And when Marko had inscribed the letter, Lo! he stuck it on the fir-tree’s branches, That it might be seen by passing travellers. In the fount he threw his golden tablets, Doff’d his vest of green, and spread it calmly On the grass, beneath a sheltering fir-tree; Cross’d him, and lay down upon his garment; O’er his eyes he drew his samur-kalpak, { 103} Laid him down,—yes! laid him down for ever.
By the fountain lay the clay-cold Marko Day and night;—a long, long week he lay there. Many travellers pass’d, and saw the hero,— Saw him lying by the public path-way; And while passing, said, “The hero slumbers!” Then they kept a more than common distance, Fearing that they might disturb the hero.
Fortune is the leader of misfortune, As misfortune oft is fortune’s leader: ’T was a happy fortune, then, that Vaso, He the _Iguman_ { 104a} of the _Holy Mountain_, { 104b} From the white church bound of Vilindari, With his scholar, with the young Isaja, Thither came and saw the sleeping Marko. His right hand then beckon’d to his scholar: “O, my son, be cautious, lest thou wake him! When disturb’d he rages full of fury, And without remorse he might destroy us.” Then he look’d in anxious terror round him, Saw the letter on the fir-tree branches; Read it from a distance;—as he trembled, Read that Marko had in death departed. From his horse the astonish’d monk alighted, Seized the hand of Marko;—Marko moved not! Long he had been dead,—long since departed!
Tears rush’d swiftly from the eye of Vaso, Marko’s fate fill’d all his thoughts with sorrow. From the girdle then he took the purses, Which he hid beneath his own white girdle: Round and round inquired Iguman Vaso Where he should entomb the hero Marko; { 105} Round and round he look’d in fond inquiry. On his horse he flung the hero’s body, Brought it safely to the ocean’s borders, Thence he shipped it for the Holy Mountain; Near the white church, Vilindari, landed, To that white church he convey’d the body; And, as wont, upon the hero’s body Funeral hymns were sung; and he was buried In the white church aisle, the very centre,— There the old man placed the hero’s body. But no monument he raised above him, Lest when foes should mark the hero’s grave-stone, Theirs should be the joy, and theirs the triumph. { 106}