From that day, Uros was always hovering in the neighbourhood of Radonic's house; he was to be found lurking thereabout morning, noon and night. Milenko took him to task about it, but he soon found out that if "hunger has no eyes," lovers, likewise, have no ears, and also that "he who holds his tongue often teaches best." As for Uros, his friend's reproaches were not half so keen as those he made to himself; but love had a thousand sophistries to still the voice of conscience.
Not long after the eventful day of the riddle, Marko Radonic returned unexpectedly to Budua, his ship having to undergo some slight repairs.
For a few days, Milenko managed to keep Uros and Milena apart, but, young as they were, love soon prevailed over prudence. They therefore began to meet in by-lanes and out-of-the-way places, especially during those hours when the husband was busy at the building yard. At first they were very careful, but the reiteration of the same act rendered them more heedless.
Uros was seen again and again at Milena's door when the husband was not at home. People began to suspect, to talk; the subject was whispered mysteriously from ear to ear; it soon spread about the town like wild-fire.
A month after Radonic had returned, he was one evening at the inn, drinking and chatting with some old cronies about ships, cargoes and freights. In the midst of the conversation, an old _guzlar_ passing thereby, stepped in to have a draught of wine. Upon seeing the bard, every man rose and, by way of greeting, offered him his glass to have a sip.
"Give us a song, Vuk; it is years since I heard the sound of your voice," said Radonic.
The bard complied willingly; he went up to a _guzla_ hanging on the wall, and took it down. He then sat on a stool, placed his instrument between his legs, and began to scrape its single gut-string with the monochord bow; this prelude served to give an intonation to his voice, and scan the verses he was about to sing. He thought a while, and then--his face brightening up--he commenced the ballad of "Marko Kraglievic and Janko of Sebinje."
We Slavs are so fond of music and poetry, that we will remain for hours listening to one of our bards, forgetting even hunger in our delight. No sooner was the shrill sound of Vuk's voice heard than every noise was hushed, hardly a man lifted his glass up to his mouth. Even the passers-by walked softly or lingered about the door to catch some snatches of the poet's song.