“It is nothing,” said the adjutant.  “They become excited like this very often.”

But I noticed our escort closing in, and every man’s face wore a look of great interest.  Still we rode on, just as if nothing unusual were happening.

To our left the hill ascended to a great height, and about one-third of the way up a belt of trees commenced, stretching to the top.  Towards this wood ran hundreds of Albanians, and disappeared from view.  I confess that I had a most uncomfortable feeling that I was being covered by many unseen rifles.  We should have stood a poor chance had they begun firing at us, for there was practically no cover near.

But our pace, that of a smart walk, neither increased nor decreased, and it ill became me to show my innermost feelings to these fearless mountaineers who so evidently considered this sudden excitement a most everyday occurrence.

The noise of the shouting, however, continued, and was answered by men in all directions.  It was a regular pandemonium of yelling fiends, for the Albanians are not beautiful to look upon.

Suddenly a man appeared from some bushes close to our little party and headed straight for us, running like a deer.

He had barely reached us and seized my stirrup leather, on which he hung, panting heavily, when from the woods emerged a pursuing crowd, brandishing their rifles as they ran.  Within a few minutes we were surrounded by about a hundred and fifty Albanians, whose gestures were not to be misunderstood.

They wanted to kill the man at my stirrup, who looked beseechingly up to me for protection.  Why he selected me I have no idea, and I did not relish the compliment at all.  Our escort formed a meagre ring around us, and we were forced to halt.

“Are they going to shoot?” I asked the adjutant, who was next to me, in excusable excitement, “because if so, I would like to dismount.”

It was not a pleasant feeling, perched up on a horse within fifty yards of reputed good marksmen.

“Oh no,” answered the officer, “they only want the man, not you.”

“Still, you are not going to hand back the man, are you?” I asked in Italian.

“We must hear what the Voivoda says,” said the adjutant, shrugging his shoulders.

I looked at the man, while an excited conversation was carried on by our party and the Albanians, and found him a pleasant-looking young man; his breath was coming in great gasps from his heaving breast, but otherwise he showed no traces of excitement.

“Save me,” he said in broken Serb.  “They fired at me as I was working in my field.  I am blood-guilty.”

All this time his pursuers were evidently debating if our lives must be sacrificed as well, for to shoot the man meant killing some of us at any rate.

At this juncture several Albanians came to us and ranged themselves on our side, and amidst still greater excitement we began again moving forward.