“We must. Roll up these rugs and make some sort of a divan, and for goodness’ sake don’t smile; you must be as grave as a judge, or he’ll be mortally offended.”
The hanji, having placed the ladder in the hole, clambered up with a lamp and announced the august visitor, and descended again, to be soundly cuffed for being so long about it. When the Pasha mounted and entered the room, he found the two Englishmen sitting in state on what had but recently been their bed.
“A thousand regrets, Messieurs, for disturbing you,” said the Pasha, smiling affably, and seating himself on the rugs beside the Englishmen as soon as he had acknowledged their respectful salutations. “I thought it would be quite in the Frankish manner to call on you at this time; such is the custom in Paris and London, I understand, and I did not dream that you would have retired to rest so soon.”
“We are charmed to see you, excellency,” replied Maurice, “and only regret that you should have been troubled to waken our sleepy host.”
He called for coffee. After a little more polite conversation the Pasha broached the matter of the race. Maurice suggested that the starting-point should be some little distance eastward of the city, where the road was not likely to be blocked by traffic, and that the course should be to the railway line and back, a distance of about forty miles, the horseman to be allowed a fresh mount for the second half. To this proposal the Pasha assented the more eagerly because he was by nature somewhat indolent, and would be spared by this scheme the necessity of riding out to a distant winning-post. He said that he would send out swift messengers to forbid any movement of man or beast on the road until the race was over, and to arrange for a horse to be in waiting at the railway line. The hour fixed for the start was 10 o’clock next morning.
Before leaving, the Pasha wished Maurice to accept a fine Roman coin that he wore among his medals; but having no present of equal value to offer in return, Maurice gracefully declined it. The Pasha departed with his guards, and the Englishmen, relieved at having come through the interview without disgrace, unrolled their rugs and devoted themselves again to slumber.
The town was agog next morning. News of the race had penetrated everywhere, and the whole population, dressed in all their finery, wended their way from a very early hour towards the vast plain where, in the year 1389, the Turks won the great victory that established them in Europe. A company of soldiers marched with much bugling and drumming to clear the way for the Pasha, and at 11 o’clock—only an hour late, which was punctuality to a Turk—he rode out resplendent amid his staff. A great throng of boys ran after the gyro-car as it went slowly to the starting-place, a rival crowd following the horseman chosen for the contest, a lithe and sinewy Albanian arrayed in festive colours, and mounted on a superb arab.
At the starting-point the soldiers had much trouble in keeping back the immense assembly of spectators, who shouted and gesticulated in great excitement, every now and then letting off a rifle fully charged. The Englishmen wondered that no one was injured in this promiscuous firing; the expenditure of cartridges in Albania in mere festive sportiveness is enormous.
It was clear that horse and gyro-car could not start side by side, for the animal reared and plunged at the sound of the engine, evoking shrieks of mingled terror and delight from the boys. Maurice suggested that the horseman should have a hundred yards start. With the car behind him the horse would not be alarmed, though perhaps he might be spurred on by the humming sound. This plan approved itself to the Pasha, who appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself, and told Maurice in a confidential aside that, whether he won or lost, he was to be entertained at a magnificent banquet that night. The course was cleared; the competitors took their places on the road; and at the sound of a whistle, followed instantly by a wild discharge of firearms, the race began.
The horseman set off at a furious gallop. George contented himself with a moderate pace, smiling at the frenzied cries that broke from the spectators lining the road. On each side extended the plain, the soil cracked by the summer heat, the scattered hawthorn scrub burnt brown. Clouds of dust flew from the horse’s hoofs, and still denser volumes behind the gyro-car. At one spot a line of bullock-carts loaded with maize was drawn up beside the road, and the drivers burst into shouts of applause for the horseman, and derision for the gyro-car dropping behind moment by moment.