They ascended the valley of the river which may be called the Vida, as the exact locality must be held a secret. The track was a mere bridle-path, and on the steep side of the mountains. Far below, the river rushed and gurgled in the ravine, and above the rocks rose up almost perpendicular to the distant summit. A slip on that track meant death. Ronald had ordered the two Bulgars who were walking to go one in front and one behind Doris, though she was a splendid horsewoman, while Radko led, followed by Ronald. Darkness was coming on, and the wind howled down the defile.
Here occurred an incident destined to have consequences none of them could foresee. Radko’s horse stepped on a sharp stone, and reared up. One foot was over the edge, and a shower of small stones poured down the mountain-side, tumbling and rolling to the distant river. Ronald leapt from his horse, and seized Radko’s mount by the tail, tugging with all his great strength. It was the work of a moment. The horse regained his balance and remained still, sweating and trembling. Radko turned in his saddle, quite unperturbed.
“You have saved my life. I shall not forget it, Gospodin,” he said quietly.
That night they camped in a little bay in the mountain-side, sheltered from the worst of the wind. The primus stove was the only means of heating, round which they huddled. The hardy Bulgarians munched in silence and drank their coffee, with which Ronald mixed a stiff dose of cognac. The madness of the whole expedition caused Ronald misgivings, but, to his intense relief, in spite of the discomfort the Gorringes seemed to regard it as a great joke.
Smart had become silent during the last few days. He accepted the orders without giving advice, and was the handy-man of the party. There was little sleep that night; the cold and the wind making it impossible, though the rain had ceased. Ralph and his sister, propped against a rock, were covered up with one blanket, huddled together for warmth. At dawn Ronald rose and lit his pipe; he felt stiff and cramped. A dîrn figure showed in the morning mist, and Ronald strolled over to where Radko was gazing up at the mountains above them.
“I have examined the path,” he said in his quaint dialect. “A little further on it has crumbled away. We cannot go on.”
“What’s to be done?”
Radko turned his sombre bearded face to Ronald.
“Yesterday, I should have said, ‘Go back; there is no use in going on.’ But you are brave, and strong. I do not ask where you are going — or for what purpose. I take your pay. I will do what you ask.”
Ronald knew this was his way of referring to the incident of the day before. He felt he must take this man further into his confidence.
“We are searching for some friends who were lost on these mountains a few months ago,” he said. “We know they came this way, but where they have gone we have to discover.”
The Bulgarian’s face clouded over. “Many years ago, before the War of Liberation, when we drove the Turks to the Chatalja lines and would have taken Stamboul, but for the orders of Russia,” — he frowned deeply at the recollection — “I was in these mountains with a band of patriots, driven here by the Turks.” He spat viciously on the ground. “I know this place. I could have led you straight to one of the ‘bands’ who are still here, and you would never have been heard of again. That is probably what has happened to your friends. But — after yesterday — I am grateful. I will serve you better.
“There is a track, very steep and difficult, to the top of that hill, and we can rejoin the path further on, if that is where you are going?”
The Bulgarian looked at Ronald expectantly.
“We have a map which indicated the route to a certain point. Beyond that, we must search.” Something in the face of the Bulgarian — a look almost of contempt — made him stop. He offered his tobacco-pouch to the other, who accepted it with a slight bow.
Radko sat down on a rock and slowly filled his pipe.
“What made you come to these hills?” Ronald asked him.
The other gave a rough noise which might be taken for scorn or amusement. “If it interests you, Gospodin . . . It is common enough in our country. My father was rich — as we count riches here — he was the head man of the village down yonder in Macedonia. He had married an Armenian, and grew good tobacco crops. One day the Turks came. Most of the villagers fled in time, but my mother was sick, and my father was out in the hills. He came back, not knowing.” Radko’s face assumed an evil expression. “They shot him at his door; but first showed him his wife and daughters, my sisters, who had been violated and killed. They cut my throat,” — he lifted his shaggy beard and showed a dreadful scar across his throat, almost from ear to ear. “They left me for dead, and burnt the village. When the people came back they found me, and nursed me to life again, and I heard the story. I was twelve years old then. As soon as I had recovered I took to the hills at Nevrekop, and joined a band of Comitadjis. I think I have taken revenge for the deaths of my family . . .” A grim smile twisted his face. “And my father had been saving his money to send me to Robert College, to be trained as a doctor,” he said bitterly.
