Once free of the mountain, we sped along through a country as beautiful as any in America. Farmers, working in the fields, paused at their labour to watch us go by. Teju made the most of a fine road and lifted us along at the rate of sixty miles an hour, leaving many slain chickens behind to mark his swift passage.
Fortunately there was little travel along the highway that morning, for we frightened every human being and every animal we met. Patient plodding horses, dragging creaking carts in the same direction in which we were going, were too surprised to continue their journey. They stood still in their tracks unable to move until we disappeared over the crest of the next hill. The drivers, open-mouthed, were too startled to urge them. But the horses we met coming toward us had more time to watch our approach and thrill with fear. All of them lowered their heads, pricked up their ears and, like the cows, showed signs of confusion as to which side of the road they should take; then, as we came opposite, they bolted across the front of the speeding machine into the adjoining field. Their frightened owners, slowly gathering courage in a ditch, shook their fists and hurled Bharbazonian epithets after us.
It is amusing to play havoc in a country where there are no license tags, no mounted policemen and no fines to pay.
At noontide we made our first stop at a fine old road-house called the Turk's Head Inn. It was a queer little brick and red stone structure approaching the colonial style of architecture in its small, leaded glass windows and white paint, with the curious addition of Byzantine doors and windows, the result of Turkish influence. The main doorway, with its huge circular top, was in the centre of the building and formed an imposing entrance, reaching to the second floor. On an iron arm, extending from the top of this doorway, hung the signboard after which the inn was named.
It presented no written words; only a terrible life-sized painting of a Turk's head, dripping with blood and resting on a spear point. A red fez sat jauntily over one ear, giving the head a gala appearance; but the eyes, wide open, staring eyes, speedily dispelled any such thought. They were filled with a terrible expression of pain and horror, as if the head still breathed and felt the agony of the spear piercing its inmost brain, while its lips moved in the throes of cursing its tormentors, even in the face of death. The frightful signboard sent a shudder through me which the General noticed.
"What a grewsome thing," I said.
"It is the head of Helmud Bey," he replied, looking into the suffering eyes without a show of compassion; "he ruled over my sad country for forty years, the creature of the Sultan. So great was his ferocity that even now the peasantry tremble at the mention of his name. He was killed in this Inn thirty years ago by Oloff Gregory, the king. Clad in suits of French mail, they fought on horseback with sword and spear, while the Turkish and Bharbazonian army looked on, drawn up out there on opposite sides of the road.
"It was agreed that whichever champion won, his forces would be declared victorious without further fighting. It was the Turks' last stand after Shipka Pass and, had Gregory lost, Bharbazonia might not now be free. At the first shock Gregory unhorsed Helmud Bey and was himself thrown to the ground. Then the fighting was continued with heavy swords until the Turk, badly wounded, fled within the inn where Bharbazonia's champion killed him by cutting off his head.
"For a long time the head was displayed on the victor's pike before the roadhouse door. The Turks surrendered and the war was over. By this feat of arms Gregory became king, for, when Russia tried to rehabilitate the kingdom, she found that the Turks had killed or driven into exile every member of the royal house of Bharbazonia which was reigning in the fifteenth century before the time of the conquering Salaman the Magnificent. Gregory, you know, was only a soldier and a noble. His house never laid claim to royalty. And that is why his brother, the 'Red Fox,' is still a Duke although his children by special grant of the King are Prince and Princess of the land."
At the inn were the usual number of idlers. They gathered around the car at a respectful distance and watched us dismount. The innkeeper, in white apron and with bared head, appeared in the high doorway, scattering the crowd to make a passageway for us. He was a jolly old Frenchman.