The British consul had taken up his quarters at the “Maison Piget.”  The house was gated, as are all Albanian houses, but this gate was like an old feudal portal.  The doors were wonderfully carved and were opened by our old friend the Wolf.  We had thought him to be a servant of Suma’s, but it appeared that he belonged to the British Empire.

The house was crammed full of arms:  a little cannon threatened us on the stairway, swords, claymores, creeses, falchions, scimitars, glaives, dirks, and yatagans were nailed on all the walls, and there were muskets of every sort and size, heavy arquebuses from the north and gas-pipe guns and Arab horsemen firelocks with polished stocks like the handle of a corkscrew, all inlaid with gold, silver, and mother-of-pearl.

“Yes,” said the consul, gazing reflectively, “he had a taste for weapons.  And also for old cookery books.”

The consul said that he thought that there was a boat at San Giovanni.  We cheered, for our luck seemed to be holding, and while he went off to the Italian consul we went to the governor to beg for transport.  Neither consul nor governor was in, but we caught the Italian consul in the afternoon.  He admitted that there was a boat, but warned us that it was no nosegay.  He said that two Frenchmen who had thought of taking it had sent him back a telegram which had quite unnerved him.

“Et je n’ai jamais dit qu’elle etait une Transatlantique,” he said, waving his arms.

He said that the archbishop had told him that a party of English had come into the town last night, “en haillons,” but that he had not believed it possible.  However, he had seen two of us in the street that morning, and had realized that it was true.

We said that any boat would do.  He warned us of the danger of submarines.

At the consul’s house we found the captain of the Miridites awaiting us.  He was a heavy-looking man with European clothes and a fez.  After the ceremonious coffee he made a set speech, saying that he was paying his duties to the great British Empire, and that England was their only hope.  The consul sat rather wishing that he wouldn’t, and that his servant had said that he was not at home.  In common with most of the Christian rulers of Albania this gentleman seemed to have spent most of his time in exile.

Returning to the hotel Jan found that Jo had been purchasing, and he dragged her and Miss Brindley off to see the archbishop.  The cathedral still carries the scars of the first bombardment.  The archbishop, a large flat man, gave us each a hand as though he expected us to kiss it; he had a huge archiepispocal ring and a lot of imperiosity.  He seemed more political than bishopy, though most of the Churchmen are; and there is the tale of one who said, “I would rather people went to drill than to church.”  There were a lot of wealthy looking Albanians sitting round and being respectable.  The archbishop spoke