CHAPTER XI.
Noon of the following day found them climbing a high pass in the hills, with the river a silvery thread far below. On either side was dense forest, alternating with bare, bowlder-strewn hillsides, and the air was fine and keen and filled with sunshine.
Presently their trail led out across the shoulder of a high hill, whence they were able to look away for leagues to the southward, over a wonderful expanse of hill and valley, the whole of which seemed to be inclosed by a high, broken wall of mountains blue with distance and filled with marvelous shadows of saffron and amethyst.
"Those are the north Albanian Alps," said Thalia. "They form part of the southern boundary of Novibazar. My people came originally from the other side of that range, but the Turks drove them northward, and now we occupy those slopes which you see down toward the end of the valley. Near the castle where I lived when my father was alive, there are two little streams which rise almost side by side, and one of them flows into the Danube and the other into the Ægean Sea."
"Really? And where does Prince Emilio come from?"
"From a place called Rascia, not far from the town of Novibazar. We are quite near neighbors; not more than a six-hour journey on foot."
"Do you know this road, Thalia?"
"I have never been here before, but I know it a little farther on, where it strikes the valley of the Lim. Higher up it crosses the main road from Cettinjé to Nis. Look, my dear!" She pointed down the steep slope. "Here come some people."
Twice during the morning they had avoided other travelers. The first whom they had met were Mohammedan plum growers, packing down their dried prunes on a train of meager mountain ponies. The others were Serb swine-herds, a savage, filthy crew.
Climbing up the precipitous bank, they crouched behind a clump of bracken and waited for the newcomers to pass. These proved to be a troupe of Chingéni, or Balkan gypsies. They were a ragged lot of nomads, perhaps twenty in all, with warm, swarthy skins, features of markedly Hindu type, and dark, lustrous eyes. The hamals, powerful young fellows, were carrying packs almost as large as those borne by the dozen wretched ponies. Two young women, superbly made, were swinging easily up the steep incline, each with a child carried in a sort of sling! A lame man sitting astride an overloaded pony was playing a violin, and playing marvelously well, it seemed to Dallas. The caravan passed, chattering, up the trail, when the two refugees came out of their hiding place.
"They are striking across the mountains for the big road from Belgrade to Constantinople," said Thalia. "They will meet it on the Morava, then pass on up through Trajan's Gate, and probably hold right on for Stamboul, where no doubt they have their winter malhallah."
Presently the path began to descend, and a little later led through a gorge, marvelously beautiful, with bare, rocky walls and a cataract foaming at the bottom. The two had paused to admire the savage wildness of the place when Thalia exclaimed:
"Some one is coming!"
Dallas listened and heard the clatter of many hoofs on the rocky trail below them. He glanced quickly about for a place where they might get under cover, but there was none to be had. Above them rose sheer, bare crags, and below, the ground, while not very steep, was naked of bush or bowlder.
"We shall have to run back up the trail," said he.
"Too late!" answered Thalia. "Here they come!"
"What are they—soldiers?"
A troop of horsemen had appeared around a curve of the road ahead and was approaching at a rapid walk. The riders looked to be uniformed, and were armed with guns. But the two fugitives gave scarcely a glance at the men, for riding at their head was a colossal figure, khaki-clad, with a kalpak of fine astrakhan set over a fierce, deep-lined face, which even at that distance portrayed its characteristic features of black, bushy eyebrows and heavy black mustache and imperial.
"Rosenthal!" cried Dallas.
At the same instant the Jew had recognized the fugitives. With a harsh exclamation, he spurred his horse forward to rein up with a jerk in front of them.
"Sapristi!" cried Rosenthal. "What luck! What good fortune! I was afraid you was killed!"
He flung himself from his horse, threw the reins to one of his men, and strode toward Dallas, his diabolic face working with emotion and one big hand thrust in front of him, the palm opening and closing spasmodically.
"Py chingo!" he cried, in his harsh voice. "But this is a pleasure to find you alive and unhurt!" He seized Dallas in his great arms and actually embraced him, then turned to Thalia and laughed. "Sapristi! But who is this handsome boy?" Before the astonished girl could avoid it, he had embraced her also, and would no doubt have kissed her on both cheeks had she not twisted her head aside. Rosenthal was bubbling over with delight. "Belief me, I could not be more overjoyed if I had sold my silver mines for one hundred t'ousand pounds. Nefer haf I been so worried! I had come to t'ink that you must haf been killed!"
