“We must cheer our guests,” he said, “unless they wish to sleep.”
Maurice assured him that to sleep was impossible.
“That is well,” said the old man; “too much sleep is bad for men. Now, Marko, ask a riddle. And you, Doda, go to the roof to watch.”
One of his grandsons drank off a mug of rakia, and mounted to the roof. Another cleared his throat, and said:
“Though it is not an ox, it has horns; though it is not an ass, it has a pack-saddle, and wherever it goes it leaves silver behind.”
“Ah! that is a good one,” cried Giulika. “What is the answer, friend Inglesi?”
Maurice’s head was racking, but he smiled, and pretended to consider; he would not hurt the feelings of these hospitable folk. But he confessed in a few minutes that the riddle was beyond him.
“Aha! it is a fine riddle: a snail, friend,” and he chuckled with glee. “Ho, Doda!” he called up the ladder, “is there anything?”
“Nothing,” was the reply.
“That is well. Now, Dushmani, it is your turn.”