by and each turned towards the rocky track that led to his own lonely dwelling.

6

Coming, coming!' cried a man, and burst out laughing. And alowly, last of all the throng, came Hil, leading a donkey.

Drana stood dumb with amazement. Hil came straight into the hovel, bringing the donkey with him.

'What a beautiful donkey!' cried Gjoko. Whose is it, Bab?' 'Mine,' said Hil.

Did you steal it from the Turks, Bab, instead of the old one?' 'It was given me,' said Hil solemnly.

'Given! given !!' almost screamed Drana.

donkeys? God! it is a miracle!'

'Who gives

She touched the donkey tentatively, as though to learn if it were real. And the donkey wagged its ears.

'It was a yabandjee (stranger) woman gave it to me began Hil.

'The Blessed Virgin herself!' said Drana, and crossed herself.

And

'Who knows?' said Hil; there was a great crowd. Consuls and officers and all the people of the town. We all went to the Konak. There were more than two thousand tribesmen there, all firing at once-martinkas and altipatlers (revolvers). I never saw anything so beautiful. But it was very hot, and as we were coming away, I fell by the roadside. And a yabandjee woman, with a dragoman, gave me water. And she asked about me. I told her everything-how my brother was shot, and the donkey stolen, and the pig died, and the charcoal and the fever and the drought. Then I went to the Cathedral grounds with the others and we had as much as we could eat-bread and water-melons and rakia! And tobacco!! Besa bes, it is the first time I have had my belly full since the donkey was stolen. And in the evening when we were making ready to start, came the dragoman with this donkey, and the pack-saddle, and the halter, and said the yabandjee woman sent it me—and two silver medjids!'-Drana gasped-' and I bought a candle and lit it in the Cathedral, for this is the work of some blessed Saint.'

'But we are excommunicated!' said Drana.

'How should the Blessed Virgin in Scutari know that the Padre up here has excommunicated us? And I bought some maize, and some salt and some coffee and some sugar!'

One after another Hil extracted the parcels from a sack on the

donkey- and we must take good care of the donkey, the dragoman said, or the yabandjee woman will be angry.'

'God forbid!' cried Drana, at last finding voice; and are the Turks gone?'

'It is Korstituzi,' said Hil solemnly. All the prisoners are set free. And we have got a donkey.'

III.

With the autumn came rain. The wells were filled, the springs flowed. Juicy green herbage sprang up between the rocks.

Folk in Scutari began to buy wood and charcoal for the winter. Hil, Drana, and the donkey worked hard. Sometimes they earned as much as ten shillings in a month. They were never, now, without enough maize and salt to live on. Sometimes they had a little

coffee too.

Hil threw off the fever. Gjoko picked up strength.

All through the winter evenings folk hobnobbed together round the hearth. And most of all they talked of Korstituzi. It would make a railroad, some said, and schools, and roads. There would be work for everyone-and heaps of food and money. No more toiling over the rocks to earn a few pence.

But the winter passed and the Turks had not yet gone nor shown any signs of going. No foreign king had come, and things went on the same as before.

'I told you it was a trick,' said the old bairaktar; the Postripa Moslems are as bad as ever. They swear Lulash has stolen a goat. He has not. We all know he has sworn his innocence on the altar along with five witnesses. But he cannot go to Scutari now or they will arrest him. And he is innocent. This is Korstituzi! We were fools to go to Scutari and feast and fire our rifles. It was a wedding without a bride!'

But Hil and Drana recked little of Korstituzi. They cherished the donkey. Hil padded the pack-saddle with sheep-wool lest it should rub sores, and the yabandjee woman or the Blessed Virgin be wroth. He made a great stack of dry beech-leaves for winter fodder, and when the snow came the donkey shared the hovel and roasted his sides pleasantly by the hearth.

With a donkey everything seemed possible. Hil borrowed money for maize to sow his little field and was slowly paying off the debt.

Some day he might even save up enough money to buy an old Martini and feel a man again.

Nor did anyone, indeed, take interest in outside politics that did not affect the tribe.

Then one day came news that rang through the mountains. The Turks were demanding tax.

The bairaktar called a medjliss (parliament) on urgent business. Never, in all time, had the tribe been asked for taxes. The towns and the richer villages of the plains had paid for years. No roads nor public works had ever resulted, but Vali after Vali retired with his pockets well lined. But, hitherto, the mountains, where most folk wrung but a bare living from the rocks, had been free.

Now, one franc a year was asked for each sheep and goat, and a tenth part of each scanty corn crop was to go to the Government. No one in Hil's mountains could grow maize enough to live. Few who had sheep and goats could afford to drink their milk. It was all made into white curd-cheese and sold in Scutari to buy maize and salt. Most of the tribe lived almost entirely on this and the salt whey they squeezed from the cheese.

Rakia they distilled from such vines as they grew, or from wild plums. For life on such low diet is hardly possible without stimulants, and for this reason they bought coffee whenever they had a few spare pence.

