Outside a huge doorway were sitting the chief of police and the wealthy Albanian. We were introduced with great ceremony, and the Moslem, losing no time, took Jo through the doorway into a courtyard. At the end was another door guarded by a responsible-looking Albanian. He stood aside, and she entered another court full of trees and a basket-work hut. She passed through the lower story, which was full of grain, and ascended into a beautiful room with a seat built all round it.
It was entirely furnished with carpets. He waved his hand to the seat, called to his wives much as a sportsman summons his dogs, and left.
They came in, three women, simply dressed in chemise and flowered cotton bloomers. Their voices were shaking with excitement, and they were fearfully upset because Jo got up to shake hands with them.
They only spoke Albanian, and a few words of Serb. One had been very beautiful, but her teeth were decayed, another was a healthy-looking young woman, and the third was frankly hideous.
They brought coffee, the chief wife presenting it with her hand across her chest—a polite way of saying—
"I am your slave."
Jo spoke Serb, and they clearly said in Albanian—
"If only we could tell what you are saying."