“My dear fellow, have you lost faith in your gyro-car?”
Chapter IX
THE HONOUR OF AN ALBANIAN
Passing a long stretch of walled olive-gardens, the travellers arrived at Elbasan. The gate in its high and massive wall stood open. They ran through into a narrow, dirty street, roofed over with matting and dry leaves, scattering the groups of wild, sullen-looking inhabitants, some of whom raised a fierce cry of “Shaitan!”; others put their fingers into their mouths and whistled shrilly, after the manner of English butcher-boys. But the travellers were not molested; they left the town, spun through a barren valley, and crossing the river Skumbi by the high one-arched bridge, found themselves climbing a steep and difficult path that wound along at the edge of clay precipices, so narrow that if they had met another vehicle, or a mule-train, further progress would have been impossible.
They had nearly reached the top, going slowly, as the perilous nature of the path demanded, when they saw, bright against the grey wall ahead, a young man with a rifle in his hand, intently watching them.
“Our first brigand!” said George. “Have your revolver handy.”
“The disarmament is evidently a fiction,” said Maurice. “Sound your hooter; he is stepping into the middle of the path.”
“Better not, in case Slavianski is within earshot. I’ll give him a shout when we come near, and if he doesn’t budge I’m afraid we shall have to bowl him over.”
But at that moment a shot rang out from the hill above. The man gave a cry, staggered, and dropped his rifle, which fell over the precipice, and could be heard clashing against the saplings that grew out of the clayey wall. There was a shout from the hill-top, and a second man scrambled down the steep and rugged slope about two hundred yards away. The wounded man drew his dagger and faced about as if to await the onslaught of his enemy; but as the car came up with him, he seemed to realise that without a rifle his case was desperate, and with a sudden spring clutched at the side of the vehicle and began to run along beside it. His action would have overthrown a motor bicycle, but the gyroscopes kept the car steady.
“Beat him off!” cried George, thinking that the man meditated an attack. It was impossible to shake him off by increasing the speed on such a dangerous path, so he slowed down in order to give Maurice assistance if it were needed. But the man begged him earnestly to proceed, and on the impulse of the moment Maurice leant over the side and helped him to scramble into the car. There was a sharp bend in the path a few yards ahead. As they came to this, a bullet struck the face of the cliff at an angle, and bespattered them with crumbs of hard clay. Next moment they turned the corner, and were out of sight of the man who had now descended to the path.