together, all bent upon merry-making, and a fine evening they had of it; though, according to the old men, this was but moping compared to the festivities they had been used to in their youth. Then, hosts and guests being jolly together, they quite forgot that time had wings, and eight days would sometimes pass before anybody thought of leave-taking.

On that mystic evening almost all the amusements had an allegorical or weird character. In every game there was an attempt at divination. Thus the first one that was played consisted in throwing a garland amidst the branches of a tree. If it remained caught at the first throw, the owner was to get married during the year; if not, the number of times the wreath was tossed upwards corresponded with as many years of patient waiting. It was considered a bad omen if the garland came to pieces.

When Uros threw his chaplet of flowers up it came at once down again, bringing an old wreath that the wind and the winter storms had respected.

"Why," said the Starescina, turning to Milena, who had come to witness the game, "surely it is your husband's wreath!"

"Yes, I remember," added Markovic; "last year Radonic was with us, and his garland remained in the tree the first time he flung it up."

"Oh, Uros, fie! you'll bring Radonic ill-luck yet."

Uros turned round, and his eyes met those of Milena for the first time. Both blushed. There were a few moments of awkward silence, and then the young man, touching his cap, said:

"I am sorry, gospa, but, of course, I did not do it on purpose."

"No, surely not, and, besides, it had to come down sooner or later."

He tossed his wreath up again, but whether he felt nervous because he had been laughed at, or because the beautiful eyes of the young Montenegrine woman paralysed his arm, he felt himself so clumsy and awkward that he tossed up his garland several times, but he only succeeded to batter it as it came down again.

"Just let me try once," said Milenko to his friend, as he cast his wreath up in the branches of the tree, where it nestled.

Uros made another attempt; down came his garland, bringing his friend's together with it, amid the general laughter.

"Uros is like the dog in the manger," said one of the bystanders; "he will not marry, nor does he wish other people to do so."

"Bad luck and a bad omen!" whispered an old crony to Milenko. "Beware of your friend; nor, if I were Radonic, should I trust my pretty wife with him. Bad luck and a bad omen!"

After garland throwing, huge bonfires were kindled, and the surrounding mountains gleamed with many lights. It was, indeed, a fine sight to see the high, heaven-kissing flames reflected by the dark waters of the blue Adriatic.

But of all the bonfires in the neighbourhood, the Starescina's was the biggest, for he was one of the richest men of the town. It was thus no easy matter to jump scathless over it. Still, young and old did manage to do so, either when the flames—chasing one another —leapt up to the sky, or else when the fire began to burn low. The stillness of the night was interrupted by prolonged shouts of "Zivio!" repeated again and again by the echoes of the neighbouring mountains; but amidst the shouting of "Long life!" you could hear the hooting of some owl scared by this unusual glimmering light, and every now and then the shrill cry of some witch or some other ghostly wanderer of the night, and the suppressed groaning and gnashing of teeth of evil spirits, disappointed to think that so many sturdy lads and winsome lassies should escape their clutches for a whole year; for they have no power against all those who jump over these hallowed bonfires on the eve of the mystic saint's day.

"There, did you hear?" said one of the young girls, shuddering.
Thereupon we all crossed ourselves devoutly.

"It is better not to think of them, they cannot come near us," said the Starescina.

"It is not long ago that we saw three witches burnt at Zavojane. When was it, Bellacic?"

"It was in 1823, in the month of August, on the 3rd, if I remember rightly."

"Oh! then they were real witches?"

"Of course."

"Were they very ugly? Had they beards?"

"Oh, no! they were very much like all the other elderly women of the place."

"And what had they done?"

"No end of mischief. One of them had eaten a child alive. Another had taken a young man's heart out of his body whilst he was asleep. He, on awaking—not knowing what had happened to him—felt a great void in his chest."

"Poor fellow!" said Milena, compassionately, whilst her glances fell on Uros, and he actually felt like the young man who had lost his heart.

"But what was she going to do with it?"

"Why, roast and eat it."

"A friar who had witnessed the whole thing, but who had been deprived of all power of rendering assistance, accused her of witchcraft, and she was made to give back the heart before she had had time to devour it."

"How wonderful!"

"The third had rendered all the balls of the guns aimless, and all weapons blunt and useless. But these are only some of the many evils they had done."

"And you saw them burnt?"

"Yes, in the presence of the Catholic parish priest, two friars and all the local authorities."

The bonfires were now over, and nothing but the glowing embers remained. All then went in the house to partake of the many good things that St. John, or his namesake, had prepared for them.

There was for supper: first, whole lambs, roasted on the spit, then fish, castradina, and many other dishes, all more or less stuffed with garlic—a condiment which never fails anywhere. It is said that the gods, having been asked if this bulb was to rank amongst eatables, decreed that no dish should ever remain without it; and the Slavs have faithfully followed out their decree.

When all had eaten till they were crop full, and had drunk their fill, they all raught after their meat as seemly as Madame Eglentine; then, loosening their belts, they remained seated on their stools, or squatted on the ground, chatting, punning, telling anecdotes, or listening to the grave discourses of the old men about St. John.

"Fancy," said a deacon of a neighbouring church, "when we have fasted for a day or two, we think we have done much. St. John, instead, fasted for forty days and forty nights, without even taking a sip of water."

"But why did he fast so long?"

"Because he had committed a great sin; and on account of this sin he always walked with his head bent down. When the people said to him, 'John, why do you not lift up your head?' he always replied demurely, 'Because I am not worthy to lift up my eyes heavenwards; and I shall only do so when an infant, that cannot yet speak, will bid me do it.' Now, it happened that one day John met a young woman carrying a little child, and when the infant saw John, he said: 'John, lift up thine eyes heavenward; my Father has forgiven thee.' The saint, in great joy, knowing that the babe was Jesus Christ, went at once home; and with a red-hot iron he burnt the initials of the Saviour on his side, so that he might never forget his name."

"And now let's have a story," said the host.

As Milos Bellacic was noted for his skill in relating a good story, he was asked by everybody to tell them one of his very best tales.

Being a man who had