CHAPTER X
SOME RIDDLES AND A NURSERY RHYME
Old Giulika, laughing with a childish delight in the discomfiture of the enemy, closed the door, and, since the bolts had been broken, had it barricaded with balks of timber that were kept on the ground floor. Then he returned with his guests to the living apartments at the top of the house. He was quite cheerful. He joked with the men of his family on their victory, and ordered the women, who showed no alarm, to prepare a sumptuous supper to celebrate it. The larder, which consisted of two large dug-out troughs, did not contain anything very dainty; but a fowl and a young pig were soon simmering in a huge pot of beans, and on these, served in wooden ladles, and hard maize bread, the men feasted; the women would eat when their lords had finished.
The guests had little appetite. They were very weary, but too anxious and troubled to sleep. The air of the room was hot and oppressive, and by-and-by the old man, perceiving how pale they were, asked if he could serve them in any way, and, at their request, immediately removed the millstones from the two unglazed windows, and let in a current of cool air. He chuckled as he returned to the company. The enemy, he said, had encamped some little distance away, around a large fire; evidently they wished to be out of reach of stones from the roof. They, too, appeared to be cheerful. Strains of song rose from the encampment—fierce songs of war, of struggles with the Turks, and the heroic deeds of Scanderbeg. Presently these ceased, and there was a vast stillness without.
But not within. After supper the guests expected the family to repair to their mat beds, and felt some delicacy in remaining among them. But Giulika commanded the women and children to retire behind their curtains, and the men to form a group in the middle of the room.
“We must cheer our guests,” he said, “unless they wish to sleep.”
Maurice assured him that to sleep was impossible.
“That is well,” said the old man; “too much sleep is bad for men. Now, Marko, ask a riddle. And you, Doda, go to the roof to watch.”
One of his grandsons drank off a mug of rakia, and mounted to the roof. Another cleared his throat, and said:
“Though it is not an ox, it has horns; though it is not an ass, it has a pack-saddle, and wherever it goes it leaves silver behind.”
“Ah! that is a good one,” cried Giulika. “What is the answer, friend Inglesi?”
Maurice’s head was racking, but he smiled, and pretended to consider; he would not hurt the feelings of these hospitable folk. But he confessed in a few minutes that the riddle was beyond him.
“Aha! it is a fine riddle: a snail, friend,” and he chuckled with glee. “Ho, Doda!” he called up the ladder, “is there anything?”
“Nothing,” was the reply.
“That is well. Now, Dushmani, it is your turn.”
His second son, a big, fierce-looking fellow, with a huge moustache, scratched his shaven head; all heads in Albania are shaven, leaving patches of hair of various shapes.
“What is that which wears the wool inside and the flesh outside?” he asked.
“A splendid riddle!” cried his father; “Answer that if you can, friend.”
Again Maurice considered. He repeated the riddle in English to George, who was making heroic efforts to appear interested.
“They must think we’re kids,” he said, sourly.
“Well, smile, old boy; they’ve done a good deal for us.”
George grinned vacantly at his host, who slapped his thigh, and asked if the young Inglesi had discovered the answer.
“No, we are not good at riddles in England,” said Maurice. “We cannot tell.”
“A candle!” shouted the old man, triumphantly. “You would never have guessed that. Now I will give one myself.”
So an hour or two passed, every riddle being received with the same gravity, every answer with the same simple joy. At intervals Giulika called to his grandson on the roof; the answer was always the same. Then they fell to telling stories. One of these tickled even George when Maurice translated it to him.
“A man,” said Giulika, “bought a donkey in the bazaar and led it away. Two thieves followed him. His back being turned, one slipped the halter from the donkey and put it over his own head. The other went off with the donkey. When he had had time to escape, his mate began to pull and groan. The purchaser looked back, and lo! there was no donkey, but instead, a man. ‘Where is my donkey?’ he asked, in great amazement. ‘Woe is me!’ cried the thief; ‘I am that luckless being. A magician turned me into a donkey for fifteen years; the time has just come to an end. I am a man again, and have nothing, and know not where to go.’ And the kind man released him, and gave him some money.”
