Part 3

In this country Alexander the Great had lived as a boy, and since then it had known so many masters and was still claimed by so many nations that people continued to live in fortress-like houses whose doors were barred at night with heavy stanchions.

Draga’s home was one of these houses. All its doors and windows opened on the inner court. On the ground floor were stalled the oxen, the hens, and the goats. Above the stables projected a wide veranda hung with gay Serbian rugs and strings of tobacco and beans. Below, in the open space of the court, was piled husked corn, which glowed like a heap of gold when the sun struck it.

Draga’s thoughts rushed back to the familiar scene the next day, as the ox-cart creaked through the sere and dusty country, over a road that had once been a great Roman thoroughfare. It was really a continuation of the famous Appian Way from Rome to Brindisi. There it disappeared in the Adriatic, to emerge on the other side at Durazzo, in Albania, where it took another name, of Via Egnatia, and continued across country to Salonica. Monastir, where Draga and Dushan were to go to school, was the halfway station. The old Roman road was still the great highway, but the merchant caravans and the trampling legions had disappeared. Military trucks, white with dust, sometimes lumbered by, carrying stores to some outlying garrison, and the mail car was sure to be met sooner or later jacking up its wheels for new tires. For the most part, people went by on foot or on donkey-back, all burden-laden.

There were brigands back in the hills. Sometimes they disguised themselves as Turkish women, with long, black veils over their faces, and flowing garments, which concealed weapons; but persons traveling in an ox-cart driven by a barefooted boy had nothing to fear. Nevertheless, they spent the nights near some small village that looked like an outcrop of stones on the hillside, and after coffee and sour milk at the inn, stretched themselves out on the floor of the wagon and pulled the blankets over them.

On the third day they came to Monastir--to Draga and Dushan a bewildering, beautiful place. The next day was market day, and their mother could go back in company with friends. So, on the threshold of the school, with many hurried embraces, she left Draga, who felt small and alone in spite of the crowd of new faces around her.

A month went by and the first examinations were over.

Draga’s parents were to come that day to learn whether or not she had passed. Draga did not know and was afraid to ask. One moment she trembled with hope that she had not passed, so that she might travel back in the ox-cart with her parents to the golden-lighted court, the shadowy kitchen, and the sweet, musty smell of grapes. Then she shriveled with shame at the thought of failure. Besides, she was beginning to love the school life; the fresh clean dormitory, where they slept with open windows; the team work of study and play; and the evening hour, when they all sat on the floor and told stories before going to bed. Also, she had learned with surprise that Bulgarian girls are as kindly as Serbians. There were several in the school, and one of them, Boiana, had been her friend from the start. This seemed strange, for she had always heard that Bulgars were evil and hostile people.

Fearing that her mother might find her strange because of her bobbed hair and straight gingham dress, Draga put on her Macedonian garments. The embroidery on her tunic was of an ancient pattern called ‘Marko, the King’s Son,’ so named in honor of the Serbian prince, Marko, the national hero of chivalry and romance, who had lost a crown rather than tell a lie. His home had been in Macedonia over five hundred years before Draga’s time, but ‘Marko’s pattern’ had been handed down from one generation of Serbian women to another, each proud to wear it, as Draga was to-day. The sleeveless jacket which she wore over her tunic was of a clear red, like the peppers strung against the white walls of her home; and wound around her waist was a rope of black wool to keep her brilliant girdle in place.

Behind the school playground there was a high brick wall with a small green door. It led into a quiet, neglected garden like a scene from a book. There was a well in the center; gourds and spiked flowers, purple and white, grew in the rank grass, and crooked plum trees traced blue shadows on the walls which shut the garden away from the clatter of the streets. This was the paradise of a large family of rabbits, and when Draga felt homesick she slipped away to feed them with scraps of red peppers, which she begged from the cook; for all Macedonians down to the rabbits love peppers.

Draga had begun to feel the charm of order and cleanliness, but she missed the animals which were a part of the family at home, and which she had fed and cared for all her life. She was torn between a longing to go back to her home and a real love for the life in school. Her examination marks would decide which it was to be. Of her Serbian studies she felt fairly sure. It was the strange English language that staggered her--its incomprehensible verbs, its spelling without a clue. Some of the Serbian girls spoke it well, and from them she learned more than from her books. The queer names for food and clothes and the objects in the schoolroom she was beginning to master.

[Illustration: STRINGING PEPPERS]

While the rabbits were nibbling their peppers someone came running to the green door. ‘Draga, your father and mother are here!’

