The Lady in the Car Part 28

We had eaten our evening meal, and were sitting in the calm night smoking cigarettes, prior to turning in. The two men beside me had placed their rifles upon the ground, where the moonbeams glinted along the bright barrels, and our conversation had become exhausted.

Below, in that dark valley, ran the mule-track to Ipek, therefore day and night it was watched for pa.s.sing travellers, as indeed were all the paths at the confines of the territory over which my friend Vatt Marashi, defiant of the Turks, ruled so firmly and yet so justly.

Luk, rolling a fresh cigarette, was making some remark to Palok, my guide, in his peculiar soft-sounding but unwritten language, when it suddenly occurred to me to ask him to give me some little reminiscence of his own adventurous life.

He was silent for a few moments, his keen gaze upon the shining rifle-barrel before him, then, with Palok translating into Italian, he told me the story of how he earned his nickname of "The Open Eye."

About two years before, when his tribe were at feud with their neighbours, the powerful Kastrati, who live in the opposite range of mountains, he was one dark night with a party of his fellow tribesmen in ambush, expecting a raid from their enemies. The false alarms were several when, of a sudden, Luk discerned a dark figure moving slowly in the gloom. Raising his rifle he was on the point of firing when some impulse seized him to stay his hand and shout a challenge.

The reply was a frightened one--and in Turkish.

Luk came forth from his hiding-place, and a few seconds later, to his great surprise, encountered the stranger, who proved to be a woman wearing her veil, and enshrouded by an ugly black shawl wrapped about her. He knew sufficient Turkish to demand her name, and whence she had come, but she refused to satisfy him. She had already recognised by his dress, that he was of the tribe of the Skreli, therefore she knew that she had fallen into the hands of enemies.

"Speak!" he cried, believing her to be a spy from the Kastrati. "Tell me who sent you here to us? Whither are you going?"

"I know not," was her reply in a sweet voice which told him at once that she was quite young, and he, being unmarried, became instantly interested.

"Where are you from?" he asked, expecting that she had come from Skodra, the nearest Turkish town.

"From Constantinople," was her reply.

"Constantinople!" gasped Luk, to whom the capital was so far off as to be only a mere city of legend. It was, indeed, many hundred leagues away. In the darkness he could not see her eyes. He could only distinguish that the lower part of her face was veiled like that of all Mahommedan women.

"And you have come here alone?" he asked.

"Yes, alone. I--I could not remain in Constantinople longer. Am I still in Turkey?"

"Nominally, yes. But the Sultan does not rule us here. We, of the Skreli, are Christians, and our country is a free one--to ourselves, but not to our captives."

"Ah!" she said with failing heart. "I see! I am your captive--eh? I have heard in Constantinople how you treat the Turks whom you capture."

"You may have heard many stories, but I a.s.sure you that the Skreli never maltreat a woman," was the brigand's proud answer. "This path is unsafe for you, and besides it is my duty to take you to our chief Vatt Marashi that he may decide whether we give you safe conduct."

"No, no!" she implored. "I have heard of him. Take pity upon me--a defenceless woman! I--I thought to escape from Turkey. I have no pa.s.sport, so I left the train and hoped to get across the mountains into Montenegro, where I should be free."

"Then you have escaped from your harem--eh?" asked Luk, his curiosity now thoroughly aroused.

"Yes. But I have money here with me--and my jewels. I will pay you-- pay you well, if you will help me. Ah! you do not know!"

Luk was silent for a moment.

"When a woman is in distress the Skreli give their a.s.sistance without payment," was his reply, and then, as day was breaking, he led her up the steep and secret paths to that little settlement where we now were-- the headquarters of the all-powerful Vatt Marashi.

At the latter's orders she unwound the veil from her face, disclosing the beautiful countenance of a Turkish girl of eighteen, and when she took off her cloak it was seen that beneath she wore a beautiful harem dress, big, baggy trousers of rich mauve and gold brocade, and a little bolero of amaranth velvet richly embroidered with gold. Upon her neck were splendid emeralds, pearls, and turquoises, and upon her wrists fine bracelets encrusted with diamonds.