Roars of laughter greeted the end of the story. Then Giorgio, the young man who had been wounded, and had hitherto kept silence, announced that he had had a very funny thought. It tickled him so much that for a time he could not tell it; and even while he told it, laughter interrupted him after every sentence.
“Suppose a cow fell from the cliff opposite,” he said. “It would be broken all to pieces. Every man would run to pick up a bit for supper. Then suppose, just as they got there, the bits all joined into a cow again and ran away!”
The thought of their disappointment amused the company so much that they shouted again and again. More stories followed, and all the time Maurice was pondering on his plight, wondering what the next day would bring forth. Slavianski had not given up his purpose; the encampment outside was proof of that. The darkness had been to his disadvantage in the first attack; would he renew his onslaught on the morrow? Was the kula strong enough to withstand him? Was it right to imperil the lives and goods of these kindly, simple Albanians? Presently, from sheer exhaustion, both George and Maurice fell into an uneasy sleep, from which they were roused, as the dawn was stealing into the room, by a shout from Doda, who had remained on the roof. The enemy were advancing to the attack. There was a score of Albanians, and four Europeans, and the tall, bearded leader of the Europeans was urging on men who bore a heavy tree-trunk slung on ropes.
The old patriarch, instantly ordered the ladder leading to the ground floor to be drawn up. He knew that the door would not withstand a battering-ram. At the same time the rest of the men went to the windows and the roof and fired at the assailants, some of the boys hurling stones down among them. There were scattered shots also from the other houses in the village. The enemy replied briskly with a fusillade. Several of them were hit, but the others rushed forward to the door, broke it in with one stroke of the ram, and poured into the house, followed by the Austrians.
But here they were baffled by the removal of the ladder. They shouted to the old man, commanding him to deliver up his guests. They fired through the trapdoor; there was no one on the second storey, but the Mauser bullets pierced the logs that formed the floor of the upper room, and sent the inmates for safety to the roof. Thence they fired, but sparingly, for they had not many cartridges; their stock of missiles also was becoming exhausted: but the old man declared that they were safe—there was no ladder in the village long enough to replace that which had been withdrawn.
What was to be the end of it? The answer was soon made clear. A smell of burning arose from the bottom of the house. The invaders had set fire to some of the stores. Maurice could not but regard this as merely a warning; he could scarcely believe that Slavianski, however unscrupulous, deliberately intended to burn down the house and all that it contained. Giulika, looking grave at the destruction of his property, took the same view, and declared that such threats were vain; every Albanian must know that his honour was committed to the preservation of his guests, and he could never give them up. Such loyalty in a half-savage mountaineer stirred Maurice to admiration.
“The car!” cried George suddenly. “If a spark catches the petrol the whole place will be blown up.”
Without an instant’s hesitation Maurice sprang down into the room, down the ladder to the next floor, and, leaning over the opening, called aloud that he surrendered.
“Count Slavianski,” he cried, “spare the household.”
“Assuredly, Mr. Buckland,” replied the man.
“And wheel the gyro-car into the open, away from the fire, or the petrol will explode.”
The Count evidently had not thought of that. The fire had indeed been started by the men of Elbasan, without orders from him, and he had been too much occupied to remember the danger. Fortunately the car was at the rear of the large chamber; the fire was at the front. He ordered the Albanians to beat out the fire, explaining to them that the Inglesi had surrendered, and the siege was at an end.
By this time Maurice had been joined by George and the men of the household. Giulika was almost angry at the turn of events. But Maurice courteously waved aside his expostulations, and, the ladder having been let down, descended to the ground.
“I congratulate you,” said the Count in French, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
“On what, may I ask?” said Maurice.
“First, on the ingenuity of your scheme of travel; now, on your return to your senses. The air is fresher outside; shall we continue our conversation there?”
They went into the open air. At a sign from Rostopchin, George and the members of the household were disarmed as they came one by one down the ladder, the Austrian explaining, in answer to Giulika’s indignant outcry, that the weapons would be returned very soon.