Her mother bent over her, enveloped her in the soft white folds of her headdress, and smothered her with kisses. ‘Oh, what a clever girl to pass in everything, even the strange English!’ she whispered, and her father’s eyes shone proudly upon her.

Suddenly Draga knew how glad she was to stay, how proud that she could hold her place among the other girls; and she realized that her parents too, as much as they missed her, would rather leave her than take her back. Together they were all working for the future.

THE TRUCE

When Rastem was born his father hung a gun and a cartridge belt on the wall for him. There they were to stay until Rastem was fourteen years old, when he would take them down himself and wear the belt and carry the gun for the first time. Meanwhile, he began his life in a little painted cradle, into which his mother strapped him so tightly that he could move neither legs, arms nor head, but lay like a little mummy, completely covered with a rough homespun blanket.

Rastem lived in Albania, the land of the mountain eagle. His home was in a strange old town perched so high on a mountain-top that the clouds hung over it like a dark flat roof so that the cocks crowed all day, as they do when calling the hens to shelter from a storm.

Rastem’s father was a well-to-do man, and the family lived in a pleasant house the plastered walls of which were painted with birds and foliage. There were many slatted windows and a cheery tiled roof with broad eaves.

Next door to Rastem lived Marko, a boy of about his own age. Though their families never visited each other, and though the gate between the two yards was kept locked, the two little boys had discovered one another as soon as they began to walk; and gazing through the openings in the fence of woven branches that separated them, they had quickly come to an understanding. Later on, they worried a passage under the hedge through which they crawled freely to pass long hours of play together. They did not understand why at first Marko was scowled at when he went to Rastem’s house and Rastem was scowled at when he went to Marko’s house; but as neither of the boys was contented long without the other, their elders soon let them go and come as they liked.

When they grew older and mingled with other children they found out what the trouble was. Between the two families there was what in Albania is called a blood feud; that is, someone in Marko’s family had shot someone in Rastem’s family during a quarrel, and had killed him. It had happened a long time before. The man who had shot the other had fled to a foreign country and his children had grown up there; but until someone in Rastem’s family shot a man in Marko’s family the feud could not end, nor was the honor of Rastem’s family clear.

That old quarrel of the grown people seemed a far-off, foolish thing to the boys, and no concern of theirs. They looked into each other’s eyes and grinned in perfect comradeship when the larger boys urged them to fight it out together. There was too much fun to be had out of life to waste time in quarreling; and Kruja, that strange old town, was not a bad place to grow up in. Its one long, curving street, which skirted the mountain-side like a tail, was crowded with open booths and was so narrow that the roofs met overhead. Here on market days were the clack and tap of little hoofs as the donkeys pushed through the crowd with broad loads of hides and wood or with saddlebags stuffed with lambs or a baby or two. And there the coppersmiths beat out trays and water pots before one’s eyes. The shoemakers cut the delicately curved slippers from scarlet or orange or black leather, the hatters shaped a white or red fez over a block of wood, and artificers in silver polished pistol handles as thickly set with bright stones as a plum pudding is with raisins.

There was also the barber, a white bearded Turk in a heavy turban and a robe of gold-colored silk, sitting on green cushions amid basins and jars of polished copper. Then, too, there was the amusing Mohammedan who called to prayer from the white minaret. He came at certain hours into the tiny balcony that swung out under the spiked roof of the minaret, took hold of his ears in a comical manner and uttered a harsh and dismal shout, which was echoed by the wall of rock behind him.

Far above the point of the minaret towered a cliff, on the summit of which a battered castle with one square tower was blocked against the sky. There were strange tales about the castle, which Rastem learned when he began to grow up, and here the boys played at the game of defending the castle against the Turks, sending stones thundering into the depths of the ravine below as their ancestors had done in the days of Skanderbeg, when the Turks had conquered the country, to rule it cruelly for hundreds of years, until at last, through the great War, Albania regained her freedom.

The boys realized dimly that something glorious had happened; but they did not know how great a change had come over their country, for life in Kruja had not changed much since the war, except to grow harder. Every one was poor and wore old clothes, which was a hardship for the Albanians, who love their gorgeous costumes. Fortunately they have strong homespun, which lasts for years. Rastem wore trousers of rough white woolen material braided with black, a Skanderbeg jacket, and sandals of cowhide.

A few days before Rastem’s fourteenth birthday his father found him looking longingly at the gun on the wall. ‘I am sorry, Rastem,’ he said gravely, ‘that you and Marko are such friends. It can bring you nothing but sorrow.’

