We climbed up and came
into a large loft in which six long legged, heavily bearded Albanians
were squatting about a fire; a gipsy woman with wild tousled hair and
hanging breasts was in the corner of the hearth, and was telling some
long monotonous tale. An Albanian, who spoke Serb, told us to come in
and have coffee. It was like the illustration of some tale from the
Arabian Nights. After a while we climbed out again into the night, and
went home. Ramases hung about shyly, and the woman explained that he had
nowhere to sleep; so we arranged that she should house him also.
Even as we poked our noses out of the door there was a promise of a fine
day. Below us we could see the Pasha up and superintending the packing
of his family and furniture. We celebrated by opening our last tin of
jam, which we had carried carefully all the way, waiting for an
occasion. We left the remains of the jam for the small family, and as we
were mounting we saw their faces smeared and streaked with "First
Quality Damson.
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