A SHORT STORY.

Thames Star, Volume LVII, Issue 15127, 18 February 1922, Page 7

A SHORT STORY.

THE BEAR-TAKER’S DAUGHTER. A TALE OF LOVE AND DARING (By Konrad Bercovici.) (Continued.) “We have no men, only old women ; fight me if you dare. Here I begin,” and Margarita brought her whip across the boy’s face. It was as if a thousand bees had stung him. It was as if a swiftly turning wheel had "been set on fire. Before Margarita had time to know what happened her whip had been jerked loose from her hand and she was thrown face downward in the dirt. Petrackio’s knee was between her shoulders, holding her down as one holds a squirming, wriggling, snake. Margarita felt the cold steel bladd as it touched the back of her neck and thought the last breath was near. ■ “Snake! I will not kill you. I don’t kill women. I want your father to know that I have been here. You shall tell him. And lest you forget I shall take your tresses as a reminder.” i . . When Margarita rose from the ground she felt the cold wind on her bare neck. Petrackio had cut off her tresses and was already on his horse galloping homeward at full gallop. She shook her fists and stamped her feet and devised a thousand tortures for him and his father as soon as she should capture them. That very night she and her father were to pounce upon them in their gully and drag them to the cranny, to the private school, and teach them to dance. Ah! He would pay dearly for that. She would chain him herself, pass a ring through his upper lip, as she did to beasts and teach him tricks. And afterwards—ah, afterward — he would know who Margarita was. She ran to her tent, looked at herself in the silver-handled mirror her father had once given her, and screamed again. He had cut off her hair! The coward! Better he had killed herJ

How could she ever show herself now? She would have to stay in her hut the whole winter; avo’id being seen by anyone. 1 Oh, why had he not killed her ? He would pay for that. Oh, he would pay! She stampeded the dogs and the grazing horses and in her excitement tore through the camp like a whirlwind.

Presently, only too eager to start the journey of revenge, she blew the horn to call her father. But when she saw him descending the -nearest mountain she went into the hut, and, covering her head with a coloured shawl, a basma, she pretended to Costa that she had called him because' she was so wretched. She did not mention Petrackio’s visit.

"What’s the , "basma on « your head ?” Costa asked. “Washed my hair, tatuea.” “What do you want, Margarita? Why have you called me? Here, what is the matter with that bear there? Bleeding, I see, and loose, too. By all the devils! Margarita what have you been up to ?” “Oh leave him. He is like a kitten again. Leave him, father. Why don’t you ever get real ones again ? When spring comes I go with you hunting.” ' >• 1 “But what has happened to the bear, Margarita? Has he thrown you ? Did you call me because you were afraid now that the beast is loose? Speak, you she-devil.” “Afraid! I? Here!” And she went close to the bear. “But then, why have you called me# suddenly ?” “I want you to take me to the village.” , “So, so; well, that’s different! Let’s close up this martino until we come back, and let us go. Saddle my horse, Margarita, while you saddle yours.” As he spoke Costa roped the bear and dragged it to a fissure in the mountain for which a revolving rock served, as a door.

“That’s women. They are all alike 'when the time comes. Their feet burn. They- want to go and come. She, too, like the rest,” muttered Costa as he finished his job.

Father and daughter were not loquacious. Seclusion breeds silence. Margarita rode on her small horse, following at a few paces from her father’s mount. As she rode on she (thought of him, of Petraekio. Of course he was a real one. But was she herself a real one? How he ■had knocked the whip from her hand and thrown her to the ground! It had come with such suddenness and force that she did -not know how it had been done. But she still felt the grip of his fingers on her arm, the hardness of '■his knee between her shoulders and ■the quick, hot breath as he spoke to her while she was at his mercy. “Snake. I don’t kill women. I want your father to know that I have been here.” That was bravery. She would fight -him, him alone. She would tame

him. But not like that, not as one tames a beai\ That was not the way. He was a man. By the time they had reached the marketplace of the village Margarita (had reconstructed the whole episode ■of the morning a hundred times and had judged carefully his action and hers. She had very little to reproach herself with. She had acted as she should. And he? He . . . .

No. He should have killed her. No. No. That would not have been the right' thing. To cut off her hair, to provoke her father by the insult, Avas greater bravery. By the time they had tethered their horses to the trees in front of the inn Margarita had Aveighed him 'carefully in her mind and decided that he was a real one.

Not a Avord to her father. She would take care of all. that herself. All alone. Costa had a grudge to settle with Ursu. That was all his affair. The grudge between herself and Petrackio was a separate thing. “Whoa, look Avho is here!” several peasants, called out loudly at Costa’s appearance at the inn. “Come in, come in. Fata mare, come in and let us look at your eyes,” said the innkeeper, being seconded by the popa, the priest of the Anllage. - “Still training cubs, fata mare?” Popa Yancff asked, trying to pinch Marg'arita’s arm.

“Cubs!” called out Costa. “Cubs! She is taming the wildest quite as well as I can.” And growing suddenly very proud of his daughter: even better, I say. She may sit among men at the inn and everywhere. Sit near me, Margarita, here. Bring wine, the oldest, Calin, yon swindling innkeeper, and set glasses, big glasses, Hungarian fashion, for each of us, including my daughter.” And turning to Margarita, he said: “And if you want music, I will send a messenger to •bring Yancu Lautauru, or anyone you like best to hear. No ? As you wish it to be.” “Ursu has gone by, an hour ago,” said inkeeper Calin as he filled the glasses. “And why do you tell me that?” broke out Costa in a rage. “Have I ever inquired about him, what?” “No, Costa, but he was bitten by I 'a snake while he was in the moun-

tains. He had-to cut off one of his toes —he may lose his right foot, it swells so rapidly, and he is lame, maybe forever,” said the inkeeper. “Is that so ? Tell us more. What •do you know about it?” the peasants asked, curious for further information. , 0 “That’s all I know. I sold him ■some pure brandy. It’s good to have it near oneself before the end comes,” the innkeeper added. “He looks old and worn, and is bent like a twig after a hailstorm.” ‘“Well, that’s different, Calin, that’s different,” Costa muttered as he sat down again, and began' to bite off •the ends of his long heard as he always did when he had to suppress great rage. “And do you say he will remain lame for life, Calin?” “Looks that way to me.” 'Father’s and daughter’s eyes met. Margarita knew how he hated Ursu. He looked at her and she understood. He was being cheated of his revenge. He did not know what her look said. He was blinded by his own rage against men and bears and life itself. Life was becoming too j tame an affair. Men were tame. 1 (Men were tame. Bears were tame. No fights. No wolves. No robbers. 'No women were stolen. Ursu had been the only man, and now he was lame. (To be Continued.)