He beamed upon them with a grin which was almost a physical violence in itself. His bushy eyebrows worked up and down, and his yellow teeth were bared like those of a grinning wolf. But the big, deeply scored, vital face was filled with such a real benevolence as to disarm its savagery of feature. Dallas felt himself ridiculously like a runaway child caught while playing truant by a kind but undesired pedagogue. As for Thalia, the girl was regarding the big Jew with the peculiar expression of half repulsion, half fascination, which quite expressed the emotions with which he inspired her.
"But where haf you been, you naughty children?" cried Rosenthal. "Sapristi! If you only knew how I haf worried! And if you knew what a bad time I haf been giving Prince Emilio since I discovered it was all his doing!"
"His doing?" echoed Dallas.
"Ah, yes. You did not guess? You see, Dimitri was my man, and he had instructions to see that you came to no harm."
Dallas was staring at the Jew through narrow lids, and eyes as cold and green as jade.
"So it was all a trap arranged by you and Prince Emilio?" he asked.
"Let me egsplain," protested Rosenthal. "We knew, of course, that you were in Belgrade. Such foolish boys! Because, you see, you played right into our hands. I vas afraid that Thalia might haf appealed to the Turkish and Austrian ministers, and then we might haf had to let her go. But I fought that you would be there, and when I learned you were, I sent my man Dimitri to you. He is my confidential agent."
"He was," corrected Dallas grimly.
Rosenthal grinned at him like an indulgent parent.
"You shooted him! I do not plame you. Yes, he vas my confidential agent. I haf t'em eferywhere. You see, it all suited my plans and looked like a very easy way to get Lady Thalia safe to Rascia wit'out any fuss and scandal. I had told Dimitri to be sure that no one vas hurted."
"Rather tough on Dimitri that I didn't have the same instructions," said Dallas ironically.
"Ah, my poor poy, you did r-right. Ven I had gone, Emilio bribes Dimitri to haf you two boys shooted. He has nefer forgiven you for that blow in the face. But then he is a pig of a Servian. Dimitri was to come and say that you resisted and were shooted, which might have happened."
"How did you find this out?" asked Dallas.
"From the gossip that goes over these hills, and then I made Emilio confess. It appears that there vas a hermit, a holy man, who put a stop to that nonsense and brought Sir Chames and Paula to Dakabar."
Dallas and Thalia exchanged glances of infinite relief.
"And Sir James' servant?" asked the girl.
"He is t'ere, too. Sir Chames got a buckshot in his neck, but he is not hurted bad. This hermit is now making lots of troubles at Dakabar. He is himself Albanian." He turned to Thalia. "It is Ishmi Bey."
"Ishmi Bey?" echoed the girl. "He was my father's dearest friend," she said to Dallas, "and he has a blood feud with Emilio."
Rosenthal nodded. "Yes," said he. "That was a very bad business. A band of Emilio's burned his house and carried away his vife und daughters. T'en he vent avay and nobody knew what had become of him. Now he is back in Dakabar, gathering the Shkipetari from all ofer the hills. There is going to be troubles, and"—he grinned—"myselluf I am not so sorry, because I see a chance to get back my forty t'ousand pounds. But come, children! Ve must go."
"Go where?" demanded Dallas.
Rosenthal lifted his bushy eyebrows.
"To Rascia, of course," said he.
"Why not to Dakabar?"
The Jew shook his big head. "Ah, my boy, you may go if you like; but Thalia must come vith me. I am fery sorry, but business is business. If she vent back to Dakabar, she vould spoil it all, und I vould lose my forty t'ousand pounds."
Dallas bit his lower lip, and his face hardened.
"Look here, baron," said he suddenly, "we are your prisoners. If you will take us to Dakabar, I will buy your filthy silver mines and pay you forty thousand pounds."
For a moment Rosenthal stared. His big eyes opened very wide, and their hazel-colored spots seemed to grow more accentuated, while the outer corners of his bushy eyebrows were pushed up until they almost met his grizzled hair. Then suddenly he threw back his great head and roared with laughter. Still shouting hoarsely, he clapped Dallas on the shoulder, almost knocking the young man off his feet.
"By chingo, but it is funny! Excuse me if I laugh, Mr. Dallas, but it is so very funny! No! Business is business, but Isidor Rosenthal has not yet turned brigand! No! T'at vould not be business!" And again the raucous laugh burst out, to come reechoing back in hoarse cachinnations from the rocky wall on the other side of the gorge.
The Jew turned and mounted his big black horse, the back of which sagged under his great bulk. He gave a harsh order in the Serbo-Croatian tongue, at which two of the troopers dismounted.
"Come!" said Rosenthal, wiping his eyes with a silk handkerchief heavily scented with musk. "We must go, children. Get up on these horses. No"—he waved his big hand—"it is no use to argue, Mr. Dallas. You shall leave us where the road turns off for Dakabar, just beyond Iverntsk. The Lady Thalia must come vith me to Rascia. Business is business"—he laughed again—"but Isidor Rosenthal is not yet a brigand!"