“A dreadful story!” Ronald said, with a shudder.
“It is common enough here, Gospodin. And you English think we are a race of savages and murderers. Oh, yes, I have talked with many English, when you were at Salonique after the war.”
“So you know these parts?” Ronald asked, wondering why the silent man had told him his story.
Radko looked strangely at him. “It would be better to trust me,” he said. “Years ago — many years — I heard strange tales about a certain valley among these mountains, a secret valley where things are done perhaps worse than even the atrocities the Turks committed. It seems to me that you are seeking for the valley. Perhaps I am foolish and guessing?”
Ronald was startled at the man. “I will trust you. We are trying to find that place, if it exists.” He watched the inscrutable bearded face.
“To-day I will help you. Do you perhaps know an Italian, a bad man named Ganzani?”
Ronald gripped the other’s arm in his excitement, but Radko remained rigid and immovable. “Nay, I will say no more. I keep faith, but you have told me by your face. I say to you — Turn back and go no further. Only with an army could you get there, and then only by torturing one who knows the way. Money could not buy the secret.”
Ronald was alarmed — the safety of others was at stake, especially of Doris. In the wild hills he realised more than ever the hazardous nature of their search.
Radko put his hand to his great red sash and drew out a beautifully chiselled knife-case. He drew the murderous-looking weapon from its sheath, and handed it to Ronald, saying simply, “In gratitude for my life, Gospodin.” The act was that of a cultured gentleman.
Ronald thought of anything he could possibly give in return, and suddenly remembered he had one of those combination-handles which contain all sorts of tools, gimlets and so on. He fetched it from his pocket and handed it gravely to Radko, who bowed ceremoniously. They wandered back to the group round the primus stove. Breakfast had been cooked and the steaming-hot coffee took the chill from their bones.
Ronald glanced at the Bulgarians gathered round Radko, who was proudly showing them the gift, trying one tool after another with the pleasure of a child with a new toy.
Strange is the contrast in human nature. This man who had suffered intolerable wrong, and had murdered and plundered all his life, had yet the mind of a child and the sincere gratitude and instincts of an educated gentleman. “Judge not,” as the Scripture says.
It was a grave decision to make. Ronald told the others what he had learnt, and of Radko’s advice.
He found himself in a minority of one. They were dead against a retreat, and Ronald felt a coward in counselling caution. Smart was the most emphatic.
“We are no worse off — in fact, we are better — in knowing this. Your plucky rescue of Radko has made him a loyal friend. We might have known that the wretched Ganzani was watching our movements; it only means we must be doubly cautious
.”
Finally Ronald could get only one concession. If they found the place, he should go forward and reconnoitre. It was evident that Radko would not lead them there. They must find it themselves.
The sun was up and shining brightly after the rain, and the radiation from the wet ground made the air hot and damp. The mountains loomed above them, bare and menacing. Only here and there a few wild-olive bushes showed their gnarled stems, and the peculiar tough sedge which gave out a strong, acrid smell when crushed with the feet. Their scanty belongings were soon packed, and in single file they led the horses up the steep side of the mountain, Radko leading with the unerring instinct of the mountaineer.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE OLD MONASTERY
A bitter wind was blowing down the pass, with pitiless force, driving the snow in icy flakes into the eyes of the wanderers. Night had come down, and still they pushed their hopeless way onwards. The map had ceased to be a guide, since the traced line had ended vaguely among the mountains. Desolation hemmed them in, with no signs of life or habitation.