She stood in the lowly hut before the chief and her captor Luk, a vision of perfect beauty--looking "a veritable houri as promised by Mahommed,"

as Luk put it.

Vatt Marashi listened to her story. She had, she told him, escaped from her father's harem because she was betrothed, as is usual in Turkey, to a man whom she had never seen. She had taken money from the place where one of the black eunuchs h.o.a.rded it, and with the a.s.sistance of a young officer, a cousin of hers, had succeeded in leaving the capital in the baggage-waggon of the Orient Express. Unable to procure a pa.s.sport, however, she dare not attempt to cross the frontier into Bulgaria, for she would at once be detected, refused permission to travel, and sent back. For a Turkish woman to attempt to leave Turkey in that manner the punishment is death. So at some small station near the frontier, the name of which she did not know, she had, under cover of night, left the train, and taken to the mountains. For four days she had wandered alone, until Luk had discovered her.

"And what was done with her?" I inquired, much interested.

"Well," replied my companion. "She elected to remain with us, our chief giving her a.s.surance that she would be well and honourably treated. He pointed out that had she been a man he would have demanded of the Sultan a heavy ransom for her release, but as she was a defenceless woman, and alone, she was not to remain a prisoner. If she cared to accept the offer of the protection of the Skreli, then every man of his tribe would defend her, and her honour to the last drop of blood remaining in their veins. The word of Skreli, once given, is, as you know, never broken."

And his was no idle boast. The code of honour among the tribes of Northern Albania would put even ours of England to the blush. The Skreli are very bad enemies, but they are, as I know from personal experience, most firm and devoted friends.

"And so it came about," Luk went on, "that Zorka--that was her name--was placed in my mother's charge, and discarded her veil, as do our own women. Well--I suppose I may confess it--I loved her. It was only to be expected, I suppose, for she was very lovely, and every unmarried man in the tribe was her devoted admirer. Though she lived with us, no word of affection pa.s.sed between us. Why should it? Would it not have been folly?--she the daughter of a great Pasha who was seeking for her all over Turkey, and I a poor humble tribesman, and a Christian into the bargain? And so a year went over. We often walked together, and the others envied me my friendship with the delicate and beautiful girl who preferred our free untrammelled life of the mountains to the constant confinement of her father's harem on the Bosphorus. Unlike that of our women, her skin was lily white, and her little hands as soft as satin.

Ah! yes, I loved her with all my soul, though I never dared to tell her so. She became as a sister to me, as a daughter to my mother. It was she who said the last word to me when I went forth upon a raid; she who waited to welcome me on my return."

"And you said nothing," I remarked, with some surprise.

"Nothing. Our chief had ordered that no man should declare his love to her. She was our guest, like yourself, and she was therefore sacred.

Well," he went on, gazing thoughtfully across the dark valley, the white moonbeams shining full upon his thin, sun-tanned countenance. "One day our men down yonder, on the northern border, discovered three strangers who were examining the rocks and chipping pieces off--French mining engineers we afterwards found them to be. They were captured, brought up here, and held to ransom. Two were elderly men, but the third was about twenty-eight, well-dressed with a quant.i.ty of French banknotes upon him. At first the price we asked of the Sultan was too high. The Vali of Skodra refused to pay, but suggested a smaller sum. We were in no hurry to compromise, so the three remained prisoners, and--"

"And what?"

"Well, during that time the younger of the three saw Zorka, and fell in love with her. I caught the pair one night walking together. They sat here, at this very spot. The Frenchman had been in Constantinople, and, speaking a little Turkish, could converse with her. I crept up and overheard some of their conversation. Next day I told the chief, and when he heard it he was angry, and ordered that the prisoners were to be released and sent away--without ransom--that very day. Zorka was one of ourselves. So that afternoon the three strangers were escorted down to the Skodra road, and there told to begone."