‘Why sorrow?’ asked Rastem, startled.

‘Why? Because of the feud between us,’ said his father. ‘It rests with you to clear the family honor. You don’t take it seriously now, but when you and Marko are men, either you will shoot him or he will shoot you.’

‘Shoot Marko? Never!’ exclaimed Rastem with flaming cheeks and eyes.

‘It is the law of your country and your tribe. You cannot change it,’ said his father; ‘it is written in the Canon of Lek.’ And he left the room.

Rastem was angry and excited. All the pleasure in his gun was gone.

In order to get away from the sight of it, he went into his mother’s room. It was a homelike place. The wooden ceiling was painted green, with bunches of flowers. There was a warm-colored rug on the floor, and a divan covered with carpets ran the length of one side, under a row of latticed windows. In the little open cupboards in the walls Rastem’s mother kept spices and perfumes and sweets. There were no chairs, but two sides of the room were skirted by a low platform of brickwork, over which were spread mats and cushions. On the bricks stood a brazier of glowing coals. Rastem sat down cross-legged and spread his hands to the warmth. The room was fragrant and drowsy. Outside, the rain slapped against the window and a mass of cloud surging up from the valley blotted out the world.

[Illustration: RASTEM AND MARKO]

The boy was very wretched. He had been taught to do many things that seem strange to us, but were quite right to him, such as taking off his shoes when he entered a house, keeping his hat on at the table, and eating his mutton and rice with his fingers. So when he was told by his father that he must shoot his best friend he had a sickening fear that after all he might be forced to do it if he could not find a way out.

‘Skanderbeg kept his sword for his enemies,’ he reasoned, ‘not for his friends.’ Now that Albania was at last free from the Turks, it would be a fine thing indeed for Albanians to begin to kill one another! It was unthinkable that he should shoot Marko. He _must_ find a way out!

There were the two men from Tirana and Kruja, he pondered. They had had a feud, but they had sworn a _besa_ or truce for six weeks, in order to carry out a cattle deal; and they had laughed together and visited like good friends. To be sure, when the six weeks were up, they had shot at each other and one of them had lost two fingers. Why had they not done business and enjoyed each other for a longer _besa_?

And then an idea came to Rastem! He struck his hands together and rushed out of the house. ‘Marko!’ he called, tearing at the gate. And Marko met him halfway, under the big olive tree.

‘Look here, Marko,’ said Rastem, ‘why can’t we end this feud, not by shooting each other, but by swearing a _besa_ for the rest of our lives? The old quarrel isn’t our affair, but the _besa will be_, and we’ve got to keep it. So long as we do, no one can hurt us.’

‘So long as we keep the _besa_, no one can hurt us,’ repeated Marko slowly. ‘Why, of course! Why did we never think of that, Rastem?’ he cried, excitedly.

Under the olive tree, the two boys clasped hands and swore eternal friendship while far above them two mountain eagles circled slowly on flat wings round the Skanderbeg tower, and through the breaking clouds the Adriatic gleamed like a streak of silver on the horizon.

THE SKANDERBEG JACKET

Five hundred years ago a boy named George Kastriota leaned over the wall of his father’s castle and peered into the depths of the gorge below. He could see a little white goat far down, just above the line of mist that hid the bottom of the chasm. She was cropping the fresh leaves of a bush, which had taken root in a cracked rock. George watched her, fascinated. Would she try to come higher? Yes, she did. At least she raised her head. But when she saw the wall of sheer stone that rose above her, she flicked her tail and bounded downward instead. George laughed, and shouted back to his brothers, who were playing in the courtyard, that not even a goat could scale the walls! There was a merry romping troop of children in the castle. How safe they felt up there under the sky!

Their father was a Prince of the Albanian mountain tribes who call themselves ‘Men of the Eagles.’ His fortress stood on the Rock of Kruja, with the mountain dropping steeply from it. Only on one side a rugged path led up to the gateway. Over this went and came a stream of wiry mountain ponies and their riders, bringing provisions and arms and messages to the inmates of the castle.

Most of them wore short jackets of rough white wool with tight sleeves to the elbow, large white pompons in front of their shoulders, and square collars with fringe, which hung to their waists behind. When it rained heavily, as it often does on the Rock, they drew the heavy collars over their heads, crossing the fringe and holding it firmly between their teeth. This left both hands free for weapons, and weapons were needed in those days. Prince Kastriota was away fighting most of the time, and with him the Men of the Eagles, trying to press back the Turks who more and more were mastering the country.

