Boicho ! I'll go with you to the ends of the
earth. Let's fly, Boicho ! "
Ognianoff's eyes flashed.
" If we can only get to the ' Little Chair' behind the
waterfall, I can keep them there the whole evening, while
you take Rada up the mountain," said Sokoloff.
In truth behind the waterfall there was a narrow pass,
strewn with sharp jagged rocks, and known as the " Little
Chair," from which a well-armed man could keep a whole
battalion at bay; it was the only path up the mountain.
There was no time to be lost.
" To the mountain ! " cried Ognianoff.
And he was the first to reach the doorway, from which he
cast a searching glance round the valley.

320

UNDER

THE

YOKE.

C H A P T E R XVI.
THE PARTING.

I T was too late.
On the opposite bank the sharp rocks were black with
Turks. They were taking up their position behind the boulders and bushes there, and only their heads and the barrels
of their guns were visible. On the summit stood a figure
in white trousers pointing towards the mill. I t was the gipsy
woman. The Turks were already swarming up the cliff on
which the mill stood.
Ognianoff and the doctor saw that they were surrounded,
and did not even think of escaping—it was impossible.
The Turks continued to advance with precaution, taking
advantage of every shelter afforded by the rocks and bushes :
there were about a hundred of them.
The path leading down to the valley was still open.
Boicho turned to Rada and said:
" Rada, go down the path along the stream."
But just then a terrible thought darkened his face, and
he said:
" N o , better stay here."
The same decision was expressed on Rada's face.
" With you, with you, Boicho," she faltered, with her
hands folded across her breast.
So much grief, love, and devotion could be read in her
moist glance ! Such readiness to die !
Ognianoff and Sokoloff counted up their cartridges.
" Eighteen," said the doctor.
"Enough to die honourably," said Ognianoff in a whisper.
Tossoun Bey commanded the attack in person. Before
appearing on the cliff he had placed a guard in the valley,
and so completely surrounded the rebels, or rather the rebel,
for he was convinced that only Ognianoff was inside.
Before giving the word to fire, Tossoun Bey ordered a
final appeal to be made.
"Surrender, Konsoloss Komita," was cried in Turkish.
Only the echoes replied.
Rada crouched half fainting in a corner.
" Courage, Rada/' said Boicho mournfully.

THE

PARTING.

321

She made a motion with her hand, as though to say " I
was afraid at Klissoura because I was outcast and alone.
Now I'm not afraid of dying with you, as you love me. You
shall see."
Boicho understood the heroic meaning of this dumb
answer, and his eyes grew moist.
Meanwhile the moments were passing by.
Ognianoff
and Sokoloff, leaning closely against the walls for protection, held their revolvers tight. They glanced towards
the two cliffs, from which they expected every moment
to hear the report of the guns.
A minute passed by, evidently the respite allowed by
Tossoun Bey.
Then from the eastern and western sides of the gorge
alike there was a roar of musketry. The besieged heard
the bullets whistle over their heads and through the holes
in the masonry, and fall flattened at their feet.
The valley of the Balkan re-echoed the sound.
Suddenly the firing ceased.
In spite of its many breaches, the building had sheltered
the three unfortunates.
Not one of them had bern
touched. Only Rada had sunk to the ground, unconscious:
the poor child's courage had deserted her. Her hood had
fallen off, and her dark hair rolled in waves over her
shoulders and in the dust.
A second volley would not be long in coming, and Rada,
as she lay there, was exposed to the bullets.
Ognianoff stooped, raised her in his arms, and carried her
into the most sheltered corner, where he laid her, placing
the bundle under her head; but she did not recover—she
lay unconscious and insensible of all that was going on
round her. And before that fair pale face, with its closed
eyes and bloodless lips, that graceful and charming figure
lying in the dust, a terrible inexpressible sorrow filled his
heart as he thought of the fast approaching moment when
he must part for ever from the hapless girl who had united
her lot with his own, and whom his hand could soon no
longer defend from the unutterable fate which was in store
for her.
" Hadn't I better kill her myself? " he thought.
As no reply was received from the mill, the besiegers
became bolder, and advanced to the bottom of the cliff.
x

322

UNDER

THE

YOKE.

