His second son, a big, fierce-looking fellow, with a huge moustache, scratched his shaven head; all heads in Albania are shaven, leaving patches of hair of various shapes.
“What is that which wears the wool inside and the flesh outside?” he asked.
“A splendid riddle!” cried his father; “Answer that if you can, friend.”
Again Maurice considered. He repeated the riddle in English to George, who was making heroic efforts to appear interested.
“They must think we’re kids,” he said, sourly.
“Well, smile, old boy; they’ve done a good deal for us.”
George grinned vacantly at his host, who slapped his thigh, and asked if the young Inglesi had discovered the answer.
“No, we are not good at riddles in England,” said Maurice. “We cannot tell.”
“A candle!” shouted the old man, triumphantly. “You would never have guessed that. Now I will give one myself.”
So an hour or two passed, every riddle being received with the same gravity, every answer with the same simple joy. At intervals Giulika called to his grandson on the roof; the answer was always the same. Then they fell to telling stories. One of these tickled even George when Maurice translated it to him.