"What are you doing, you boobies? Help! Seize him, bind him!"
"Don't talk nonsense--I see you are not frightened; I cannot do other than I am doing!" said Racoare.
Then the servants murmured again:
"How can we bind him? It is Racoare. He is here! Cozma Racoare, lady!"
"Cowards!" cried the lady, and threw herself upon Cozma.
The highwayman took her arm, pressed her hands together, tied them with a leather strap, and lifted her under his arm like a bundle.
"Get out of the way!" he said then, and the people fell over each other as they scattered to either side.
"What a pearl among women!" thought Cozma, while he strode along the corridor with the lady under his arm, "he has not bad taste, that Boyar Nicola! Proud woman!"
The Sultana looked with eyes wide with horror at the servants who gave way on either hand in their terror. She felt herself held as in a vice. At last she raised her eyes to Racoare's fierce face. The light from the room was reflected in the man's steely eyes, and lit up his weather-beaten face.
"Who are you?" she gasped.
"I? Cozma Racoare."
The lady gave another glance at the servants huddled in the corners, and she said not another word. Now she understood.
Outside, the highwayman mounted the bay, placed the lady in front of him, and set spurs to his horse. Once more the sound of the galloping horse broke the silence of the night.
"What a pearl among women!" thought Racoare, and the horse sped along the road like a phantom.
The lady turned her head, and studied Racoare by the light of the moon.
"Why do you look at me like that, lady?" And the horse sped along under the overhanging woods.
The black hair of the lady shone in great billows of light. The foliage glistened with hoar-frost, like silver-leaf. The lady looked at the highwayman and shuddered, she felt herself squeezed in his powerful arms, and her eyes burnt like two stars beneath the heavy knitted brows.
"Why do you look at me like that, lady? Why do you shiver? Are you cold?"
The galloping hooves thundered through the glades, the leaves glittered in their silver sheen, and the bay passed on like a phantom in the light.
A shadow suddenly appeared in the distance.
"What is that yonder?" questioned the lady.
"Boyar Nicola awaits us there," replied Racoare.
The lady said no more. But Cozma felt her stiffen herself. The leather strap was snapped, and two white hands were lifted up. The highwayman had no time to stop her. Like lightning she seized the bridle in her right hand, and turned the horse on the spot, but her left arm she twined round Racoare's neck. The highwayman felt the lady's head resting against his breast, and a voice murmured softly:
"Would you give me to another?"
And the horse flew like a phantom through the blue light; the meadows rang with the sound of the galloping hooves, the silver leaves glistened, and tresses of black hair floated in the wind. But now shadows seemed to be pursuing them. The hills on the horizon seemed peopled with strange figures, which hurried through the light mist. But the black phantom sped on, and ever onwards, till it was lost in the far distance, in the gloom of the night.
THE WANDERERS
By M. SADOVEANU
A house stood isolated in the middle of a garden, separated from the main group about the market-place.
It was an old house, its veranda was both high and broad and had big whitewashed pillars. The pointed roof was tiled and green with moss. In front of the veranda, and facing south, stood two beautiful round lime-trees throwing out their shade.
One day in the month of August, the owners, Vladimir Savicky and Ana, his wife, were sitting in the veranda. Both were old, weather-beaten by the storms of many journeys and the misfortunes of life. The old man wore a long white beard and long white hair, which was parted down the middle and smooth on the top; he smoked a very long pipe, and his blue eyes gazed towards the plains which stretched away towards the sunset. The old woman, Ana, selected a nosegay of flowers from a basket. He was tall and vigorous still, she was slight with gentle movements. Forty years ago they left their ruined Poland, and settled in our country. They kept an adopted daughter, and had a son of thirty years of age, a bachelor, and a good craftsman. They had lived for thirty years here in the old house, busying themselves with market-gardening: for thirty years they had lived a sad, monotonous life in this place. They had been alone with their adopted child, with Magdalena; Roman, their boy, had been roaming through the world for the last ten years.
Old Vladimir puffed away at his pipe as he stroked his beard; the warmth of the afternoon had made him lay aside his blue jacket. The old wife was choosing her flowers. A gentle breeze, laden with fragrance, came from the garden, from the trees heavy with fruit, and from the gay-coloured flowers. Shafts of light penetrated through the leafy limes, little patches of white light came from above, and played over the bright grass, green as the tree-frog. From time to time the quivering foliage sent a melodious rustle into the peaceful balcony.
At intervals the soft notes of a song floated through the open window.
Suddenly a resounding noise broke the stillness of the day. What was it? A carriage. The old man started, put down his pipe, and rose. The old woman put her head, wrapped in a white shawl, out over the railings. The rumbling vehicle, an ugly Jew upon the box, drew nearer, and pulled up outside the door of the old house. A strong, broad-shouldered young man descended, a big bundle in his right hand, a case in his left.
"Roman! Roman!" cried the old lady in a feeble voice. She tried to rise but fell softly back beside the flowers.
"There, there, old lady, it is Roman," murmured the old man gaily, as he went down the stairs.
"Mr. Roman!" cried a gentle voice, and Magdalena's fair head appeared at the window.
Roman had let fall the bundle and thrown himself into his father's arms.
"Yes, old lady, it is Roman!" murmured Vladimir Savicky, with tears in his eyes. He embraced his son, and pressed him to his heart. "Yes, old lady, it is Roman!" That was all he could find to say.
"Mother," cried the young man, "I have not seen you for ten years."
The old mother cried silently, her son strained her to his breast, while the old man wandered round murmuring tearfully into his beard:
"Yes, yes, old lady, it is our Roman."
As Roman Savicky straightened his strong frame and turned round, he saw a white face with blue eyes in the doorway. He stood transfixed with astonishment; the girl watched him, smiling shyly.
"Ha! ha!" laughed old Savicky, "how now? Do you not know each other? Ah! Kiss each other, you have known Magdalena ever since she was a child."
The young people approached each other in silence, the girl offered her cheek with eyelids lowered, and Roman kissed her.
"I did not recognize her," said Roman, "she has grown so big."
His mother laughed softly. "You, too, Roman, you have grown much bigger--and handsome."
"Naturally our Roman is handsome," said the old man, "our own Roman, old lady."