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.”