Here Luk broke off, slowly rolling a fresh cigarette in silence. By the light of the brilliant moon I saw the sudden change in his countenance.

"Well?" I asked.

"There is not much more to tell," he said hoa.r.s.ely, hard lines showing at the corners of his mouth. "A few weeks later we one night missed Zorka. The whole tribe went forth to search for her. Some men of the Hoti, down on the way to Skodra, had seen a woman pa.s.s. Vatt Marashi took me with some others down to the lake-side, where we heard that she had escaped on the little steamer that runs up the lake to Ryeka, in Montenegro. And further that she had a male companion who, from his description, we knew to be the Frenchman whose life we had spared. With the man was an elderly woman. He had evidently returned to Skodra, and sent Zorka a message in secret. At risk of arrest by the Turks we went down into Skodra itself, and saw the captain of the steamer, from whom we learnt that the Frenchman's name was Paul Darbour, and that he was a mining engineer, living in Paris. While on the boat he had chatted to the captain in French, and mentioned that he was going first to Ragusa, down on the Dalmatian coast. The Skreli punish an insult to their women with death, therefore that same night, upon the lake sh.o.r.e, we twelve men and our good chief raised the blood-feud, and I was ordered to go forth in search of the man who had enticed away our Zorka. None of them, however knew how deeply I loved her myself. Well, I left, wearing the Montenegrin dress, the blue baggy trousers, scarlet jacket, and pork-pie hat. Through Montenegro, down to Cattaro, I followed them, and took the steamer along the Adriatic to Ragusa. But they had already left. For a month I followed the trio from place to place, until late one night, in Trieste, I met Zorka in European dress, walking with her lover along the quays. He was speaking sharply to her, evidently trying to induce her to act against her will, for she was weeping bitterly. I crept after them unseen in the shadows. From words she let drop in Turkish I knew that he was treating her with cruelty, now that he had got her in his power--that she bitterly regretted listening to his love-speeches. I clenched my teeth, took a few sharp steps, and next instant my keen knife was buried up to the hilt behind our enemy's shoulder. He fell forward almost without a cry."

"And Zorka?" I asked.

"I brought her safely back again to us," was his simple answer. "See.

She is my wife!"

Luk is here, outside Belgrade, the Prince added. But in secret, for a price is set upon his head. He is a Turkish brigand, and he and his band terrorise the Montenegrin border. The Servian Government offered, only a month ago, twenty thousand dinars for his capture. They little dream he is in hiding in a cave over in yonder mountain, and that he is supplied with food by his faithful little wife here!

And true sportsman that he was, he raised his gla.s.s again to her--and to her husband.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

TOUCHING THE WIDOW'S MITE.

ONE.

The Prince, keen motorist that he was, had--attended by the faithful Garrett, of course--been executing some remarkably quick performances on the Brooklands track.

About a month before he had purchased a hundred horse-power racing-car, and now devoted a good deal of his time to the gentle art of record-breaking. Some of his times for "the mile" had been very creditable, and as Mr Richard Drummond, son of a Manchester cotton magnate, his name was constantly appearing in the motor journals.

Having for the time being discarded the purple, and with it his cosy chambers off Piccadilly, he had now taken up his quarters at that small hotel so greatly patronised by motorists, the "Hut," on the Ripley Road.

Among the many road-scouts, with their red discs, in that vicinity he had become extremely popular on account of his generosity in tips, while to the police with his ugly grey low-built car with its two seats behind the long bonnet he was a perpetual source of annoyance.

Though he never exceeded the speed limit--in sight of the police--yet his open exhaust roared and throbbed, while his siren was the most ear-piercing of any on the road. A little bit of business up in Staffordshire which he had recently brought to a successful issue by the aid of the faithful Charles, the Parson, and Mr Max Mason, had placed them all in funds, and while the worthy Bayswater vicar was taking his ease at the "Majestic" up at Harrogate--where, by the way, he had become extremely popular among his fellow guests--Mason was at the Bath at Bournemouth for a change of air.