"By Jove!" I ejaculated, "Who's the girl, Prince?"
"That's Zorka. Pretty, isn't she, Diprose?"
"Pretty!" I echoed. "Why, she's the most beautiful woman I've seen in
the whole of Servia!"
We were driving slowly together in the big "sixty" up the main street of
the city of Belgrade, and were at that moment passing the iron railings
of the palace of his Majesty King Peter. It was a bright dry afternoon,
and the boulevard was thronged by a smart crowd, ladies in Paris-made
gowns, and officers in brilliant uniforms and white crosses with red and
white ribbons on their breasts.
Belgrade, though constantly in a ferment of political storm and stress,
and where rumours of plots against the throne are whispered nightly in
the corners of drawing-rooms, is, nevertheless, a quiet and pleasant
place. Its picturesque situation, high up upon its rocks at the
confluence of the Save with the Danube, its pretty Kalemegdan gardens,
its wide boulevard and its pleasant suburbs, combine to offer
considerable attraction to the foreigner. It is the gateway to eastern
Europe. At quiet old Semlin--or Zimony--on the opposite bank of the
Danube is Hungary, the fringe of western Europe: in Belgrade the Orient
commences.
I happened to be at the Grand at Belgrade, and had there found the
Prince, or Reggie Martin, as he always called himself in the Balkans.
He was idling, with no apparent object. Only the faithful Garrett was
with him. Both Charles and the Parson he had left behind in London.
Therefore, I concluded that the reason of his presence in Servia was to
learn some diplomatic secret or other, for he only went to the Balkans
with that one object.
Of his business, the Prince seldom, if ever, spoke. Even from his most
intimate associate, the Rev Thomas Clayton, he usually concealed his
ulterior object until it was attained. The Parson, Garrett, and Charles
acted in blind obedience. They were paid to obey, not to reason, he
often told them.
And so it was that although we had been together a week in King Peter's
capital, I was in entire ignorance of the reason of his presence there.
As we had brought the big car slowly along the boulevard, a dark-eyed
peasant-girl, with a face full of wondrous beauty, had nodded saucily to
him, and this had caused me to notice and admire her. Belgrade is full
of pretty women, but not one was half so handsome. She was about
twenty, I judged, and the manner in which her hair was dressed with the
gay-coloured handkerchief upon it was in the style of unmarried women.
"I want to speak to her, to ask her a question," the Prince said
suddenly, after we had gone some distance. And driving the car down
into the square we turned back in order to overtake her.
"An old friend of yours?" I inquired.
"Yes, my dear Diprose," he laughed as he touched the button of the
electric horn. "And a girl with a very remarkable past. Her story
would make a good novel--by Jove it would."
Five minutes later we had overtaken her, and pulled up at the kerb. The
girl blushed and appeared confused as my companion, stopping the car,
got down and stood at her side with his motor-cap raised. He spoke to
her in his best Servian, for he knew a smattering of that difficult
language, and appeared to be inviting her to enter the car and come for
a run.
At first she was disinclined to accept the invitation, because of the
crowd of smart promenaders. She was probably shy at being seen in the
company of two foreigners. At last her curiosity as to what conveyance
by automobile might be got the better of her, and she reluctantly
entered the door held open for her.
Then Reggie introduced us, and got back to his seat at the wheel, I
mounting again to my place beside him.
In a few minutes we were out on the broad Semendria road, a fine
well-kept military highway, and on getting clear of the town, put on a
"move" until the speedometer before me registered fifty miles an hour.
Zorka, now alone with us, clapped her hands with childish delight. She
was an Eastern beauty of rare type, with full red lips, magnificent
luminous eyes, and a pink and white complexion that any woman of Mayfair
would envy.
Ten miles from Belgrade, we stopped at a small wine-shop and had some
refreshment. She sat at the little table before us laughing at me
because we could not understand each other. In lieu of paying the
rustic beauty compliments, I raised my glass and bowed. She accepted my
homage with queenly grace. Indeed, in her peasant costume of scarlet
and black, with golden sequins on the bodice, she reminded me of a
heroine of opera.
We sat in the little garden above the broad blue Danube until the sun
grew golden with departing day, the Prince chatting with her and
laughing merrily. He seemed to be asking many questions, while I, in my
curiosity, kept pestering him to tell the story of our beautiful
companion--the story which he had declared to be so remarkable and
romantic.
