This indeed he did, and when we arrived in the town held by the Turks he strutted down the main street with me, apparently proud of his guest, and in open defiance of the scowling ragged soldiers in dirty red fezes.
Though a deadly enemy of the Turks, he openly defied them. As we walked along the streets there came close behind us twenty of his faithful followers, armed to the teeth and carrying their rifles ready loaded in case of trouble.
But there was no trouble. The Turks of Skodra are wise enough to let the Skreli severely alone.
Trouble will, however, come one day before long, and then alas for the subjects of the Sultan. The Albanians will avenge the blood of the Christians now spilt daily in Macedonia, and the Turk will be driven back southward—or at least what is left of him.
My Body-guard in Northern Albania.
I parted from Vatt at the door of my so-called albergo. He took a glass of rakhi with me, and afterwards, with a hearty hand-grip, he told me not to forget my promise to return. Then he left me, stalking at the head of his armed band, who one and all wished me bon voyage, and he went down the street on his return to his mountain home.
But the irony of Fate followed. A fortnight later I found myself riding with a strong military escort on the other side of the mountains, where I had been so hospitably entertained—along the frontier of the Skreli country.
It was growing dusk, and we were passing through a deep ravine, our horses stumbling at every step, when of a sudden the crack of a rifle startled us.
Next instant a dozen rifles flashed fire in the deep shadows to our left. The Skreli outposts were sniping at us!