'This is Korstituzi!' said the bairaktar. What have these devils ever done for us? Never a road have they made in all the mountains! Never a school in the land have they made for our children! Now they want our money to buy gold braid for their officers and guns to kill us with. How can we pay them? I am bairaktar, and I have not tasted meat since St. Nikola. Coffee They leave us to starve like dogs, and then Till they do something for us, we will do nothing for them!' He took the rosary from his belt and held up the cross that hung from it. By this cross, I swear that I will never pay money for Pashas to grow fat upon!'

I have only for guests. ask for our money!

A yell of applause followed. Head after head swore, and all the tribe was united.

Time passed and nothing happened. There were other and richer districts from which money could be raised, and the Government did not think it worth while to send a battalion of soldiers to the mountains in order to collect a few pounds.

Hil and Drana did not trouble themselves. They had no sheep

or goats and there was no tax on donkeys. As for their tiny maize erop, they had harvested it and stored it for the winter, and were simple enough to imagine that the tax could only be paid in kind and that the maize was quite safe.

In another week Hil would have paid off the debt on his maize and would begin to save up for a Martini. Drana helped him load the donkey and he went off cheerfully.

As he entered the town a police officer cried to him: Oy, you! Stop there. What's your name?'

'Hil Marku.'

The officer noted it. 'What tribe?"

Hil hesitated.

'He's from Shlaku,' said a big zaptieh; I know him.'

Shlaku,' said the officer, 'h'm-one of the men we want for taxes.' He spoke to the zaptieh next him. Then he shouted to another approaching peasant.

Hil drove on his donkey to the charcoal bazaar with a gasp of relief. He had escaped. But he had been badly frightened. He sold his charcoal in a great hurry, hardly waiting to bargain. Then he paid the last piastres of his debt, bought twopenn'orth of salt, and started at once to return to the mountains.

'Hil, moré!' cried a woman who knew him, 'don't go by the karakol (police station)—they are arresting men for this cursed tax. Five Zadrima men have I seen taken.'

A cold terror seized Hil. More than ever he felt the loss of his Martini. He was unarmed, helpless. He turned down a side alley and hurried for the stony waste of the dry river-bed. across that he would find cover and get away safely.

Once

He walked quickly, and the donkey, burdened by no pack, trotted gaily beside him.

They were already clattering on the stones when a voice of command rang out-Halt!'

A zaptieh-the one who had recognised Hil at the entrance of the town-descended from the bank and stood in his path.

Hil gazed wildly round. Flight was impossible. It would have been followed at once by a bullet.

'Where are you off to, so fast?' asked the zaptieh.

'Home,' said Hil.

'You've got to pay your tax first. It's twenty-three piastres (3s. 4d.). You've sold your stuff '-he pointed to the donkey's empty pack-saddle-' and now you can pay up.'

'Twenty-three piastres!' gasped Hil-' twenty-three piastres! Twenty-three piastres,' shouted the zaptieh; 'don't you understand Albanian? Twenty-three! twenty-three !!'

'I tell you I haven't twenty-three piastres in the world,' said poor Hil. He fished under his shirt and pulled out the dirty little bag that hung round his neck together with an amulet against the evil eye.

'Look!' he said, and counted out the few battered metaliks (halfpennies) it contained.

The zaptieh laughed. 'Where's the money you sold your stuff for?'

'I owed it already,' said poor Hil. I tell you we can't grow enough maize for ourselves. How can I give any to the Pasha? 'We've heard that tale too often,' said the zaptieh; none of you tribesmen have enough to eat, if one's to believe you. At any rate you can afford a fine donkey, and that's worth more than the tax any day. If you are quite sure you won't pay, I'll take the donkey.'

As he spoke he took hold of the halter of the donkey, which was standing quietly by, and pulled it.

Hil's world crashed to pieces around him. Nothing so terrible as the loss of his donkey had ever presented itself to his mind. It was his life, and Drana's, and Gjoko's, their present, their future, their only hope.

Blank terror seized him and turned him into a cringing suppliant. He prayed, he implored for mercy, pouring out a mixed torrent of entreaty to the zaptieh, and all his Saints. He offered all he had with him—his old knife, the salt, his few halfpence—he would bring firewood next week-or charcoal-he would

The zaptieh, a big fair Bosniak, laughed loudly at the unhappy little man. 'All right,' he said teasingly, bring a whole bazarful of charcoal next week and pay up. And then you shall have the donkey back. We shall keep it, in case you forget. And the gooner you pay the better for you. For the donkey will be put up at the han and you'll have to pay sixpence a day for its keep. Goodbye-pleasant journey!'

He pulled the donkey, and turned to go. But the donkey planted all its four feet firmly and wagged its ears questioningly at Hil.

The zaptieh twisted the halter two or three times round his hand and wrist and tugged.