P. Jones - The Pobratim - A Slav Novel

An Arab lord had once in Primoryé,
A mighty castle by the spray-swept shore;
Its many lofty halls were bright and gay,
And Moorish lads stood watching at each door.
Albeit its wealth, mirth never echoed there;
Its lord was prone to be of pensive mood,
And oft his frown would freeze the very air;
On secret sorrow he e'er seemed to brood.
At times to all his svati would he say:
"What do I care for all this wide domain,
Or for my guards on steeds in bright array?
Much more than dazzling pomp my heart would fain
Have some fond tie so that the time might seem
Less tedious in its flight. I am alone.
A mother's heart, a sister's, or, I deem,
A bride's would be far more than all I own."
Thus unto him his liegemen made reply:
"O, mighty lord! they say that Russia's Czar
Has for his heir, a daughter meek and shy,
Of beauty rare, just like the sparkling star
That gleams at dawn and shines at eventide.
Now, master, we do wait for thy behest.
Does thy heart crave to have this maid for bride?
Say, shall we sally forth unto her quest?"
The master mused a while, then answered: "Aye,
By Allah! fetch this Russian for my mate!
Tell her she'll be the dame of Primoryé,
The mistress of my heart and my estate.
But stop. – If Russia should not grant his child,
Then tell him I shall kill his puny knights,
And waste his lands. Say that my love is wild,
Hot as the Lybian sun, deep as the night!"
Now, after riding twenty days and more,
The svati reached at last their journey's end,
Then straightway to the Russian King they bore
Such letters as their lord himself had penned.
The great Czar having read the Moor's demand,
And made it known to all his lords at Court,
Could, for a while, but hardly understand
This strange request; he deemed it was in sport.
A blackamoor to wed his daughter fair!
"I had as lief," said he, "the meanest lad
Of my domains as son-in-law and heir,
Than this grim Moor, who must in sooth be mad."
But soon his wrath was all changed into grief,
On learning to his dread and his dismay,
That not a knight would stir to his relief,
No one would fight the Moor of Primoryé!
Howe'er the Queen upon that very night
Did dream a dream. Within Prilipù town,
Beyond the Balkan mounts, she saw a knight,
Whose mighty deeds had won him great renown.
(Kraglievic Marko was the hero's name);
His flashing sword was always seen with awe
By faithless Turks, who dreaded his great fame;
And in her dream that night the Queen then saw
This mighty Serb come forth to save her child.
Then did the Czarin to her lord relate
The vision which her senses had beguiled,
And both upon it long did meditate.
Upon the morrow, then, the Czar did write
To Marko, asking him to come and slay
This haughty Moor, as not a Russian knight
Would deign to fight the lord of Primoryé.
As meed he promised him three asses stout,
Each laden with a sack of coins of gold.
As soon as Marko read this note throughout,
These words alone the messenger he told:
"What if this Arab killed me in the strife,
And from my shoulders he do smite my head.
Will golden ducats bring me back to life?
What do I care for gold when I am dead?"
The herald to the King this answer bore.
Thereon the Queen wrote for her daughter's sake:
"Great Marko, I will give thee three bags more,
Six bags in all, if you but undertake
To free my daughter from such heinous fate,
As that of having to become the bride
Of such a man as that vile renegade."
To Prilipù the messenger did ride,
But Marko gave again the same reply.
The Czar then summoned forth his child to him:
"Now 'tis thy turn," said he; "just write and try
To get the Serb to kill this man whose whim
Is to have thee for wife." The maid thus wrote:
"O Marko, brother mine, do come at once.
I beg you for the love that you devote
To God and to St. John, come for the nonce
To free me from the Moor of Primoryé.
Seven sacks of gold I'll give you for this deed,
And, if I can this debt of mine repay,
A shirt all wrought in gold will be your meed.
Moreover, you shall have my father's sword;
And as a pledge thereon the King's great seal,
Which doth convey to all that Russia's lord
Doth order and decree that none shall deal
Its bearer harm; no man shall ever slay
You in his wide domains. Come, then, with speed
To free me from the lord of Primoryé."
To Prilipù the herald did proceed
With all due haste; he rode by day and night,
Through streams and meads, through many a bushy dell;
At last at Marko's door he did alight.
When Marko read the note, he answered: "Well – "
Then mused a while, then bade the young page go.
But said the youth: "What answer shall I give?"
"Just say I answered neither yes nor no."
The Princess saw that she would ne'er outlive
Her dreadful doom, and walking on the strand,
There, 'midst her sobs, she said: "O thou deep sea,
Receive me in thy womb, lest the curst brand
Of being this man's wife be stamped on me."
Just when about to plunge she lifts her eyes,
And lo! far off, a knight upon a steed,
Armed cap-à-pie, advancing on, she spies.
"Why weepest thou, O maid? tell me thy need,
And if my sword can be of any use."
"Thanks, gentle sir. Alas! one knight alone
Can wield his brand for me; but he eschews
To fight."
"A coward, then, is he."
"'Tis known
That he is brave."
"His name?"
"He did enrich
The soil with Turkish blood at Cossovo.
You sure have heard of Marko Kraglievic."
Thereon he kissed her hand and answered low:
"Well, I am he; and I come for your sake.
Go, tell the Czar to give thee as a bride
Unto the Moor; then merry shall we make
In some mehan , and there I shall abide
The coming of the lord of Primoryé."
The Princess straightway told the Czar, and he
At once gave orders that they should obey
All that the Serb might bid, whate'er it be.
That night with all his men the Arab came —
Five hundred liegemen, all on prancing steeds;
The Czar did welcome them as it became
Men high in rank, and of exalted deeds.
Then, after that, they all went to the inn.
"Ah!" said the Moor, as they were on their way,
"How all are scared, and shut themselves within
Their homes; all fear the men of Primoryé."
But, as they reached the door of the mehan ,
The Arab, on his horse, would cross the gate,
When, on the very sill, he saw a man
Upon a steed. This sight seemed to amate
The Arab lord. But still he said: "Stand off!
And let me pass."
"For you, this is no place,
Miscreant heathen dog!"
At such a scoff
Each angry liegeman lifted up his mace.
Thereon 'twixt them and him ensued a fight,
Where Marko dealt such blows that all around
The din was heard, like thunder in the night.
He hacked and hewed them down, until a mound
Of corpses lay amid a pool of blood,
For trickling from each fearful gash it streamed,
And wet the grass, and turned the earth in mud
Of gore; whilst all this time each falchion gleamed,
For Marko's sword was ruthless in the fray,
And when it fell, there all was cleaved in twain;
No coat of mail such strokes as his could stay,
Nor either did he stop to ascertain
If all the blood that trickled down each limb
Was but that of the foe and not his own.
And thus he fought, until the day grew dim,
And thus he fought, and thus he stood alone
Against them all; till one by one they fell,
As doth the corn before the reaper's scythe,
Whilst their own curses were their only knell!
The Serb, howe'er, was still both strong and lithe,
When all the swarthy Arabs round him lay.
"Now 'tis thy time to die, miscreant knight!"
He called unto the Moor of Primoryé.
With golden daggers they began to fight;
They thrust and parried both with might and main;
But soon the Arab sank to writhe in pain.
Then Marko forthwith over him did bend
To stab him through the heart. Then off he took
His head, on which he threw a light cymar
(For 'twas, indeed, a sight that few could brook):
Thus covered up, he took it to the Czar.
Then Marko got the Princess for his wife —
Besides the gold that was to be his meed,
And from that day most happy was his life,
Known far and wide for many a knightly deed.