Indeed, the town itself is, at intervals, threatened with massacre. Every now and then rumours fly round that the mountain tribes are about to descend upon the place and drive out the Turks. Then everybody retires to their houses—each residence has high walls, and is more or less a fortress—the bazaar is closed, the shops are barricaded, and the ragged soldiers of the Sultan assemble under their greasy-tunicked officers—and wait.
The blow for liberty has not yet been struck by the Albanians, but it will assuredly come ere long.
I wanted to investigate, and get at the truth. That is the reason why those high, blue, misty mountains that I could see afar from the narrow, crooked streets of Skodra held me in such fascination; that is why I disregarded all advice to the contrary, and determined to visit the Albanian at home in his rocky fastness.
That same night, after Salko had bargained for me, I was eating my evening meal—of pork—when another shot sounded out in the dark, unlit street.
It was nothing, I was told by Palok five minutes later. A man had been found dead in the darkness. That was all.
The average number of assassinations in Scutari is about three per day. Nobody cares, for justice is nobody’s business except that of the dead man’s brother, or his next-of-kin.
True, there is an Imperial Court of Justice, a lath-built shed with gaping holes in the roof. Its steps are moss-grown, and its windows mostly broken or devoid of glass.
Outside the place, after midday, the brave defenders of the Ottoman Empire, those shoeless men with their ragged uniforms dropping off them, sell their ration of bread to the passer-by in order to get money to buy cigarettes. They remain unpaid, and their bread is their only source of income. And upon the protection of these Skodra has to rely.
Is it any wonder that when sinister rumour runs through the bazaar, everybody shoulders his rifle and sits on his wall, prepared to defend his own home?