He had offered her one of his "Petroffs" from his gold cigarette-case,
and she was smoking with the air of one accustomed to the use of
tobacco. Our eyes met suddenly, and blowing a cloud of smoke from her
pretty lips she suddenly burst out laughing. Apparently she was
enjoying that unconventional meeting to its full bent. She had never
before ridden in a motor-car--indeed, there are but few in Servia--and
the rush through the air had exhilarated her. I noted her well-formed
hands, her splendid bust, and her slim, graceful figure, and I longed to
hear her story. The Prince possessed, indeed, a wide circle of friends
ranging from princes of the blood down to peasants.
At last he made some remarks, whereupon our delightful little companion
grew suddenly silent, her great dark eyes fixed upon me.
"Zorka is not Servian, Diprose," the Prince began. "She's Turkish. And
this meeting to-day has recalled to me memories, of a strange and very
remarkable incident which occurred to me not so very long ago." And
then he went on to relate the following chapter of his amazing
life-story. I will here record it in his own words:
That silent night was glorious. I shall preserve its memory for ever.
High up to that mountain fastness I was the first stranger to ascend,
for I was the guest of a wild tribe of Albanian brigands, those men of
the Skreli who from time to time hold up travellers to ransom, and
against whom the Turkish Government are powerless.
It was a weird, never-to-be-forgotten experience, living with those
tall, handsome fellows in white skin-tight woollen trousers with big
snake-like bands running up the legs, black furry boleros, and white
fezes. Every man was armed to the teeth with great silver-hilted
pistols and long knives in their belts, and nobody went a dozen yards
without his rifle ready loaded.
Ever since the days before we were together at Cheltenham, Diprose, I
had read stories of brigands, but here was the real thing--the
free-booters of the mountains, who would never let me go about without a
dozen men as guard, lest I should be mistaken for a stranger and "picked
off" by one of the tribe lurking behind a rock. Life is, indeed, cheap
in the Skreli country, that great range of inaccessible mountains east
of gallant little Montenegro.
On that night in the early autumn I was seated upon a rock with a tall,
thin, wiry, but handsome, young man, named Luk, known in his tribe as
"The Open Eye," whom the great chieftain, Vatt Marashi, had given me as
head of my body-guard, while beside was the dark-faced Albanian who,
speaking Italian, acted as my guide and interpreter. Zorka was spinning
her flax close by.
In the domain of his Imperial Majesty the Sultan, the moon seems to
shine with far greater brilliancy than it does anywhere else in the
world, and surely the panorama of high mountain and deep dark valley
there spread before us was a veritable stage-picture, while the men at
my side were as romantic looking a pair as could be found anywhere in
real life.
Many times, as at night I lay down upon my humble bed of leaves, had I
reflected how insecure was my position, and how easily my hosts could
break their word, hold me to ransom, and worry the Foreign Office. Yet,
let me here assert that all, from the chieftain, down to the humblest
tribesman, treated me with a kindness, courtesy, and forethought, that,
from the first, caused me to admire them. They might be brigands, and
the blood-curdling stories of their cruelty might possibly be true, but
they were, without doubt, a most gentlemanly gang of ruffians.
We had eaten our evening meal, and were sitting in the calm night
smoking cigarettes, prior to turning in. The two men beside me had
placed their rifles upon the ground, where the moonbeams glinted along
the bright barrels, and our conversation had become exhausted.
Below, in that dark valley, ran the mule-track to Ipek, therefore day
and night it was watched for passing travellers, as indeed were all the
paths at the confines of the territory over which my friend Vatt
Marashi, defiant of the Turks, ruled so firmly and yet so justly.
Luk, rolling a fresh cigarette, was making some remark to Palok, my
guide, in his peculiar soft-sounding but unwritten language, when it
suddenly occurred to me to ask him to give me some little reminiscence
of his own adventurous life.
He was silent for a few moments, his keen gaze upon the shining
rifle-barrel before him, then, with Palok translating into Italian, he
told me the story of how he earned his nickname of "The Open Eye."
About two years before, when his tribe were at feud with their
neighbours, the powerful Kastrati, who live in the opposite range of
mountains, he was one dark night with a party of his fellow tribesmen in
ambush, expecting a raid from their enemies. The false alarms were
several when, of a sudden, Luk discerned a dark figure moving slowly in
the gloom. Raising his rifle he was on the point of firing when some
impulse seized him to stay his hand and shout a challenge.
The reply was a frightened one--and in Turkish.
Luk came forth from his hiding-place, and a few seconds later, to his
great surprise, encountered the stranger, who proved to be a woman
wearing her veil, and enshrouded by an ugly black shawl wrapped about
her. He knew sufficient Turkish to demand her name, and whence she had
come, but she refused to satisfy him. She had already recognised by his
dress, that he was of the tribe of the Skreli, therefore she knew that
she had fallen into the hands of enemies.
