A Princess of the Balkans/Chapter 14

The full hunter's moon hanging poised above the silvery crest of the Dovo-Dagh looked down upon a wild and savage host as it wound up through the forested denies of the north Albanian Alps.

For the Shkipetari were afoot and moving swiftly and silently to strike at the throat of their hereditary foe. An odd five hundred mountaineers had rallied at the hot message sent into the hills by Ishmi Bey, holy man and martyr to the cruelty of Prince Emilio. Foul wrong had been done to the Lady Thalia, daughter of their hereditary chief, and even more, and that which brought a savage oath to the lips of every shaggy Arnaut to whom the message reached, the prince was plotting to sell themselves and their free hills to the hated Servians.

For several days they had come dropping into Dakabar, singly or in squads. Fierce-visaged fathers had stalked down from their mountain fastnesses, their half-grown sons at their heels. Many were of different sects, blood enemies, victims or victors of sanguinary family feuds; but these, while eying askance the members of rival clans, had laid aside their private wrongs for the common cause.

Arms and costumes differed widely. There were men clad only in sheepskins, with the wool turned in, and tight-fitting caps of white; others were more elaborately dressed in kalpaks of black wool, sometimes of astrakhan, with short, full-sleeved tunics, white kilts, woolen stockings, and shoes of red leather, with tufts of black wool upon the toes. Nearly all the men carried guns—long weapons with narrow barrels, often richly ornamented with traceries and patterns wrought in silver and gold. Every one was armed with the weapon so dear to the native heart, the yataghan.

There were sheiks among them, and priests of both Greek and Bulgarian Churches, who eyed each other askance and with more vindictiveness than they did the devotees of Islam. The entire horde—for it could scarcely be called an army—was under the nominal command of one Sheik Izzat, himself a hermit who had gone half mad as the result of wrong dealt him by the Turks. But once in motion, there was no pretense of leadership. The object of the expedition as understood by all was to strike a final and fatal blow at the hated stronghold of the prince, and every man would fight his own fight in his own way.

So, as they strode along with the swift, springy step of the mountaineer, there was no dissension in the ranks. Mussulman jostled shoulders with Christian; pastoral feuds between herders and maize growers were forgotten; men from different valleys looked at each other for the first time without the hand going to the hilt of the yataghan. If there were any rivalry, it was only as to who should strike first, hardest, and last.

At the head of the "column," if so it could be called, Sir James rode at the side of Ishmi Bey, with whom he conversed in French. The holy man had done his best to persuade the mountaineers to return peacefully to their homes. But, once gathered, it had proven impossible to disband them. In the end they had clamored for Sheik Izzat to lead them against Rascia, when Ishmi Bey had accompanied the horde in the hope of giving such direction as he could to the evolutions of what was little better than a savage mob.

For some distance the road passed through heavy forest. The wind was blowing a clear gale; overhead, the treetops swayed and crashed, filling the air with their flying leaves, while the brilliant moonlight filtered through in swirling splashes of silvery light.

They wound up through a defile, skirted the flank of a mountain, and emerged presently upon a bare, bowlder-strewn hillside, against which the moon blazed with startling brilliancy. The path ascended in a series of zig-zags, and at the top of the wind-swept ridge, Ishmi Bey drew rein. Dallas and Connors slipped from their horses, and the four men turned to look back upon the following Shkipetari.

The effect was curious and startling. Below them the vivid moonlight shone and glittered from the huge, fantastic bowlders which were composed of a gneiss and mica schist, and which flashed back the shimmering rays until all the hillside seemed a vast heap of gleaming gems. Blackest shadows lay here and there, alternating patches of glowing moonlight. Slipping invisibly from these areas of gloom to flitter across the patches of bright light came a swarm of leaping figures, now appearing, now disappearing, suggesting trolls issuing from the depths of the earth to pilfer a Titan treasure-trove. Ignoring the zigzag path, they came springing straight up the steep hillside, and as they crossed the open spaces the yataghans and the gun barrels threw back the brilliant moon rays in flashes of pale-blue flame.

