“I have got you an armed policeman as escort,” he said, waving the papers, “and the boy has a good horse, twenty pounds in gold, and twenty in silver.”

We found the boy waiting with the carriages.  He wore a strange little brown cashmere Norfolk jersey and very superior black riding breeches.  Dressed more romantically he would have made an ideal Prince for an Arabian Nights’ story.  His father accompanied us until our Albanian guide announced—­

“Here begins the carriage road.”

Their parting must have been a hard thing.  The father could not tell how his son’s expedition would end, and the son was leaving his father to an unknown fate.  They embraced, smiling cheerily, and the boy rode on ahead of us all, blowing his nose and cursing his horse.

In many places the “carriage road” was no road at all.  The carts lurched and bumped over rivers, boulders, fields, and the inevitable mud.  Several times we had to jump on our carts as they dragged us over deep and rapid rivers.  After three hours we stopped at a farm, our mounted policeman called out the owners and autocratically ordered two of the young men to accompany us as guides and guards.

They came, bearing their guns, white fezzed, white clothed, black braided youths with shaven polls and flashing teeth.  We began to climb, and for hours and hours we toiled upwards.  The carriages lumbered painfully far behind us, led by their elderly and panting drivers.

“If this is what they call a good and easy road,” we thought, “it would have been better to harness four horses to each cart, and to have left five carts behind.”

The horses came from the plain of Chabatz, and had probably never seen a hill in their lives.

“These horses will die,” said the corporal; but he seemed more interested in hunting for water for himself than in the struggles of the poor beasts.

One of our Albanian guides was overwhelmed with the beauty of Cutting’s silver-plated revolver.

“How much did you pay for it?”

“Thirty francs,” said Cutting, shooting at the scenery.

Jan produced his automatic, but the Albanian scorned it as one would turn from a lark to a bird of Paradise.  He turned the glittering object over lovingly, thought, felt in his pockets, drew out a green and red knitted purse, and shook his head.

“I will give you thirty francs.”

But Cutting wasn’t on the bargain.  He pocketed the treasure again, and we plodded on.

“How far are we from Tutigne?” we asked.

“Four hours,” said a dignified Albanian, who had joined our party.

“No, two hours,” said another.

“Three at most,” corrected a third.

The first man lifted his hand.  “I say four hours, and it is four hours.  With such horses as these we crawl.”

We reached a desolate tableland at dusk.  Here the horses halted for some while.  With the halt came a sudden desire to stay there for good.  It seemed as if we should never reach Tutigne.  The evening brought with it chilly damp breezes, and the footsore company was getting quite disheartened.