The priest gravely vouched for the accuracy of this narrative, and Clement made a note of it in his parchment roll.
Now came the third question.
“Are there any among you who dare to smoke tobacco, either by cutting up the leaves into small fragments and putting them in his pipe, or by roasting them on the fire and inhaling the ascending steam?”
“There are none, sir!” returned the elder. “We do not know that dish.”
“And do not try to, for whoever is caught in the act will, in accordance with the law of the land, have the stem of his pipe thrust through his nose, and be led in that guise all round the marketplace.”
The fourth question was this—
“Do any of the peasants wear cloth coats, marten-skin kalpags, or morocco shoes?”
“Pshaw!” cried the village elder. “Why, our poverty is such that we never look beyond sheepskin jackets and leather sandals. What do we want with coloured cloth and morocco shoes?”
“Nor must you, for the Estates of the Realm have forbidden the peasantry to wear the clothes of the gentry.”
Now came the fifth question.
“Which of you not only acted contrary to the decree of the Diet, that the peasants should extirpate the sparrows, but even mocked the officers charged to collect sparrows’ heads?”
The magistrate humbly approached the Patrol-officer.
“Believe me, worshipful sir; by reason of the great drought and the bad season, the sparrows have all departed from our district. Tell his Highness that we have been unable to lay our hands upon a single one all through the summer.”
“That’s a lie!” cried Clement the Clerk fiercely.
“I speak the truth,” persisted the magistrate, seizing Clement by the hand, and dexterously insinuating two silver marias into his clenched fist.
“Well, it is not impossible,” said the Patrol-officer, somewhat mollified.
Last of all came the question—
“Has any among you seen foreign beasts of prey, or other strange animals, straying about in these regions?”
“Of a truth, sir, we have seen lots of them.”
“And what sort of beasts were they?” asked Clement, with joyful curiosity.
“Well, dog-headed Tartars!”
“You fool, I don’t mean that sort of beast. I want to know whether anyone, in strolling through these woods, has come upon a four-footed beast of prey, a creature with a spotted skin? You know very well you have left no hole or corner unexplored, for even now you are hunting after the hidden treasures of Decebalus.”
The magistrate shook his head incredulously, glanced at the crowd, and said, with a shrug of his shoulders—
“We have seen no such wondrous beast; but haply Sange Moarte has seen it, for he in his mad moods roams incessantly through woods and hollows.”
“And where then is this Sange Moarte? You must call him hither.”
“Alas! sir, he is difficult to catch; he seldom comes to the village. But perhaps his mother is here.”
“Here she is! here she is!” cried several peasants at once, pushing forward an old woman with sunken cheeks, whose head was wrapped round in a white cloth.
“What mad name is this you have given to your son?” cried the Patrol-officer; “whoever heard of calling a man ‘Dead blood’!”
“ ’Twas not I, sir, who gave him this name,” said the old Wallachian woman with a broken voice. “The villagers call him so because he is never seen to laugh or speak to anyone, or answer when he is spoken to. He did not even weep for his father when he died; nor has he ever visited the girls in the spinning-rooms, but wanders about incessantly in the woods.”
“All right, all right, old lady; but that has nothing to do with me.”
“I know it, sir, I know that it does not concern you; but I must tell you that the pretty Floriza, the belle of the village, was in love with my son. There was not a lovelier maiden in all Wallachia. Such black eyes, such locks reaching down to her feet, such rosy cheeks, such a slim waist were not to be found anywhere else. And then she was so diligent, and she loved my son so dearly! In her chest she had sixteen embroidered chemises which she herself had woven and spun, and round her neck she wore a string of two hundred silver and twenty gold pieces. Sange Moarte never so much as looked at the girl. Vainly did Floriza make him posies, he would not put them in his hat; vainly did she give him kerchiefs, he would not wear them in his breast. Whenever he passed by, the girl would sing such beautiful songs as she sat by the hearth; but Sange Moarte for all that did not linger at her threshold, and yet she loved him so dearly. Often she said to him, when they met together in the lane—‘Thou dost never come to see me; perchance thou wouldst not even look at me if I were dead?’ Sange Moarte replied—‘Then indeed I would look at thee.’—‘Then I will soon die,’ said the maiden sorrowfully. ‘And then will I also visit thee,’ said Sange Moarte, and went his way. Does all this weary you, good sir? I shall soon have done. Pretty Floriza lies dead. Her heart broke for grief. There she lies on her bier; the funereal armindenu34 stands in front of the house. When Sange Moarte sees it he will know that Floriza is dead, and will come forth from the woods to look upon his dead sweetheart, as he promised her, for he always keeps his word. Then you can speak with him.”
“Very well, old lady,” said Clement, who had suddenly become serious, and was almost angry to find something very like poetry among rude peasants, who had