Far beneath, the still valley slumbered under a light veil of mist, through which shone faintly the silvered glint of the river. On all sides tumbled the rough shoulders of the hills, their crests rimmed with white fire, and shadows of wondrous depths upon their breasts. Over the ridge swept the high wind in clear, cold blasts.

The route led along the top of the hill, then down a bare slope to the stony bed of a torrential stream, the water of which was very low and could be seen only in broad, standing pools. The gully worn by the cataract was over one hundred yards in width and choked with masses of loose rock and stone. Beyond it the bank rose steeply to meet the heavy forest, and a little distance downstream there was a rift between the hills, which marked the course of the trail to Rascia.

As Ishmi Bey was indicating this opening to Sir James, there suddenly emerged from the gloom of the forest a little squad of horsemen, which rode out into the full light of the moon, where it halted as if to reconnoiter.

The hermit reined his pony sharply backward under the crest of the hill, and Sir James did likewise.

"Who are those men?" whispered Ishmi Bey. "Our own scouts were unmounted. Let us watch for a moment."

The Shkipetari were springing up all about them. Ishmi Bey turned and gave a sharp order in the guttural Gegh dialect spoken by the tribes who live north of the River Shkumbi, The words were passed quickly from mouth to mouth, and the tribesmen sank to earth, then crawled up to peer down into the valley beneath.

The horsemen had disappeared against the shadow of the forest. A few moments later they came into sight again in the river bottom, dismounted, and leading their horses among the stones. Presently they passed under the near bank and were lost to view, to reappear immediately at the foot of the slope. Here they paused as if in consultation, and seemed to scan the ridge above. Perhaps some instinct warned them of the ambush spread along its summit, for they seemed unwilling to proceed. They were still standing there, inky blotches against the brilliant background, when a dark column began to emerge from the forest across the valley.

A guttural whisper arose from the Shkipetari; its sibilant undertone was caught up in the fierce gusts of wind and swept from mouth to mouth. Ishmi Bey, crouching beside Sir James, turned his head, and his white teeth shone through his heavy beard.

"The prince!" he muttered in French. "He has heard that the Shkipetari were mustering to attack him at Rascia, and has decided to strike first himself at Dakabar!"

Across the river the dark column crawled like a thick, black serpent from the forest, turned to the left, and disappeared again in the sightless shadows which cloaked the rim of the bank. A troop of cavalry had appeared and apparently halted, when a column of infantry followed, and likewise disappeared.

"It is but a mouthful for the Shkipetari," whispered Ishmi Bey exultantly. "There are perhaps fifty horsemen and twice that number of foot, while we are over five hundred strong. We will strike when the cavalry is crossing the river bed."

He hurried off in search of Sheik Izzat, and a moment later the two dark figures could be seen flitting here and there among the mountaineers.

At the foot of the slope the horsemen forming the advance guard had remounted, and were riding slowly up the hill. At the same time the forward files of the cavalry came out of a gully in the opposite bank, leading their horses among the bowlders and débris, until presently the entire column was in the river bed. The scouts were advancing slowly and as if in doubt, for those in ambush could see the white moonlight on their faces as they turned them continually upward.

The six doomed men were within fifty yards of the summit when the Sheik Izzat sprang suddenly to his feet and with a savage scream waved his yataghan aloft. His cry was lost in the crash of a volley, the detonation of which was whirled on high and swept away on the gusty winds. Down went horses and riders, a struggling heap. Up rose the Shkipetari, but even more quickly Ishmi Bey had sprung in front of them and was waving them back with frantic words and furious gestures.

For a moment they paused. Ishmi Bey, a mad, whirling figure in the moonlight, poured out a frenzied torrent of speech. A few of the Shkipetari sprang forward, but the hermit, giant that he was, seized them by the shoulders and flung them back. Then Sheik Izzat, the blade of his yataghan a glittering circle over his head, plunged down the slope, howling furiously. With a roar, the Shkipetari were on and after him.

