“My father,” said the child to the duke, “is it really Morgana? Tell me!”
“What a child!” answered the duke, taking him in his arms to kiss him. “He believes that Mlle. Helia is Morgana.” And he looked at Ethel as if to say, “I know full well who Morgana is—it is you!”
CHAPTER V
VISITING THE SORCERESS
The conveyance and escort for Ethel, with Suzanne and Helia, were awaiting them at the other side of the city. There were also horses for Will and Phil. Sœurette was to remain behind, to keep company with the little Monseigneur. Grandma returned to the yacht, quite out of sympathy with living in old castles which have plenty of stairways but no elevators.
Ethel had already seen the city; yet she had an ever new pleasure in these comings and goings. Her inquisitiveness was satisfied to the full. She was making studies of a population as ignorant as it was unknown, anchored to its old-time customs, and closed in by its mountains, like monks within their cloisters. Yet beneath all this torpor one could feel unconquerable pride and love of vengeance and of glory.
These motionless shopkeepers would sell you a pair of slippers or a whole outfit of pistols and daggers for the belt. All these warlike accoutrements were amusements to Ethel; she found them even on the porter who peacefully brought her packages from the hall of the throne to the carriage.
As soon as they had come down from the castle, after turning back a last time to salute the duke, whom etiquette bound to the ramparts, along with Caracal, the party entering the town seemed passing through a haunt of brigands. Pieces of basket-work hung before the shops. Suspended on nails in the shade were the bridles of horses, shining with brass, and red leather saddles, and swords. Savage eyes looked out to see them go by.
The season for heavy siestas had passed. All the day long the crowd thronged the street. Shepherds, clad in hairy goatskins and shod with leather sandals, mingled with soldiers, at whose side was slung long Albanian rifles. They talked politics as they drank their coffee.
Others displayed the cylindric turban, the knit silken girdle, and the dagger-sheath of brass. Women with knit boots, and dressed in scarlet embroidered with arabesques, sang to the accompaniment of the guzla—that lyre with its single string made of twisted hair. They droned out a psalmody of mountaineers, recalling the ancient glories of their country.
Adalbert’s tutor, who accompanied the party, translated and explained the songs.