Seeing the utter futility of argument, Dallas put Thalia on her pony, and mounted himself when Rosenthal wheeled, and the little cavalcade moved forward. They descended into the valley of the Lim, then turned southeast. Rosenthal went on ahead, followed by some of his men, in the midst of whom rode Dallas and Thalia side by side, the dismounted troopers being left to find their way back on foot as best they might.
For several miles Dallas rode in silence, pale and furious, and answering Thalia's remarks in curt monosyllables.
"Who are these men?" he asked finally.
"Emilio's servants and guards."
"Soldiers?"
"No. The only actual militia in this country are Turks. You see, it is a Turkish sanjak. But Emilio stands very well with the Porte, and he is permitted to maintain a sort of constabulary to protect himself from the Shkipetari, who hate the Turks almost as much as they do the Serbs. You see, the whole state of affairs is horribly confused; and what the Turks want more than anything else is to keep the peace. As a result, they are friendly with both parties, so far as they can be."
"So we've got to part," said Dallas bitterly.
Thalia looked at him with a sad smile. "When you get to Dakabar," said she, "tell Ishmi Bey not to fight."
It was still early in the afternoon when the little cavalcade arrived at a village situated on the bank of the swift stream.
"Iverntsk," said Thalia. "The people of this zadruga were nearly all massacred a few years ago by one of Emilio's bands. The same old story. Emilio's people are mostly Christians of the Bulgarian Church, and his zadruga belongs to the orthodox Greek Church. That is their method of converting each other."
The little hamlet appeared deserted as their troop clattered through. Opposite a modest edifice of mud and stone, Rosenthal drew in his horse, tossed the reins to a trooper, and swung his great body to the ground.
"This is a han—a tavern," he said to Dallas. "Let us dismount for a cup of coffee and some olives."
He lifted Thalia to the ground as if she had been a child. Dallas also dismounted, and all three were about to enter the door of the inn when one of the troopers called out sharply to a man who appeared to be the captain of the guard.
"What is that?" said Rosenthal. "Does he say that there are horsemen coming?"
He raised his hand for silence, and for a moment they stood listening. The white, dusty road led straight through the village, the small houses built close together and facing it on either side. At the extreme end of the street there was a high mud wall, above which one saw the dull green foliage of an olive orchard, and, beyond, the roof of a rather more elaborate dwelling than the others, apparently the home of the patriarch, or communal head of the zadruga. In front of this estate the road turned sharply at a right angle and was hid from view by some low mud cottages.
From this direction there came the distant rumble of many hoofs. The sound rapidly increased in volume, indicating that whatever the party which approached, it was traveling at a rapid pace. Rosenthal's Serbs were glancing from one to the other with knit brows and muttering interrogations, while the face of the big Jew himself wore an expression of extreme disgust.
"Sapristi!" he growled. "Who can this be?" He called out sharply to his captain, who shrugged and answered a few guttural words.
"A Turkish hamdié," muttered Rosenthal, scowling. "Peste! But that will be embarrassing! I have no official permission to be leading a troop of armed men through these hills. The commanding officer will ask awkward questions. He will want to know why I did not refer this matter of looking for the Lady Thalia to him!"
"And I shall tell him!" said Thalia maliciously.
Rosenthal threw her a look of reproach.
"Peste!" he growled. "You would not do that! You would not do anything so ungrateful!"
Dallas laughed outright, and the Jew grinned. At the same moment the rumble which had developed into a sharp clatter of many hoofs diminished. A cloud of dust rose suddenly over the low, tiled roofs at the end of the street, and the next moment the head of a column of horsemen turned the corner, then quickly halted.
There was a moment of silence, followed instantly by a clamor of voices from Rosenthal's men, and a sharp order from the captain.
The troop was thrown into confusion. With an oath, Rosenthal sprang to mount his horse. With one hand on the animal's neck and one foot in the stirrup, he turned to look at Dallas over his shoulder.
"Get out of the way!" he cried harshly. "Into the han! There is going to be a fight!"
But Dallas and the girl had scarcely heard his words. Their eyes were riveted on the horsemen clustered at the bend of the road, for at their head were Sir James, Connors, and a tall, bearded man in fez and tunic, who, even as they looked, snatched the yataghan from his sash and whirled the blade above his head.
"The Shkipetari!" cried Thalia.
Rosenthal's men, taken completely by surprise, were struggling to unsling their carbines. But the Albanian leader gave them scant time. Swinging in his saddle, he shouted a harsh order and pointed toward Rosenthal's Serbs with the blade of his yataghan. The next instant the Shkipetari were hurled in assault.