Ishmi Bey, who had been overthrown by the rush, sprang to his feet and shook his clenched fists with a gesture of passionate despair. He turned toward Sir James, and cried out something which Dallas could not hear. But the Englishman had understood. He looked at his friend with a pale and horror-stricken face.

"Good Heaven!" he cried. "It is not the prince at all! Those are Turkish troops!"

Silent and dismayed, they watched the furious combat in the valley beneath. Although more than doubly outnumbered, surprised, and taken at a disadvantage, the Turkish hamdié was not thrown into confusion. Well drilled, well disciplined, well officered, and well armed, the Shkipetari could not have found in all the country a more difficult mouthful to swallow than the Turkish mounted militia.

At the first wild clamor and volley from the hilltop, there had been a quick, sharp order, and in the two minutes which it took the tribesmen to reach the foot of the hill the troopers had unslung their carbines, released their horses, and were deployed among the rocks. At the same moment the company of infantry, which was marching in column of fours and hidden in the shadow of the woods, was halted, then advanced in line of skirmishers along the farther bank, so that when the Shkipetari reached the watercourse, they ran pell-mell into a very nasty trap. Had they possessed any leadership or tactics, they might have halted and deployed on their own bank, when they could have engaged the enemy under fire and effected considerable damage. But, frenzied as they were, when once started, there was no holding them. Down they poured into the watercourse, yataghan in hand, only to be met by a volley at point-blank range from Turkish Mausers in the hands of marksmen who needed nothing better than the brilliant moonlight.

But although a number fell, the tribesmen did not waver. Into the rocks they leaped, agile as otter hounds and just as fierce. And here the slaughter began. For the yataghan, although an admirable weapon when opposed to steel, stands little chance against a bullet, and it was steel-jacketed lead at close range with which the troopers ted them. Then after the first few moments of scattering fire, finding nothing at which to aim in the leaping, darting figures, here came the infantry, charging down the bank with fixed bayonets, when the engagement promptly broke into a series of furious hand-to-hand combats.

If the Shkipetari came to recognize their mistake in the identity of their foe, they did not seek to remedy it. The battle rage had seized them, and the Turks themselves, though not the folk whom they had come to seek, were their hereditary enemies. Straight into the muzzles of the rifles rushed the Albanians, and in the bright light of the moon the watchers on the hilltop were witnesses to acts of the most desperate fury. Here a screaming mountaineer took a bullet through the body at a range of two yards, only to rush in and beat aside the soldier's rifle and cut him down with the yatghanyataghan [sic]; near him an Albanian with a bayonet through his vitals was striving to reach with a thrust of his long, sinewy arm the man who held it. Wounded Shkipetari crawled on hands and knees to get within striking distance of a foe, praying only to kill one man before death overtook them.

Yet for all of their frenzied fighting, the injury inflicted by the Shkipetari was but very slight, while that which they suffered was terrific. In less time than it takes to tell, a third of them were down, and then, as though recognizing the hopelessness of the struggle, the tribesmen suddenly lost heart and the place was filled with flying figures, retreating not back in the direction whence they had come, but on down the watercourse, toward a spot where the forest grew to the edge of the bank. A moment later they had melted into the sheltering woods, leaving only their dead and dying and a few dark figures crawling away to hide in recesses among the rocks.

Sir James turned to Dallas a face which was drawn and tense.

"How do you feel?"

"Rather sick. And you?"

"What a beastly shame! That infernal fool of a sheik!"

Ishmi Bey, crouching in front of them, rose to his feet.

"What can one do with madmen?" he asked, throwing out his hands. "I had just recognized the uniform of the hamdié when Sheik Izzat gave the order to fire. Come, my friends, we must go. If we are found here, we shall be shot."

They crawled back over the ridge, remounted their ponies, and rode in silence back down the trail. At the end of an hour the road led out upon a wind-swept ridge, and they saw below them the village of Dakabar.

"The work of to-night is an example of the guile of Prince Emilio," said Ishmi Bey bitterly, as they rode down the steep hillside. "He heard of the coming of the Shkipetari and sent word of it to the nearest Turkish caracol. Now the work has been done for him at no cost, and we may expect to see him here at Dakabar with a band of his Serbs!"

