Following him, the travellers mounted a crazy ladder to the top of the house, and found themselves in a vast dark room. At the further end a fire was smouldering under a kind of tent. As their eyes became accustomed to the dimness, they saw nearly a score of persons, male and female, squatting on chests ranged round the walls. Their guide spoke a few words. Instantly there was commotion. A woman threw a faggot on the fire, which flared up, revealing smoke-blackened rafters, from which, as from the walls, hung weapons, field implements, haunches of dried meat, and festoons of smoked fish. Others of the company strewed the floor with sheepskins and cushions for the visitors, and an old man removed a millstone that blocked a narrow window, and shouted: “We have guests; we have guests.” The travellers wondered at this, until they learnt presently that it was a warning to the people of the hamlet: while guests were in the house, blood-feuds were in abeyance.
The family’s reception of their guests lacked nothing in warmth. A kid was instantly cut up in preparation for a meal; rakia, a kind of spirit, was poured from stone pitchers into earthenware goblets; no questions were asked. When the grandson of the old man explained what the strangers had done for him, there were loud cries of praise and gratitude; and hearing that they had come on a devil machine, the whole party trooped out of the house to inspect it. Maurice asked that it might be placed in safety, and it was wheeled into the large chamber that occupied the ground floor, and served as stable and storeroom.
The old man meanwhile attended to his grandson’s injury. He professed to be an expert in the treatment of gunshot wounds. He took the white of an egg and a handful of salt, mixed them together, poured the liquid on the man’s injured arm, and bandaged it. This would suffice for an hour or two, until he had compounded a lotion of rakia and pine resin. While he was doing this he explained to Maurice, who knew enough of the language to follow him, that the man who had fired the shot owned the house opposite. He had accused Giorgio—such was the young man’s name—of setting fire to his haystacks. The charge had been considered by a council of elders, and Giorgio was acquitted. But in Albania acquittal is no bar to a second trial; indeed, the case had been heard two or three times, always with the same result. Then the ill-feeling between the families found vent in a free fight, in which a relative of the accuser had been killed. Now there would be no peace until either Giorgio or one of his family had been slain, and the honour of the accuser “cleaned.” For some weeks Giorgio had not ventured to leave the house alone until this day. If accompanied by a relative he would be safe, but alone he was always in danger. It was only because the enemy had been absent for some days that he had gone out unattended, and evidently he had met the avenger returning home.
While they were eating their supper, Maurice, knowing that, as a guest, he could depend on his host’s friendship, explained briefly, and in halting speech, the circumstances in which he was placed, and his intention of proceeding next day to Monastir. The old man was much troubled. The Inglesi, he said, were disliked in Albania. They were represented by the Austrians as friends of the Turks and the Serbs, whom the Albanians hated and distrusted equally. He recommended that the travellers should call themselves Austrians, and be very free with their money as they passed through the villages in the interior.
They were still talking, when there was the sound of a shot without. The women and children shrieked: the men started up in great indignation at this breach of the besa or truce, which ought to remain inviolate while guests were in the house. One of the sons ran to the door, and soon returned shaking with laughter. The shot had merely been fired by one of their neighbours in sport.
An hour or two later, when the women were preparing for the guests beds of reed mats, felt sheets, and red-cotton pillows, laid on the chests by the wall, a loud voice was heard outside hailing the master of the house. Feeling secure in the besa, the old man once more removed the millstone from the window, and asked who spoke and what he wanted. It was too dark to see. Maurice tried to follow the ensuing dialogue, and understood enough of it to make him desperately uneasy.
“You Giulika, I know you, Christian dog that you are,” cried the man without. “I demand that you give up the English spies, who are overrunning the country on a contrivance of Shaitan himself.”
“What, you Moslem pig, have you come from Elbasan on a fool’s errand? Shall I deliver up my guests? It is no custom of my house to betray those who seek my hospitality. Know that I take what guests I please, and keep them.”
“Hound, they are spies, infidels like yourself. Give them up, or you will suffer a grievous punishment when the Bey hears of it.”
“Get you back whence you came,” cried the old man, “lest evil befall you. Who are you to bid Giulika lose his honour by betraying a guest? Begone! Trouble me no more.”