The circle round the mill was growing narrower, and the
moment for decisive action was rapidly advancing.
" Surrender, Komita ! " they cried again.
There was no answer.
Suddenly a storm of bullets burst upon the mill. As
the volley grew louder the Turks approached still nearer.
From the continued silence, they came to the conclusion
that the concealed rebel was unarmed. Bullets rained upon
the walls.
The Turks were now quite close. The time was at hand.
OgnianofT stood upright at one window, the doctor in the
doorway.
They looked at one another, and each discharged his
revolver into the surging mass of the enemy. The unexpected rejoinder brought three Turks to the ground, and
revealed the force of the mill. The Turks saw that there
was more than one rebel there. This confused them, but
only for a moment. The victors of Klissoura rushed with a
shout at the building. Some aimed from the banks at the
openings in the walls, so as to prevent the defenders from
appearing there and firing at the attacking party. The
struggle could not last.
" Doctor, we're done for: farewell for ever, brother," said
Boicho.
" Farewell, brother !"
" Doctor, not one of us must fall into their hands alive ! "
" No, not one of us. I've got four cartridges left. I'm
keeping one for myself."
" I ' m keeping two, doctor/' and OgnianofT involuntarily
turned towards Rada. She lay there still, but her face had
become deathlike in its pallor; from her left breast a thin
stream of blood was quietly trickling down over her dress.
A bullet had glanced off the wall and struck her. She had
passed from unconsciousness into eternal slumber.
Then Boicho left his post and drew near to her : he knelt
down, took her cold hands in his, and imprinted one long
kiss on her icy lips ; he kissed her forehead, her wondrous
loving eyes, her hair, and her wound where the blood was
flowing. If he uttered any sound, murmured a last farewell
in that last kiss, whispered a " Good-bye till we meet again,
Rada," it could not be heard in the roar of the guns outside
and the pattering of the bullets within. He wrapped her in

DESTRUCTION.

323

his cloak. When Boi'cho rose, tears were flowing down his
cheeks.
A whole ocean of sorrow was in those tears.
Perhaps—who knows?—there was mingled also a warm
feeling of gratitude to Providence!

CHAPTER

XVII.

DESTRUCTION.

DURING this last mute farewell, which lasted only half a
minute, SokolofT was facing alone the hundred assailants.
Suddenly he turned round and saw Rada ? Then his hair
stood on end, his eyes flashed like a tiger's, and heedless
of the danger, he drew himself up at full length in the
doorway, as though mocking at the bullets, while he cried
in the purest Turkish :
" You cursed dogs ! you shall pay dearly for every drop
of Bulgarian blood!" and he discharged his revolver into
the thick of the crowd.
With redoubled frenzy the horde now rushed at the impregnable fortress—for such the ruined mill seemed to have
become. A wild shout, followed by a fresh volley, cleft the
air.
" Ah !" groaned the doctor, flinging away his revolver.
A bullet had pierced his right hand. Inexpressible terror
and despair were depicted on his face.
Ognianoff, still
firing at the crowd, and also covered with blood, noticed
this and asked:
" Are you in pain, brother ? "
" No, but I've fired off my last cartridge—I forgot."
" Here, there are still two left in my revolver, take it,"
said Ognianoff, banding the weapon to Sokoloff. " Now they
shall see how a Bulgarian apostle dies ! " And drawing the
long yataghan from the doctor's belt, he rushed from the
door into the crowd, dealing frightful blows left and right.
*
*
*
*
*
*
Half an hour later the whole horde, triumphant and
ferocious, was marching with demoniacal glee from the

UNDER

324

THE YOKE.

valley with Ognianoffs head on a pole. The doctor's
head, slashed to pieces by their knives (it had first been
shattered by the doctor himself with a bullet) could not
serve as a trophy. So also Rada's head was left behind for
reasons of policy: Tossoun Bey was more cunning than his
colleague of Tumrush.
A cart behind conveyed the killed and wounded.
With savage shouts of triumph the band reached the
town. It was more silent and deserted than a graveyard.
They set up the trophy in the market-place.
Only one man was moving there, like a ghost.
It was Mouncho.
When he recognised the head of his beloved " Russian,"
his eyes flashed with a fierce unreasoning rage, and he broke
out into a colossal and appalling blasphemy against
Mahommed.
They hanged him by the butcher's shop.
The idiot was the only man who had ventured to
protest.

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