"Speak!" he cried, believing her to be a spy from the Kastrati. "Tell
me who sent you here to us? Whither are you going?"
"I know not," was her reply in a sweet voice which told him at once that
she was quite young, and he, being unmarried, became instantly
interested.
"Where are you from?" he asked, expecting that she had come from Skodra,
the nearest Turkish town.
"From Constantinople," was her reply.
"Constantinople!" gasped Luk, to whom the capital was so far off as to
be only a mere city of legend. It was, indeed, many hundred leagues
away. In the darkness he could not see her eyes. He could only
distinguish that the lower part of her face was veiled like that of all
Mahommedan women.
"And you have come here alone?" he asked.
"Yes, alone. I--I could not remain in Constantinople longer. Am I
still in Turkey?"
"Nominally, yes. But the Sultan does not rule us here. We, of the
Skreli, are Christians, and our country is a free one--to ourselves, but
not to our captives."
"Ah!" she said with failing heart. "I see! I am your captive--eh? I
have heard in Constantinople how you treat the Turks whom you capture."
"You may have heard many stories, but I assure you that the Skreli never
maltreat a woman," was the brigand's proud answer. "This path is unsafe
for you, and besides it is my duty to take you to our chief Vatt Marashi
that he may decide whether we give you safe conduct."
"No, no!" she implored. "I have heard of him. Take pity upon me--a
defenceless woman! I--I thought to escape from Turkey. I have no
passport, so I left the train and hoped to get across the mountains into
Montenegro, where I should be free."
"Then you have escaped from your harem--eh?" asked Luk, his curiosity
now thoroughly aroused.
"Yes. But I have money here with me--and my jewels. I will pay you--
pay you well, if you will help me. Ah! you do not know!"
Luk was silent for a moment.
"When a woman is in distress the Skreli give their assistance without
payment," was his reply, and then, as day was breaking, he led her up
the steep and secret paths to that little settlement where we now were--
the headquarters of the all-powerful Vatt Marashi.
At the latter's orders she unwound the veil from her face, disclosing
the beautiful countenance of a Turkish girl of eighteen, and when she
took off her cloak it was seen that beneath she wore a beautiful harem
dress, big, baggy trousers of rich mauve and gold brocade, and a little
bolero of amaranth velvet richly embroidered with gold. Upon her neck
were splendid emeralds, pearls, and turquoises, and upon her wrists fine
bracelets encrusted with diamonds.
She stood in the lowly hut before the chief and her captor Luk, a vision
of perfect beauty--looking "a veritable houri as promised by Mahommed,"
as Luk put it.
Vatt Marashi listened to her story. She had, she told him, escaped from
her father's harem because she was betrothed, as is usual in Turkey, to
a man whom she had never seen. She had taken money from the place where
one of the black eunuchs hoarded it, and with the assistance of a young
officer, a cousin of hers, had succeeded in leaving the capital in the
baggage-waggon of the Orient Express. Unable to procure a passport,
however, she dare not attempt to cross the frontier into Bulgaria, for
she would at once be detected, refused permission to travel, and sent
back. For a Turkish woman to attempt to leave Turkey in that manner the
punishment is death. So at some small station near the frontier, the
name of which she did not know, she had, under cover of night, left the
train, and taken to the mountains. For four days she had wandered
alone, until Luk had discovered her.
"And what was done with her?" I inquired, much interested.
"Well," replied my companion. "She elected to remain with us, our chief
giving her assurance that she would be well and honourably treated. He
pointed out that had she been a man he would have demanded of the Sultan
a heavy ransom for her release, but as she was a defenceless woman, and
alone, she was not to remain a prisoner. If she cared to accept the
offer of the protection of the Skreli, then every man of his tribe would
defend her, and her honour to the last drop of blood remaining in their
veins. The word of Skreli, once given, is, as you know, never broken."
And his was no idle boast. The code of honour among the tribes of
Northern Albania would put even ours of England to the blush. The
Skreli are very bad enemies, but they are, as I know from personal
experience, most firm and devoted friends.
"And so it came about," Luk went on, "that Zorka--that was her name--was
placed in my mother's charge, and discarded her veil, as do our own
women. Well--I suppose I may confess it--I loved her. It was only to
be expected, I suppose, for she was very lovely, and every unmarried man
in the tribe was her devoted admirer. Though she lived with us, no word
of affection passed between us. Why should it? Would it not have been
folly?--she the daughter of a great Pasha who was seeking for her all
over Turkey, and I a poor humble tribesman, and a Christian into the
bargain? And so a year went over. We often walked together, and the
others envied me my friendship with the delicate and beautiful girl who
preferred our free untrammelled life of the mountains to the constant
confinement of her father's harem on the Bosphorus. Unlike that of our
women, her skin was lily white, and her little hands as soft as satin.
