They came, bearing their guns, white fezzed, white clothed, black braided youths with shaven polls and flashing teeth. We began to climb, and for hours and hours we toiled upwards. The carriages lumbered painfully far behind us, led by their elderly and panting drivers.
"If this is what they call a good and easy road," we thought, "it would have been better to harness four horses to each cart, and to have left five carts behind."
The horses came from the plain of Chabatz, and had probably never seen a hill in their lives.
"These horses will die," said the corporal; but he seemed more interested in hunting for water for himself than in the struggles of the poor beasts.
One of our Albanian guides was overwhelmed with the beauty of Cutting's silver-plated revolver.
"How much did you pay for it?"
"Thirty francs," said Cutting, shooting at the scenery.
Jan produced his automatic, but the Albanian scorned it as one would turn from a lark to a bird of Paradise. He turned the glittering object over lovingly, thought, felt in his pockets, drew out a green and red knitted purse, and shook his head.
"I will give you thirty francs."
But Cutting wasn't on the bargain. He pocketed the treasure again, and we plodded on.