Even Radko appeared to have misgivings, as he gazed anxiously round from time to time, as though looking for landmarks.
He reined in his horse and waited for Ronald to come up. It was difficult even to hear, with the howling of the wind.
“Somewhere near here there is an old monastery. If we can find it, we shall have shelter. If not — ”
He shrugged his shoulders.
Ralph came forward, shouting:
“Where are the others? Have you seen Doris and Smart?”
“I thought they were back with you,” Ronald shouted back.
“They were, but I stopped to help one of our escort. He has injured his foot rather badly. The other fellow has given him his horse, and they are coming on. There are no signs of them, or of Smart and Doris. I thought they must be with you.”
Ronald gazed hopelessly round. Darkness surrounded them, and the blinding snow beat in swirls round their heads, cutting like ice and soaking them through.
“Let’s shout,” Ralph called in Ronald’s ear, and they raised a yell in which Radko joined. Dim figures emerged from behind, one on a horse and the other clinging to the bridle.
Radko addressed fierce words in Bulgarian, and they replied volubly, their teeth chattering with the cold.
“They have seen nothing of the others,” Radko told them, with a grave face.
“We must go back,” Ronald declared between gusts of wind.
Radko stood motionless on his horse.
“As you wish,” he said. “But it would be best to try and find the monastery. They would send out a search-party, and this man could be taken care of.”
After a consultation with Ralph it was agreed that the best thing to do would be to follow Radko’s counsel.
That awful night never faded from Ronald’s memory, in spite of the horrors which came after. For hours they wandered in the blinding storm. To add to the terror of the journey, they were compelled to dismount, and lead the horses. Only Radko, the tough old Comitadji, never flagged. Ronald turned at a noise behind him, and saw that Ralph had slipped to the ground, utterly exhausted. His pride had kept him going to the last moment. Ronald went to him and held his flask to his lips, and poured brandy down his throat. It was their last drop, as they had given most of it to the injured man, who was now unconscious and strapped to a horse.
“ïf we stay here we shall die,” said Radko quietly.
Ronald stooped down, lifted Ralph on his shoulders, and staggered on, clinging to the stirrup of his horse. He dared not put Ralph on the exhausted animal, already burdened with stores they could not discard.
Another hour they crawled on in this fashion, when a sudden exclamation from Radko roused Ronald from the semi-stupor into which he had fallen. His mind become a blank, his whole body ached with pain, and he felt himself becoming light-headed.
He bumped into Radko, who had stopped.
“It is here. Courage, Gospodin. Let me take Mr. Gorringe.”
“Lead on, for God’s sake,” Ronald shouted back.
Faint signs of dawn were showing in the heavy leaden sky, and the rocks showed in ghostly faintness around them. Then suddenly before them there loomed out of the dark a squat, massive building, grim and forbidding, but to them, in their distress, welcome as the finest hotel in Europe.
There was no sign of life about the place, and as they drew near Ronald saw a deep moat or chasm separated the building from the place where they stood. Radko shouted a hail through his hands, and still there came no answer. They shouted all together in feeble effort, and Ronald fired his revolver in the air. At last, when hope had almost gone, a faint sound caught their ears, and in the dim light they saw a great drawbridge descending with much creaking, and lights showed beyond the flashing of torches in the twilight of dawn.
Radko went forward alone and stood waiting. Beyond the drawbridge a massive door showed, where two figures stood holding torches, the light flickering on the barrels of the rifles they held.
A solitary figure advanced across the bridge, and a long colloquy ensued between him and Radko, who presently returned to the shivering group.
“He says he will take you in for charity, though it is forbidden.”
“Anything — let’s get in,” Ronald said impatiently.
They were led through the great gate into a courtyard, which to Ronald’s imagination seemed to be of enormous size, and slowly revolving round him. Even his great strength had given out, and he sank slowly to the ground in the dead faint of exhaustion.
