He corroborated all we had heard about the feelings entertained towards us at Gussinje, and said, "You would not live long were you in that ferri—that hell over the mountains." He himself had been obliged to escape, for his life was in danger among the fanatical inhabitants.
"They are like madmen," he said, "now—starving, desperate."
He expressed intense hatred of the Turkis, as the Albanians call all Mohammedans. "Devils," he said, "robbers. 'Ku Turku vee kambet atu sdel baar' (Where the Turk puts his foot, the grass grows not)."
Nik Leka has one vanity—he likes to be called a diplomatist. Talk to him on politics, the handsome warrior puts on a very knowing and wise expression.
Our conversation ran very much on politics to-night.
The fathers said, "These Arnauts have one wish. They know that an Albanian autonomy means Mussulman fanaticism, war, and Christians driven from the plain to starve in the mountains. What they wish is, that you English would take the country. All the mountaineers discuss this and desire it. So too do the Christian townsmen. Do you think England will occupy Albania?"
This was a poser. I did not like to say England would never dream of doing such a thing, and that Austria would have a word to say in the matter, so merely pleaded ignorance as to the counsels of my country. Nik Leka nodded his head when my response was translated to him, smiled and winked at me, as much as to say, "Ah, these priests don't understand politics. We diplomatists hold our tongues."
Nik Leka told us that our old friend the bullying Bekir Kyochi, for so is spelt a name pronounced as Bektsé Tchotché, was in Gussinje with the leaguesmen. "I should say the Scutarines will not weep much if the Montenegrins take his head," I said. "Ah," wisely replied the chieftain, "we say in Albania, 'Ana e kecie nuk schet'" (The worthless pot does not break).
Nik Leka, I found, considered that the discourse of a great diplomatist should be liberally interspersed with pithy saws and proverbs. He rolled them out with unction, and repeated each two or three times till he arrived at what he considered to be a properly emphatic delivery.
He told us he would accompany us back to Scutari; we should start early on the morrow. We were in luck; we had travelled hither with the boulim-bashi of the tribe, we were to return with its head man. We conversed till a very late hour. "A veritable Tower of Babel," said Father John, with his stentorian roar. Latin, Albanian, Italian, Sclav, and English words were flying about the room, to the utter confusion of the Lord Mayor, who sat, looking very wise and sleepy, trying to make out what on earth it all meant.