somewhat sinister-looking Albanian, named Palok. He
travelled with me through Montenegro and Albania, and was
most faithful and devoted. Besides Albanian and Serb hespoke a little Italian, and possessed a keen sense of
humour.
One day, while we were travelling through the wild, bare
mountain, a perfect wilderness of huge boulders without a
single tree or even blade of grass, we halted for our midday
meal, and while eating he told me of a great friend of his
who had recently been killed at Spuz for vendetta, and he
added, fondling the butt of his revolver,
"
I too, gospodin,
shall die before long."
I looked at him in surprise. His usually humorous face
had changed. It was dark and thoughtful, and his black
eyes were fixed upon me.
"
Is there a blood-feud upon you, then ?
"
I asked, in
surprise.
"Yes," he replied briefly; and though I endeavoured to
persuade him to tell the story, it was not until the following
day that with some reluctance he explained.
" A year ago my brother Tef, away in Scutari, fell in
love with a beautiful girl. He had a rival—a young Albanian,
a coppersmith in the bazaar. They quarrelled, but the
girl—ah ! she was very beautiful—preferred Tef. Whereupon
the rival one night took his rifle and laid in wait for
my brother in the main street of Scutari. Early in the evening
he left the house of the girl's father, and as he passed the
fellow shot poor Tef dead."
And he paused as his brow knit deeply, and his teeth
were set tightly.
"
Well ?
"
I asked.
"
Well, gospodin. What would you have done had your
own brother died a dog's death ? I took a rifle, and within
a week the murderer was in his grave. I shot him through
the heart—and then I left Scutari."
" And you are safe here, in Montenegro ?
"
"
Safe ! Oh dear, no," he answered.
" One day—it may
be to-day—the fellow's brother will kill me. He must kill
me. It is Fate—why worry about it ? It does one no
good."
And the marked man, the man doomed to die at a momentwhen he least expects it, rolled a cigarette and lit it with perfect
resignment.
" And are you not afraid to go with me back to Scutari ?
"
I asked, amazed at his fearlessness.
"
Afraid, gospodin !
"
he exclaimed, looking at me in
reproach as his hand instinctively wandered to his weapon.
"
Afraid ! No Albanian is afraid of the blood-feud. I have
killed the murderer, and his brother must kill me. It is our
law." And the doomed man smiled gravely.
" And the girl ?
"
I asked.
" Ah ! They are all the same," he answered, with a quick
shrug of the shoulders.
" A month ago she married a tobaccoseller
—a man old enough to be her father. Poor Tef ! If
he could but know !
"
" And the blood-feud still continues ?
"
" Of course—until I am dead."
Then Palok smoked on in silence, entirely resigned to the
fate that awaits him. He knows that one day, as he walks
along the road, the sharp crack of a hidden rifle will sound,
and he will fall to earth, another victim of a woman's fickleness...."""
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