Ah! yes, I loved her with all my soul, though I never dared to tell her
so. She became as a sister to me, as a daughter to my mother. It was
she who said the last word to me when I went forth upon a raid; she who
waited to welcome me on my return."
"And you said nothing," I remarked, with some surprise.
"Nothing. Our chief had ordered that no man should declare his love to
her. She was our guest, like yourself, and she was therefore sacred.
Well," he went on, gazing thoughtfully across the dark valley, the white
moonbeams shining full upon his thin, sun-tanned countenance. "One day
our men down yonder, on the northern border, discovered three strangers
who were examining the rocks and chipping pieces off--French mining
engineers we afterwards found them to be. They were captured, brought
up here, and held to ransom. Two were elderly men, but the third was
about twenty-eight, well-dressed with a quantity of French banknotes
upon him. At first the price we asked of the Sultan was too high. The
Vali of Skodra refused to pay, but suggested a smaller sum. We were in
no hurry to compromise, so the three remained prisoners, and--"
"And what?"
"Well, during that time the younger of the three saw Zorka, and fell in
love with her. I caught the pair one night walking together. They sat
here, at this very spot. The Frenchman had been in Constantinople, and,
speaking a little Turkish, could converse with her. I crept up and
overheard some of their conversation. Next day I told the chief, and
when he heard it he was angry, and ordered that the prisoners were to be
released and sent away--without ransom--that very day. Zorka was one of
ourselves. So that afternoon the three strangers were escorted down to
the Skodra road, and there told to begone."
Here Luk broke off, slowly rolling a fresh cigarette in silence. By the
light of the brilliant moon I saw the sudden change in his countenance.
"Well?" I asked.
"There is not much more to tell," he said hoarsely, hard lines showing
at the corners of his mouth. "A few weeks later we one night missed
Zorka. The whole tribe went forth to search for her. Some men of the
Hoti, down on the way to Skodra, had seen a woman pass. Vatt Marashi
took me with some others down to the lake-side, where we heard that she
had escaped on the little steamer that runs up the lake to Ryeka, in
Montenegro. And further that she had a male companion who, from his
description, we knew to be the Frenchman whose life we had spared. With
the man was an elderly woman. He had evidently returned to Skodra, and
sent Zorka a message in secret. At risk of arrest by the Turks we went
down into Skodra itself, and saw the captain of the steamer, from whom
we learnt that the Frenchman's name was Paul Darbour, and that he was a
mining engineer, living in Paris. While on the boat he had chatted to
the captain in French, and mentioned that he was going first to Ragusa,
down on the Dalmatian coast. The Skreli punish an insult to their women
with death, therefore that same night, upon the lake shore, we twelve
men and our good chief raised the blood-feud, and I was ordered to go
forth in search of the man who had enticed away our Zorka. None of
them, however knew how deeply I loved her myself. Well, I left, wearing
the Montenegrin dress, the blue baggy trousers, scarlet jacket, and
pork-pie hat. Through Montenegro, down to Cattaro, I followed them, and
took the steamer along the Adriatic to Ragusa. But they had already
left. For a month I followed the trio from place to place, until late
one night, in Trieste, I met Zorka in European dress, walking with her
lover along the quays. He was speaking sharply to her, evidently trying
to induce her to act against her will, for she was weeping bitterly. I
crept after them unseen in the shadows. From words she let drop in
Turkish I knew that he was treating her with cruelty, now that he had
got her in his power--that she bitterly regretted listening to his
love-speeches. I clenched my teeth, took a few sharp steps, and next
instant my keen knife was buried up to the hilt behind our enemy's
shoulder. He fell forward almost without a cry."
"And Zorka?" I asked.
"I brought her safely back again to us," was his simple answer. "See.
She is my wife!"
Luk is here, outside Belgrade, the Prince added. But in secret, for a
price is set upon his head. He is a Turkish brigand, and he and his
band terrorise the Montenegrin border. The Servian Government offered,
only a month ago, twenty thousand dinars for his capture. They little
dream he is in hiding in a cave over in yonder mountain, and that he is
supplied with food by his faithful little wife here!
And true sportsman that he was, he raised his glass again to her--and to
her husband.