“Very well. What does he say?”
“He says that you stop in this village to-night. It is a good village, and you will be rested in the morning.”
“I will be in Scutari in the morning,” I said. “Tell him again that I must go to Scutari. If he cannot go himself, will he let me take the mule?”
“But he says the roads are dangerous and it will be dark.”
“Tell him I am American and there is no danger that stops an American.”
The byraktor looked at me, puzzled, but with a little humor in the depths of his dark eyes. He had put on his turban; below its white folds the silver chain dangled on his bare breast; above it the muzzle of his rifle caught a glint of the western sunlight.
“He says it is not a question of your safety; it is a question of his honor. I was right, Mrs. Lane; he says that he is in blood with the tribes through which one goes to Scutari. If he travels through them by night he will be killed, and in the darkness no one will know who has done it. He does not mind being killed, but to be killed by some one his tribe cannot know and kill afterward would be black dishonor to him. It is true, Mrs. Lane, and he is a great byraktor—the byraktor of five hundred houses.”
“But he need not go with me. You and the Shala man will go with me. I only want his mule. Is he afraid for his mule? I will give him a paper, and if I am killed and the mule is stolen he can get another mule from the Red Cross house in Scutari.”
I said this quite innocently, but the words taught me what blazing eyes are. One hears of them; one seldom sees them. But the byraktor’s eyes seemed actually to kindle into flame, and involuntarily I shrank back when he turned them on me.
“He does not think of the mule, Mrs. Lane. He thinks only of his honor. You must not say such things. He says you cannot go on without him; you are traveling under his protection, and it is his honor that is concerned if anything happens to you.”