Dallas had barely time to drag Thalia up the steps and into the han before the Albanians had struck their enemy. The street was narrow, and the powdery dust of the road swept up in such dense swirling clouds that for several moments it was impossible to follow the fortunes of the fight. Horses and men were down, and the combatants were so tightly wedged as to be unable to use rifle or carbine. But the yataghans were busy; and presently, as the dust slightly settled, the two in the doorway of the han were able to see what was happening.
Sir James, his face as fierce as any of the savage ones about him, was firing to right and left. Once, at the elbow of the Englishman, they caught sight of Connors, who had emptied his revolver and was fighting with the steel, like those about him. A moment later, a gaunt, black-bearded man came hewing his way through with blows of terrific force and quickness, while his fierce face peered constantly this way and that as if in search of some one.
Thalia put her lips close to Dallas' ear. "That is Ishmi Bey," she said.
But the pivotal center of the fight was Rosenthal. Squarely in the middle of the street, the Jew's big bulk loomed through the swirling dust, while his harsh voice, admonishing friend and foe, rose above the din of the fight. He had been armed only with a carbine, but as the crush was so thick he had seized the weapon by the muzzle and used it as a club.
The uproar was appalling. Above the clash and clatter of steel rose the yells of the Shkipetari and the screams of the wounded men and stricken horses; but over all blared out from time to time the deep-chested roar of the Jew. The Serbs were fighting for their lives, knowing well that no quarter would be given by their savage, kilted enemies, to whom such slaughter was as the very breath of their nostrils. The Shkipetari were considerably fewer in numbers, but no living bone and muscle could withstand the fury of their attack. Backward down the road they forced the Serbs, while the blinding dust rose thicker and thicker. Rosenthal alone appeared to hold his own; planted in the middle of the street, he fought like a huge, raging Mephistopheles, his clothes in ribbons and the blood streaming down his satanic face. Now and then Dallas caught a glimpse of Sir James; the Englishman had torn the carbine from the hands of a Serb and was fighting like the Jew, his weapon clubbed. Backward the Serbs were forced, struggling over the bodies of men and horses, until presently Rosenthal alone blocked the road. Ishmi Bey had fought his way on past him, and was the center of a swirling vortex, his streaming yataghan flashing up and down like a tongue of red flame.
By this time many of the Albanians were on their feet, leaping here and there, now pausing to thrust at a fallen enemy or springing aside to lash at a mounted one. Then a rift in the swirling dust showed Sir James knee to knee with Rosenthal. Dallas saw the Jew strike a savage blow, which the Englishman parried. With a hoarse shout, Rosenthal raised in his stirrups to strike again, when Connors, who had stuck close to the elbow of his master, sprang forward and cut savagely at the Jew with his yataghan. Rosenthal parried with his gun barrel, but the blade glanced and found the side of his shaggy head. The Jew swayed in his saddle, then lurched sideways and came crashing to the ground.
Sir James and Connors wheeled to plunge again into the fight, which had surged on down the street. Dallas leaped from the doorway, and, seizing Rosenthal under the arms, dragged his huge bulk across the threshold of the inn. The road was strewn with men and horses, while the fight itself was completely veiled in the swimming clouds of dust, which presently began to dissolve when from the distance came the sound of scampering hoofs. What was left of the Servian troop had broken into flight.
Dallas and Thalia stared at each other with pale faces. At their feet the body of the big Jew heaved convulsively, then struggled to a sitting posture. From head to foot the man was a grimy mass of blood and dust, and his breath was coming in great, labored gasps. For a moment he looked about vacantly; then the expression came back into the big brown eyes with their multiple hazel dots.
"Mein Gott!" he panted. "It vas not vort' it! Forty t'ousand pounds! Bah!" He raised both hands to a long, jagged cut on the side of his head, from which the blood was oozing sluggishly.
"So you're not dead?" said Dallas.
"I don't t'ink so. But I deserf to be! Forty t'ousand pounds! Bah!"
He spat and wiped his mouth with the back of his grimy sleeve, then looked up at Thalia and grinned.
"Sapristi! I do not like to fight! It is not goot business, and bad for the health! Sapristi! But it is very bad for the health. I might easily have been killed, and then of what good would be my forty t'ousand pounds? And t'ink of the grief of my dear vife in Buda-Pesth! But vat could I do?" He spread out his grimy hands apologetically. "You cannot arbitrate ven a friend is clubbing at you vit' a gun barrel!"
"Let me tie up your head," said Thalia.
"T'anks. Sir Chames is a goot boy. It vould haf broken my heart to haf split his skull. Mein Gott! Vat a business!"