“‘See!’ they cried. ‘There is your son’s murderer. We will kill him!’
“I stood with my back to the wall, knowing well that my last moment had come. The dead man’s brother raised his rifle while I drew my pistol, prepared at least to fire once more before I died. I was caught like a rat in a trap!
“The old woman, however, seeing my position and my helplessness, cried—
“‘No. Though he has killed your brother, you may not touch him. He is beneath our roof; he has eaten our bread, and our protection must remain over him till to-morrow’s sunset. Remember, my son. It is our law.’
“The man dropped his rifle, and his friends drew back at the old woman’s reproof.
“‘Go!’ she said to me, after glancing at her son’s body. ‘You have eaten our bread, and therefore you cannot be harmed.’
“‘Yes, go,’ added my victim’s brother. ‘Till to-morrow’s sundown I will not follow. But after that, I shall track you down, and, before Heaven, I will kill you.’
“Need I say that I took up my rifle, and leaving the house travelled quickly all night and all next day, until I returned here? But,” added Kol, with a slight sigh, “we shall meet one day—and he will most certainly kill me.”
Is there any other country in the world where such a code of honour exists? I am inclined to think not.
Had I been in the midst of a highly civilised people—a foreigner wandering in the wilds of Yorkshire, for example—I certainly should never have received the many charming kindnesses that I did at the hands of those rough, uncivilised tribes. Climbing like cats up the mountainsides as they did, I was often compelled to lag behind, being unused to such walking. But, laughing merrily, those armed banditti would take me by the arms and help me up the steeper places; they would roll cigarettes for me, carry my rifle when I grew fagged, and fetch and carry for me like children.