Adventure, December 1914 — page 218: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

216 increased. The defile seemed to lead us down into the bowels of the mountain, and we were compelled to slow to a walk. Just how it happened I don’t know. Both of us were very tired, perhaps half asleep. But Stoyan gave a guttural bark of anger, and I blinked my eyes to see men standing all around us, two of them at the bridles of each horse. ‘They were lean, dark-faced, hook-nosed men, with lank, oily hair and big gold earrings; and they wore gaudy turbans and carried long barreled Martinis in the hollows of their arms, besides an array of revolvers and knives thrust into their voluminous waist- sashes. They stood very close around us, but they did not touch us; and from this I augured a chance of escape. ‘Shall we ride right into them?” I said to Masoya. ‘‘Stoyan will help, and perhaps we can——”’ She shook her head decisively. “By no means. They are Tziganes. Let me try my hand at them. They are more likely to be friends than enemies.” And she turned to the man with the brightest eyes, the biggest nose, and the longest earrings, and shot a question at him in a rude, barbaric language that sounded like mountain torrents rioting over preci- pices and the wind through the rocks, a harsh tongue that yet had something haunt- ingly liquid and musical in its syllables. CHAPTER XXIII THE HERMIT PRIEST OF KARA DAGH HE effect of her words was little short of magical. Before she had exchanged half a dozen sentences with him the leader of the band was louting low at her saddle- bow, and respect dawned on all the swarthy faces around us. Masoya turned to me with a little laugh. ‘fAll’s well, after all,” she said. ‘“They are Tziganes of the same tribe as Beran Kokalji whom we know of old. This man—” she indicated the leader, who grinned at her gesture—‘‘is a cousin of Kokalji. They are smugglers, and they are clearing out of Bulgaria because they fear the Greeks who are never friends of the Tziganes. It could not be better. These fellows know all the secret paths of the mountains and they will see us in safety across Servia to the Danube.” Adventure Half an hour’s ride under the escort of our new friends brought us to their camp in a gorge which shot off at right angles to the one we had been following. Here, deep in the wildest fastnesses of the Balkans, their tents had been pitched and their motley herd of pack mules and ponies was picketed. Here, too, were their women folk and children, without whom the Tziganes never travel unless they are bent on fighting or marauding of the most desperate character. Also I noted that beside the picket-lines were numerous packs in ollcloth, sure sign of attar.of roses or other costly contraband they intended to smuggle to Austria as a side issue of their flight from the path of the Greek armies. I have already spoken of Masoya’s hold over these savage borderers, weird people without acknowledged ruler or God of their own. Her word with them was law. They waited on her asif she were a queen, and they called her by that strange title which was universally accorded her along the frontier, “the Lady of Czarigrad.”’ The most comfortable tent, the warmest seat by the camp-fire, the choicest bits from the great kettle that stewed over it were hers. And because we were with her, Sto- yan and I were made much of and given preference, although either of us alone, I am persuaded, would have stood more chance of having his throat cut. Both Masoya and I were very tired that night, but before she lay down in the tent that had been set aside for her I asked her that which had been on my mind ever since the steady approach of the hostile cannon had beaten into my brain conviction of Bulgaria’s defeat. Women are consistent—despite what some wiseacres have said. She blushed and hesitated, there in that God-forsaken wil- derness; and after much urging on my part, the sum of her opposition was that “it was too short notice.” ‘‘And I have only the clothes I stand in, dear,” was her final argument. “But thank goodness they are enough for decency’s sake,” I answered. “But how—how could we have it?” she objected. “Ask your friend the chief, here,’’ I sug- gested. “If necessary, he can kidnap a priest for us.” “Tt will be very informal,’ she said faintly. MICLOOOK C@