The house of the Lady Thalia was situated on a thickly wooded plateau a little above the village, and was surrounded by a park. As the four men rode in through the massive gates, they saw at the far end of the straight avenue several horses standing in the bright patch of moonlight in front of the main entrance to the house.

"Halt!" said Ishmi Bey, under his breath.

They drew rein and peered down the dark, tunneled driveway. Overhead the high wind was roaring through the treetops, but the foliage was still thick enough to screen the light of the moon.

"Who can that be?" whispered Sir James.

"I do not know," answered the hermit. "Perhaps it is the prince himself. Let us go forward quietly."

They advanced cautiously. Almost at the end of the drive they again drew rein.

In front of the door were six horses, saddled and bridled, and held by three men. Suddenly one of the animals raised its head and whinnied, when, before he could prevent it, Dallas' mount neighed in answer.

The three unmounted men turned quickly and stared down the drive. Then one of them handed his reins to a comrade, ran up the steps, and rapped sharply on the big oaken door. Immediately it was swung open, showing a lighted interior, and a moment later a short, thickset figure stepped across the threshold and stood for a moment in the full blaze of the moon.

Dallas heard at his elbow a quick, indrawn breath, and turned to see Ishmi Bey, his head thrust forward like a hound in leash.

"The prince!" growled the hermit, and drew his yataghan.

Dallas leaned toward Sir James. "It is Emilio," he whispered. "He has come for Thalia!"

Sir James' answer was to draw his own blade. He turned to Ishmi Bey.

"There are only six of them!" said he. "Let's make a rush!"

"Hold on!" said Dallas. "This is pistol work, James!"

"Steel for me! Ready, Connors?"

"Nivir more so, sorr!" growled the Irishman, and drew his heavy revolver.

"Then come on!"

The gravel churned under the ponies' hoofs as they sprang forward. Out of the shadow they flew, neck and neck, and dashed across the lighted space. A cry burst from the prince, and they saw him snatch a pistol from his belt. The horses held by the two troopers, frightened by the crash of hoofs, tugged violently backward, dragging the men after them.

At the first alarm two more men had appeared in the wide, open doorway. The prince raised his weapon and fired. At the foot of the steps, Dallas reined in with a jerk and began to shoot from the saddle. "Pank! pank! pank!" barked the deadly automatic arm, and one of the men beside the prince pitched forward and came headfirst down into the road. But Dallas' horse, frightened at the reports, was fighting to bolt, and the other shots flew wide. Ishmi Bey was on his feet and leaping for the steps. Connors had killed one guard and wounded the other, but Sir James' pony, struck by a bullet from the prince's weapon, had reared and fallen backward across his rider, pinning him to the ground.

Dallas swung from the saddle, and rushed after the hermit, and Connors, pausing to haul Sir James from under his horse, followed him. At the top of the steps the man beside the prince thrust his revolver almost against the broad chest of Ishmi Bey and fired, then leaped back across the threshold, dragging the prince after him, and swung to the heavy door. But Ishmi Bey, who had reeled backward when shot, recovered himself, and, lurching forward, thrust the blade of his yataghan between the door and the jamb, when all four men threw their weights against it. Slowly it gave, to the noise of scuffling feet within; then a blade licked out through the aperture, and Connors dropped with an oath and went rolling down the steps.

"Stand clear!" panted Dallas, and, drawing back, fired two shots through the oak panel. At the same moment the door swung violently open, and they burst into the room.

Two thundering reports roared out, and Ishmi Bey staggered back against the wall. A swarthy man sprang at Sir James with a wicked slash of a cavalry saber, but the Englishman caught the blow on his yataghan, then thrust his antagonist through the body. Dallas, peering under the smoke, saw the prince and another man standing behind a large table in the middle of the room. He fired quickly into the smoke, and saw the man at the prince's elbow fall. Then the prince himself fired, and Dallas felt the wind of the bullet on his cheek. At the same moment Ishmi Bey sprang forward, when the prince turned and ran to a door at the far end of the hall. With his hand on the latch the hermit overtook him, driving his yataghan so violently between the prince's shoulders that the blade transfixed the panel of the door.

