Lippincotts Magazine, Vol. 22, August, 1878 | Page 4

I could see little save the river, which
seemed transformed into a roaring and foaming ocean. The refugees,
the gypsies, the Jews, the Greeks, scampered in all directions. Then
tremendous echoes awoke among the hills. Peal after peal echoed and
re-echoed, until it seemed as if the cliffs must crack and crumble.
Sheets of rain were blown by the mischievous winds now full upon the
unhappy fugitives, or now descended with seemingly crushing force on
the Servians in their dancing canoes. Then came vivid lightning,
brilliant and instant glances of electricity, disclosing the forests and
hills for a moment, then seeming by their quick departure to render the
obscurity more painful than before. The fiery darts were hurled by
dozens upon the devoted trees, and the tall and graceful stems were
bent like reeds before the rushing of the blast. Cold swept through the
vale, and shadows seemed to follow it. Such contrast with the luminous,
lovely semi-tropical afternoon, in the dreamy restfulness of which man
and beast seemed settling into lethargy, was crushing. It pained and
disturbed the spirit. Master Josef, who never lost an occasion to cross
himself and to do a few turns on a little rosary of amber beads, came
and went in a kind of dazed mood while the storm was at its height.
Just as a blow was struck among the hills which seemed to make the
earth quiver to its centre, the varlet approached and modestly inquired
if the "honorable society"--myself and chance companions--would visit
that very afternoon the famous chapel in which the crown of Hungary
lies buried. I glanced curiously at him, thinking that possibly the
thunder had addled his brain. "Oh, the honorable society may walk in
sunshine all the way to the chapel at five o'clock," he said with an
encouraging grin. "These Danube storms come and go as quickly as a
Tsigane from a hen-roost. See! the thunder has stopped its howling, and
there is not a wink of lightning. Even the raindrops are so few that one
may almost walk between them."
[Illustration: NICOPOLIS.]

I returned to the balcony from which the storm had driven me, and was
gratified by the sight of the mountain-side studded with pearls, which a
faint glow in the sky was gently touching. The Danube roared and
foamed with malicious glee as the poor Servians were still whirled
about on the water. But presently, through the deep gorges and along
the sombre stream and over the vineyards, the rocks and the roofs of
humble cottages, stole a warm breeze, followed by dazzling sunlight,
which returned in mad haste to atone for the displeasure of the wind
and rain. In a few moments the refugees were again afield, spreading
their drenched garments on the wooden railings, and stalking about in a
condition narrowly approaching nakedness. A gypsy four feet high,
clad in a linen shirt and trousers so wide as to resemble petticoats,
strolled thoughtlessly on the bank singing a plaintive melody, and now
and then turning his brown face skyward as if to salute the sun. This
child of mysterious ancestry, this wanderer from the East, this robber of
roosts and cunning worker in metals, possessed nor hat nor shoes: his
naked breast and his unprotected arms must suffer cold at night, yet he
seemed wonderfully happy. The Jews and Greeks gave him scornful
glances, which he returned with quizzical, provoking smiles. At last he
threw himself down on a plank from which the generous sun was
rapidly drying the rain, and, coiling up as a dog might have done, he
was soon asleep.
With a marine glass I could see distinctly every movement on the
Servian shore. Close to the water's edge nestled a small village of neat
white cottages. Around a little wharf hovered fifty or sixty stout
farmers, mounted on sturdy ponies, watching the arrival of the Mercur,
the Servian steamer from Belgrade and the Sava River. The Mercur
came puffing valiantly forward, as unconcerned as if no whirlwind had
swept across her path, although she must have been in the narrow and
dangerous cañon of the "Iron Gates" when the blast and the shower
were most furious. On the roads leading down the mountain-sides I saw
long processions of squealing and grunting swine, black, white and
gray, all active and self-willed, fighting each other for the right of way.
Before each procession marched a swineherd playing on a rustic pipe,
the sounds from which primitive instrument seemed to exercise Circean
enchantment upon the rude flocks. It was inexpressibly comical to

watch the masses of swine after they had been enclosed in the
"folds"--huge tracts fenced in and provided with shelters at the corners.
Each herd knew its master, and as he passed to and fro would salute
him with a