Let us turn once more to the Balkan Mountains. Snow covers alike the valley and the hill. It is the depth of that inhospitable season when combative men were wont, in former days, to retire into winter quarters, repose on their “laurels,” and rest a while until the benign influences of spring should enable them to recommence the “glorious” work of slaying one another.

 

But modern warriors, like modern weapons, are more terrible now than they used to be. They scout inglorious repose—at least the great statesmen who send them out to battle scout it for them. While these men of super-Spartan mould sit at home in comfortable conclave over mild cigar and bubbling hookah, quibbling over words, the modern warrior is ordered to prolong the conflict; and thus it comes to pass that Muscovite and Moslem pour out their blood like water, and change the colour of the Balkan snows.

 

In a shepherd’s hut, far up the heights, which the smoke of battle could not reach, and where the din of deadly strife came almost softly, like the muttering of distant thunder, a young woman sat on the edge of a couch gazing wistfully at the beautiful countenance of a dead girl. The watcher was so very pale, wan, and haggard, that, but for her attitude and the motion of her great dark eyes, she also might have been mistaken for one of the dead. It was Marika, who escaped with only a slight flesh-wound in the arm from the soldier who had pursued her into the woods near her burning home.

 

A young man sat beside her also gazing in silence at the marble countenance.

 

“No, Petko, no,” said Marika, looking at the youth mournfully, “I cannot stay here. As long as the sister of my preserver lived it was my duty to remain, but now that the bullet has finished its work, I must go. It is impossible to rest.”

 

“But, Marika,” urged Petko Borronow, taking his friend’s hand, “you know it is useless to continue your search. The man who told me said he had it from the lips of Captain Naranovitsch himself that dear Dobri died at Plevna with his head resting on the captain’s breast, and—”

 

The youth could not continue.

 

“Yes, yes,” returned Marika, with a look and tone of despair, “I know that Dobri is dead; I saw my darling boy slain before my eyes, and heard Ivanka’s dying scream; no wonder that my brain has reeled so long. But I am strong now. I feel as if the Lord were calling on me to go forth and work for Himself since I have no one else to care for. Had Giuana lived I would have stayed to nurse her, but—”

 

“Oh that the fatal ball had found my heart instead of hers!” cried the youth, clasping his hands and gazing at the tranquil countenance on the bed.

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