At Dallas' right there rose the clash and clatter of steel, and he turned to see Sir James engaged with a man who had been hiding behind the arras at the other end of the hall. The room was dimly lighted by three lamps, but the farther recesses were buried in shadow, and as Dallas glanced warily about his quick eye was caught by a moving figure in one of these. His deadly weapon flew up, and even as it did so a scream from Sir James' antagonist told that the duel was finished. Simultaneously there boomed out from the lower end of the hall a harsh and raucous voice:

"Don't shoot! It vas I—Rosenthal—and the ladies!"

Dallas lowered his weapon, staring in amazement through the heavy, suffocating smoke. Sir James was leaning against the table, looking in the same direction, his breath coming in gasps, and a thin red stream running from the point of his yataghan. At the end of the hall lay the bodies of Ishmi Bey and the Prince Emilio, whose death struggle had snapped the blade which transfixed him. Dallas crouched lower to peer under the blinding smoke.

In the extreme corner of the room the huge bulk of the Jew was dimly defined through the vaporous gloom. He was standing erect, his big arms spread out, his hands braced against the wall on either side. As the two men stared, the Jew, who had been looking cautiously to right and left, let his arms drop to his side and stepped forward, when there appeared to their astonished eyes the dark-clad figures of the Lady Thalia and the Countess Paula Rubitzki.

"You can come oudt, ladies," said Rosenthal. "It is all ofer."

"Upon my word!" gasped Sir James. "Have you been there all the time?"

"Yes, Sir Chames. There vas no time to get oudt of the vay; you came so quickly. I vas afraid the ladies might get shooted, so I pushed them into the corner and stood in fr-r-ont of them. Mein Gott, a bullet went into the wall an inch from my head. I can see not'ing for the plaster in my eyes."

"Good for you," grunted Dallas.

The two girls came forward shrinkingly, their faces very pale and their eyes wide with horror, for the room was a smoke-filled shambles.

"Where's Connors?" asked Sir James suddenly.

"He got a sword thrust," said Dallas, "and rolled down the steps as we came in."

Sir James went quickly out. The others, dazed by the violence through which they had just passed, stood for an instant regarding one another in silence. Then Dallas started on a tour of inspection, accompanied by Rosenthal, whose massive head was still swathed in bandages.

Ishmi Bey and the prince were both quite dead; so was the man at whom Dallas had fired, while the two victims of Sir James' yataghan appeared to be dying, both having been run through the chest.

"Sapristi!" said Rosenthal. "How far hate will take a man! Especially when he is a holy man. Here is Ishmi Bey with four bullet holes in his body, one of them over the heart, and yet he has lived to kill the prince."

As he spoke, Sir James entered the room. The Englishman's eyes were brimming over, and his face was pale and drawn.

"Dead?" asked Dallas.

Sir James could only nod. Followed by Rosenthal, Dallas hurried out of the house. They found the brave Irishman lying on his back at the foot of the steps, stone dead, his revolver still clenched in his hand.

As they reëntered, Dallas paused on the threshold. Sir James had sunk into a chair, his elbows on the table, his chin on his knuckles, staring into vacancy. Beside him stood Paula, her hand resting on his shoulder. Dallas looked, and suddenly understood. His gray eyes opened very wide. He stepped quickly to his friend.

"James, old chap, I am sorry."

Rosenthal's heavy voice broke the silence which followed:

"Where are the Shkipetari? What happened you?"

In a few brief words Dallas told the Jew of what had befallen the Albanians. Rosenthal's face grew very grave.

"Sapristi! Ve must get oudt of here at vonce. The Turks vill hold Thalia responsible. Come, Sir Chames, let us bury your man and get a vay. Thalia, find your servants and haf them saddle some horses. Ye must lose no time to get across the border into Montenegro!"