“Po, po,” said the byraktor, agreeing, and, “Po, po,” said the others; and looking at the Shala man, I had no doubt that if he faltered on the way Rexh’s tongue had barbs to drive him onward.
“But explain to the byraktor that it is not American custom—that I can’t take a man to be killed, Rexh. I’m sorry,” said I, for it did seem a pity to disappoint Rexh so, when he had so nicely arranged everything. I leaned from the saddle and spoke earnestly to the byraktor myself, Rexh’s murmured translation for his ears while I held his eyes: “I must get to Scutari to-night. It is necessary. But I do not want to risk any man’s life. I take my own life in my hands and go with it on the trail. No one else can carry it for me. That is American custom. It is American custom that I thank you now, and give back to you your protection, and go on alone. If it is not your custom, I am sorry, but by all American custom your honor is safe, and I am American, and Albanian law does not apply to me.”
“You speak with a tongue of great learning,” said the byraktor, but this time his manner was sympathetic. “However, my honor is my honor, and my protection goes with you all the way to your own tribe. I will go with you to Scutari.”
“But I don’t want the byraktor to be killed, either!” I wailed; and then the byraktor’s gendarme came forward. He was a low-browed, rascally-looking fellow, a man with bad eyes like those of an untrustworthy horse, and a charming smile. He was naked except for the wide scarlet sash around his loins and the tiny white cap over his scalplock.
“The honor of my byraktor is my honor,” he said. “My byraktor is a good byraktor and a great byraktor. He is byraktor of five hundred houses. If he is killed, all the valley mourns. If he is killed in the dark and we never know who killed him so that we can kill that man, that is black dishonor for all the tribe of Shoshi. I am only one man, and if I am killed it does not matter. I will go with you to Scutari.”
“Glory to your lips!” said the others. “Good! It is decided.”
“Well,” I thought, “all this is beautiful rhetoric, but no one will kill him while I am with him.” As for the danger in the darkness, I did not believe it for a moment. Who would shoot a person he could not see? So I said good-by to the byraktor—all our long and flowery speeches consumed another quarter of an hour, and the sunlight was climbing away over the mountains so rapidly that we could see it go—and I said good-by to all the others, and promised the frantic Shala man that indeed he should be paid what had been promised; I would send him the money by the gendarme, and I would send the mule and the hundred kronen to the byraktor—and then another difficulty arose. If I left the Shala man unprotected here, in the midst of the Shoshi men who had traveled amiably with him all that day—but he had never wandered beyond eyeshot of me—his life would be no safer than in the hands of the gendarmes of Scutari.
I actually felt despair when Rexh pointed this out. “Well, but he has to get back through the tribe of Shoshi somehow, anyway, hasn’t he? Why on earth did he ever start this idiotic trip?”
“He wanted the money, Mrs. Lane, and he cannot think ahead. He came through Shoshi only for a joke. If he can get away alive from these men he can go back through Pultit.”
“Well, ask the byraktor if he will give me this Shala man’s worthless life. Ask him not to let his men shoot him until after to-morrow night. Ask him if the Shala man may stay safely under the byraktor’s protection until the gendarme gets back with his money, and then go in peace.”