Seeing us dismounted, the gipsies underwent a subtle mental change peculiar to all barbarous people.  To the gipsy and the cossack, and all people mainly dependent on the horse, to be mounted is to signify participation in affairs.  To be dismounted means to stand aside and “let George do it.”

Gregor Jhaere became a different man.  He grew noisy and in response to his yelped commands they swooped in unprovoked attack on our unhappy muleteers.  Before we could interfere they had thrown each Turk face downward, our Zeitoonli helping, and were searching them with swift intruding fingers for knives, pistols, money.

The Turk leaves his money behind when starting on a journey at some other man’s expense; but they did draw forth a most astonishing assortment of weapons.  They were experts in disarmament.  Maga Jhaere lost interest in Will for a moment, and pricked her stallion to a place where she could judge the assortment better.  Without any hesitation she ordered one of the old women to pass up to her a mother-o’-pearl ornamented Smith & Wesson, which she promptly hid in her bosom.  Judging by the sounds he made, that pistol was the apple of Ibrahim’s old eye, but he had seen the last of it.  When we interfered, and he could get to her stirrup to demand it back, Maga spat in his face; which was all about it, except that Monty made generous allowance for the thing when paying the reckoning presently.  As our servants, those Turks were, of course, entitled to our protection, and besides that weapon we had to pay for five knives that were gone beyond hope of recovery.

Monty paid our Turks off (for it was evident that even had they been willing they would not have been allowed to proceed with us another mile).  Then, as Ibrahim mounted and marshaled his party in front of him, he forgot manners as well as the liberal payment.

“Mashallah!” (God be praised!) he shouted, with the slobber of excitement on his lips and beard.  “Now I go to make Armenians pay for this!  Let the shapkali,* too, avoid me!  Ya Ali, ya Mahoma, Alahu!” (Oh, Ali, oh, Mahomet, God is God!)

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* Shapkali—­hatted man-foreigner.
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“Let’s hope they haven’t a spark of honesty!” said Monty cryptically, watching them canter away.

“Why on earth—?”

“Let’s hope they ride back to the consul and swear they haven’t received one piaster of their pay.  That would let him know we’re clear away!”

“Optimist!” jeered Will.  “That consul’s a Britisher.  He’d take their lie literally, and deduce we’re no good!”

For the moment the girl on the gray stallion had ridden away from Will and was giving regal orders to the mob of women and shrill children, who obeyed her as if well used to it.  Gregor Jhaere and his men stood staring at us, Gregor shaking his head as if our letting the Turks go free had been a bad stroke of policy.

“Aren’t you afraid to travel with all that mob of women and cattle?” asked Monty.  “We’ve heard of robbers on the road.”