“Now, Monsieur,” said Slavianski when they were outside, “I have wasted so much time that we had better come to business at once. You have a despatch from your Secretary of State?”
“You say so, Monsieur le Comte.”
“I ask you to hand it to me—to save trouble.”
“Of course I shall hand you nothing.”
“Then I must search you. Resistance is useless.” He glanced significantly at the group of Albanians who stood beside their horses a few yards distant.
“I shall not resist,” said Maurice with a smile. “But you will permit me to make a formal protest.”
“A protest can do no harm,” said the Count, grinning, “Now, if you please.”
The search was concluded in a surprisingly short time. From one pocket the Count removed a revolver, from another a long envelope with the official seal, and addressed to His Majesty’s agent and consul-general at Sofia. He did not attempt to conceal his elation. Breaking the seal, he drew from the envelope the folded paper it contained, opened it, and, after a glance, said:
“Seeing that the game is up, you will no doubt save time by deciphering the despatch.”
“I won’t deprive you of that pleasure,” said Maurice serenely.
The Austrian smiled. Taking a little book from his pocket, he turned quickly over a few pages.
“We are not without resources, Mr. Buckland,” he said. “I have here the key to your Foreign Office cipher.”
A faint smile showed itself on Maurice’s face. George, who, a moment before, had glowered with indignation, for Rostopchin had tied his hands behind him, now grinned broadly. The scene was peaceful. Hostilities had ceased: Giulika and his men leant disconsolate against the wall of their house; the half-dozen neighbours lolled at their doors, idly watching; and the intruders from Elbasan stood beside their horses, looking on with silent curiosity.
The Count rapidly pencilled, with the aid of his key, the translation of the despatch. After a word or two a look of puzzlement stole upon his face. He knit his brows, compared the words before him with the key, and summoned Rostopchin to his side. The two spoke in whispers inaudible to Maurice, who had lighted a cigarette, and was pacing up and down unconcernedly.
“It is clearly correct,” said Rostopchin. “Finish it; we shall get the explanation by-and-by.”
The Count proceeded with his task. In twenty minutes he had finished. His puzzlement had but increased. With a frown of irritation he pored over what he had written with Rostopchin.
“There must be a secret within a secret,” said the secretary.
The Count strode towards Maurice.
“Zis, is it correct?” he asked in English curtly, spreading his transliteration.
Maurice glanced over it.
“Quite correct, Monsieur le Comte,” he said.
“Zen vill you tell me vat zis mean? I do not understand it:—
Hey, diddle, diddle,
Ze cat and ze fiddle,
Ze cow jomp over ze moon——
“Vat is ze meaning of zis—zis galimatias?” demanded the Count, his English failing him.
“It is very idiomatic,” said Maurice, “but as you have deciphered it correctly, I have no objection to putting it into plain English. ‘Hey,’ Monsieur, is an exclamation of warning: equivalent to ‘look out,’ ‘beware,’ in French, gare. ‘Diddle,’ is ‘to deceive,’ ‘take in,’ ‘to spoof,’ ‘lead anyone a wild-goose chase.’ The cat, as you are aware, is not a musical animal, but there is a certain variety, bred in our county of Cheshire, that smiles at any mention of fiddlesticks. The cow is—just a cow. It may be of any nationality: Russian, German, or even Austrian, but it is merely a cow, unless specially qualified. ‘To jump over’ or ‘shoot the moon’ is English argot for a sudden change of address. The moon refers to the lunatics—you have the same word, Mondsüchtige—who are deceived or diddled thereby. ‘The little dog laughed to see such sport’—that is quite clear; but we usually say in English, ‘it is enough to make a cat laugh,’ referring to——”
But at this point in Maurice’s commentary, delivered in an even, placid tone of voice, the Count’s rising fury burst its bounds.
“Sapperment!” he cried. “You dare to play viz me! I give you ten minutes—ten minutes, and no more, to consider. You vill tell me vere your despatch is”—he tore up and cast away the fragments of the bogus despatch—“or if your message is merely verbal you vill acquaint me viz it.”
“And if I do not, Monsieur le Comte?”
“If you do not, you shall be shot.”