URRY up! The children are cold," said Keloo Obilic to the group who were loading a rough pony with household goods.
It was winter—winter in Serbia, that great natural fortress of high plains and higher hills, which for centuries on centuries had stood sentinel for the Cross against the recurring onslaughts of the Crescent. One has but to glance at the history of Christianity to recognise the superlative merits of this paladin amongst principalities, ever ready to do battle for light against darkness. More than five hundred years back it had vainly fought the good fight on the plain of Kossovo, and now once again, defeated but not subdued by that invasion of Turks, Teutons, and Mongol-Bulgarians, rendered possible by the failure of other Christian nations to "watch" as well as pray, its inhabitants were taking to the hills from which so many times before had come their help. There, as many a time before, they would both watch and pray, waiting till the chance came of once more striking a blow for their king, their country, their homes, their hopes—briefly, for this world and the next.
"Hurry up, I pray thee," urged Keloo fussily. "And Marko—where is Marko?"
"Marko hath refused to come," almost sobbed the boy's mother, "and he hath hidden himself away, and cannot be found. We have called and called. He saith he must feed the blackbirds. Nay, husband," she went on, deprecating the gathering wrath on Keloo's brow, "be not angry with the child. He is not as other boys, and he hath fed the birds ever since grand-dam—thy mother, Keloo, not mine-taught him the old ballads and bid him do it. He means no harm—he doth not understand."
"He shall understand to obey," quoth Keloo, raising his voice. "Marko! I say, Marko! Come hither, thou imp of darkness, or 'twill be the worse for thee!"
One of the small haystacks in the yard began to quiver, and after a while gave up the body of a boy, small for his ten years, delicate of frame, who came forward reluctantly, yet defiantly.
"I must feed the blackbirds on Kossovo," he said, and the cadences of his sweet young voice were almost those of a song. "Grand-dam bid me never forget till I was big enough to fight other ways, and I am not big enough yet."
The last word came regretfully, with a glance at his younger brother of nine, who overtopped him by a foot. Something in his tone seemed to appease his father's anger; indeed, it was not easy to be stern with that beautiful childish face, its mouth set firm, its eyes a-glitter with unshed tears.
"Lucky thou wert not burnt with the hay, lad," growled Keloo Obilic grimly, "for I leave naught for the cursed conquerors. And there be other ways of help save fighting. See, the bread-bag be thy portion. Nay, not all the loaves, wife—that were too heavy a burden—six are enough. So! Shoulder that, my boy, and no more about the feeding of blackbirds!"
Marko Obilic stood for a moment irresolute, despite his determination. Then a sudden smile irradiated his face, making it shine like a seraph's.
"Yea, father, I will carry the bread for king and country!"
So the little cortège set out, the women weeping and wailing, the men morose and glum. It is no light thing for the Serbian peasant, soldier by birth and feeling, to run before his enemy; but when promised help has not come, when even ammunition is withheld, what is to be done save seek shelter in the bosom of the Black Mount, the kindly yet rugged bosom that has shielded so many in the past?
"We shall have snow to-night," said Karo Milovitch, shivering. "God help the starving soldiers in the mountain passes!"
Little Marko was walking close beside the man as he spoke, but the child did not hear—he was in one of his dreams. Those strange eyes of his were literally blazing with liquid light, for he was poet and visionary born.
Below the little party, in the mists that come with a cold sun-setting, lay the plain of Kossovo, the battleground of Serbia, "The Plain of the Blackbirds," so named from the thousands of these sweet songsters that frequent its wide stretches of tufted grass, so quaintly dotted with quartz stones. The women turned to look with tears for what they could no longer see; the men trudged on with sore hearts, realising that they had said good-bye—perhaps for this life—to things familiar.
But Marko smiled. He still saw what he had seen so often—the blackbirds, scores on scores of little winged angels of song rising from every bush, every tuft of grass, and perching so confidently on the quartz stones, as if they were indeed bread.