We had topped the crest of a long, rolling hilltop, to the sudden edge of a low cliff, and looked almost directly upon the historic and fantastic city of Herrovosca, capital of Alaria. It was the first time either of us had ever seen an Oriental city. Geographically, of course, Herrovosca is not Oriental, but the Turks occupied it too long for it ever to look like a European city again. The houses below were whitewashed, or color washed, the shrubbery was thick and of an unbelievably luscious and vivid green, as I imagine the green of an oasis to be, with flecks of bright flowers to accent it and slender poplars pointed heavenward like minarets of silver. From the hilltop we looked almost directly down on the new part of the town. Pleasant villas were set back in their gardens behind high white walls, awninged roofs showed bright among the trees, the bright face of a small lake flashed, and through the center of the city flowed a river, crossed by a dozen bridges. Everything on our side of the river was new and bright, with ample space for trees. On the opposite bank there was little greenery except for a park that covered a small rocky hill. In the park was a huge old building, a massive grey stone structure with long wings of lighter stone that had been added later. Obviously it was the Royal Palace, the abode of the only Christian bachelor King in the world. Around the whole district was a double line of fortifications in perfect preservation. The outer wall crossed two of the bridges and was continued on our side of the river. In mediæval days the Herrovoscans did not dare to leave their defense to chance and the perfection of the walls suggested that the mediæval period was a very recent fact.
At the foot of the little hill on which the Royal Palace stood, was a large square, flanked by a Cathedral on one side, and by two large, official-looking buildings on the other two, with the park of the Palace forming the fourth. It was all very quiet and peaceful. Not a sound came up to us from the city, though we were very close to it. We passed a few cars, some market and trucking wagons drawn by mules, horses and oxen in mixed pairs, a scattering of foot passengers, laden donkeys, and riders, each making its own special sound; but from the city there was only silence. It seemed unnaturally still, like a dead town.
“It’s the wind,” John said, practically. “It’s carrying the sound away from us. Odd effect, though, isn’t it?”
“It’s the most scene-painterish city I ever saw in real life,” I said. It was hard to believe that it was real, but as we rolled down the hill sounds of activity gradually rose to meet us. As we crossed the river over one of the wide stone bridges, the first impression of unnatural quiet was erased. Herrovosca was like all cities, noisy, busy, self-centered, and its color faded a little as we approached. John turned away from the wide thoroughfare leading from the bridge, and followed several short narrow streets. They were quaint and full of atmosphere, both ocular and olfactory, but so short that in a few moments we found ourselves on another wide avenue, lined with trees and flowers, their wide walks dotted with nurse maids in gay caps with colored streamers, men and women of less than the highest class making quite a business of their promenade, staring at the fine, open carriages and cars in which the great ladies drove, and the handsome horses being ridden by young officers of the army. We were so much amused by the people that we almost drove past a gendarme who motioned us to one side so that two lancers might ride down the center of the street, tiny blue pennons waving from the tip of their long lances. A victoria followed, drawn by a handsome pair of black stallions. Behind that were two more lancers with four soldiers following on motor cycles. In the victoria were two ladies. One of them was bowing from right to left, graciously acknowledging the salutes of her subjects. The Queen Mother, of course. She was as handsome as her pictures, and of a conscious presence, like a great actress. She stared slightly as she bowed to us. Evidently tourists were not plentiful in Alaria.
John fell in behind the cortege, driving slowly of necessity. We had a Baedeker, but did not bother to open it. It was so much pleasanter to wander on haphazard. When we came to a side street that looked interesting, we turned into it again. It smelt strongly of cheese and other native food products. White walls, grated windows, cobblestones, were everywhere, and nearly all of the lower classes wore their bright native costumes. There were so many of them, and so many uniforms, that civilian clothes became conspicuous. Practically no one lowly enough to walk wore them except the promenaders on the avenue.
“That’s the way people ought to dress,” John approved. “Bright colors. Makes you feel cheerful.”
After we had been driving about for some minutes we came suddenly out of the twisting maze of streets, and found ourselves in the large square we had seen from the hill above the city. John stopped the car to look around us. If he had not we should have been run into by a large dark car travelling very fast. It turned into the open gates of the Palace park. The sentries jumped out of the way and managed to salute almost at the same time as it charged up the steep short hill with a roar of its open motor. We caught just a glimpse of a young girl alone in the tonneau. She was leaning forward in an eager and excited pose. I probably should not have noticed her otherwise. Almost before that car had disappeared another followed it, with another lone passenger, this time a thin man, and two liveried servants. Though his car was travelling at the same frantic rate as the first, the thin man was leaning back as though time meant nothing to him.
“Something’s going on,” John said. “That’s what always happens sooner or later to spoil any trip.”
“Excitement?” I asked.
“Yes,” John said, disgustedly. “Something you can’t be in on because you’re a stranger.”