He found himself awake, and lying on a bed of skins in a rock-chamber. A square hole without glass served as a window. The bed was soft and comfortable, but his whole body ached with pain. By his side was a rude table on which was set a mug and a quaintly shaped bottle of wine.
He seized the bottle and drank eagerly, his parched throat sucking up the generous fluid. Across the narrow room, or cell, Ralph was lying motionless. A spasm of fear went through Ronald at the thought that he was dead. He leapt out of bed and stood holding his own head for giddiness.
Steadying himself, he crossed the room and held the bottle to Ralph’s mouth, pouring some of the wine between his set teeth.
Ralph opened his eyes and gazed at him with a vacant expression. Then recollection came, and he gripped Ronald’s arm.
“Where are we? . . . I don’t remember . . . I think I must have fainted, like a fool.”
Ronald was telling him, when the door opened to admit Radko, looking fresh as paint. He closed the door and came forward, smiling.
“You are recovered. I am glad,” he said simply. “Listen, Gospodin. Search parties were sent out this morning for your friends.” Ronald looked at his watch, which had stopped.
“It is four o’clock,” said Radko, seeing his movement. “I waited to see you before going out myself.”
“What place is this?” Ralph asked, looking in wonder at the solid stone walls.
“A very old monastery — no one knows how old. When the Turks took Stamboul — you will know when — it is said that the monks fled to this place and founded this monastery, but some think it is older still. They brought with them priceless documents. The monks are sworn to secrecy, and the punishment for treachery is death.”
There was a curious secretive manner about Radko which filled Ronald with forebodings.
“They are chosen from the most holy men, by the Patriarch, and are very old. Once they come here, they never leave.”
“How do you know all this, Radko?” Ronald asked suspiciously.
“They grow tobacco and grapes, and the Comitadjis buy them in exchange for other things they need. It has been so for centuries,” Radko replied evasively.
“As soon as we can, we must start out to look for the others.” Ronald spoke with decision.
Radko stood immovable, the same grim smile playing round his bearded mouth.
“I fear they will not let you go,” he sa
id. “They guard their secret strictly.”
Ronald sprang to his feet. “Do you mean that they will keep us here?” he shouted. “You have betrayed us, Radko!”
“As you will, Gospodin. It was to save your life — in exchange — a life for a life. They would not let you in on any other condition.”
Ronald sank back in fury on the bed, and imparted the news to Ralph.
“Ask him if we can’t go at once — we’ve seen nothing of their precious secrets.”
Radko shook his head gravely at the question.
“I have saved your lives,” he said doggedly. “That was all I could do. Besides — you are better here.”
“What do you mean?” Ronald asked, part of the truth dawning on him; but Radko would say no more.
“Will you take a message to our friends if you find them? They must not come here and be trapped.”
“They shall not come here,” Radko answered grimly; and not another word could they get from him.
“Good-bye, Gospodin,” he said sadly. “You are angry with me. It was for the best.”
Something in the man’s tone made Ronald realise that he had acted for the best, according to his lights, and, after all, he had saved their lives. He held out his hand. “I am very grateful to you. We must do what we can for ourselves.”
A look of gratitude came to the face of the rough Bulgarian. He fumbled in his jerkin and held out a knife. “I knew they would take your weapons from you, so I kept this. It may be useful.” He turned silently and was gone, and the heavy wooden door closed behind him.
“Well, I’m damned!” Ralph ejaculated.
Ronald paced the small room angrily. “Fools that we were! Can’t you see it all? He knew we were trying to find that valley, and he would not take us there. I told him, like an idiot. He led us to this place deliberately. I thought it suspicious that he could find his way in the dark so easily. He meant to save our actual lives, because he thinks I saved his. But he would not guide us anywhere else. We’re mere puppies, Ralph.” His voice broke in a sob — he was very weak.
The Yellow Mistletoe Page 14