But the people in the castle felt safe, though they knew there were enemies in the land. George and his brothers and sisters often played at defending the fortress, dropping stones over the wall and listening to hear them thud in the depths, or they amused themselves by looking down on the village people as they gathered around the great ‘Kruja,’ or fountain, with their water pots, and stopped to talk about the army of Turks who were conquering the lowlands.

[Illustration: AN ALBANIAN STORY-TELLER]

At one corner of the castle a great tower of white stone stood out against the background of gray rock. This was the watch-tower. From it the young Kastriotas could see clear across Albania, from the sharp mountains, over the hot plain and the steaming marshes to the sea, which seemed to lie forever in sunshine, no matter how dark it might be on the Rock.

Every road and trail was visible from the tower, for the mountains were bare, except where olive groves had been planted just below the castle. For miles around no enemy could approach unseen. Sometimes the watchers saw dark patches moving across the plain, and knew that they were troops of Turkish soldiers.

So things went for years. At last when George was nine years old, a terrible thing happened. The dark patches grew larger and came closer, until the people of the castle, looking anxiously over the wall, could see bands of Turkish cavalry driving the Men of the Eagles before them toward the mountains. On they came, until Prince Kastriota, riding hard with only a handful of men, reached the castle to tell his family that Albania was lost, and that he should have to make such terms as he could with the Turks; it was useless to try to hold the castle against them.

The Sultan agreed to let the Prince go on living in the castle at Kruja, but he would have to give up his four sons as hostages, and the Albanians would have to pay a yearly tribute.

Kastriota took his boys aside and explained to them what it meant to be a hostage; that so long as he, their father, did not rebel against the Sultan, the boys were safe, but if there should be an uprising in Albania they would be put to death; also, that if they did not obey the Sultan and keep faith with him, the Men of the Eagles would be made to suffer. The boys bravely promised to play the game, but it must have been a sad day at Kruja when the Sultan rode away with his young captives.

The boys were treated honorably; they were given fine horses, and perhaps they enjoyed much of the journey, for they were used to hard travel in the saddle, and did not tire easily. Once beyond the barrier of their own mountains, they crossed the great tableland of Macedonia, more open than any country they had known, where firm roads made by the Romans centuries before led past cities and castles, and by beautiful churches and convents built by Bulgarians and Serbs, but now all under the hand of the Turk.

At last they entered Thrace and came to Adrianople, where the Sultan lived--if you wish to look for it on the map you will find it south of Bulgaria. The palace at Adrianople was very different from the castle at Kruja. It stood on the hot plain instead of among the cool mountains, and it was filled with a soft luxury that did not exist in the home on the Rock. It was beautiful with marbles and mosaics, with gardens and fountains. There were rugs and hangings, silks and perfumes such as George had never before known.

George was a kind, brave boy, quick to learn. He won the heart of the Sultan, who was kind to him and brought him up with his own children. He never forgot his parents on the dear Rock, but since he was only nine years old when he was taken as a hostage, he soon lost his homesickness and began to make friends about him. The Sultan gave him a new name, Skanderbeg, from _Skander_, which means Alexander, because the mother of Alexander the Great had been an Albanian, and _beg_ or prince, because he was of high rank.

So Skanderbeg began his new life. He learned to ride and hunt and fight. When he was eighteen years old the Sultan put him in command of an army and sent him into Asia Minor, which, you will see, is not far from Adrianople.

Perhaps Skanderbeg would always have remained the Sultan’s friend if his brothers had been treated kindly. But when his father, John Kastriota, died, the Sultan poisoned all three of them and annexed Albania to his empire. After that, Skanderbeg went about with an angry heart under his armor, and when the Sultan had a new war on his hands and sent the young captain to fight the Hungarians, he looked for his chance to escape.

He had no quarrel with the Hungarians. All he wanted was to be free; free to go back to his own people, whom he now knew to be unhappy and oppressed. He wanted to escape from the soft life of Adrianople and to be back in Albania among the rocks and the Men of the Eagles in their white jackets, helping them to regain their freedom. In his army there were many Albanians who, like him, had been taken to Turkey as prisoners and made to fight for the Sultan. These men joined Skanderbeg, and together they escaped across Serbia and through the dangerous mountain passes into Albania.

The people came down from the mountains and flocked to Skanderbeg. The Turks were driven out of the country and for twenty-five years--as long as Skanderbeg lived--Albania was free.