My assailant—a tall, ragged-looking, middle-aged Turk in a scarlet fez—laughed in my face and uttered some words that I did not understand. He saw my weapon shining in the dim light, and pushed it away with a laugh. His manner struck me as friendly, so I dropped my arm; whereupon another man, in passing, also fired, then another and another, until, ten seconds later, everybody in the street was firing indiscriminately, and bullets were flying in all directions. [Illustration] [Illustration: In Skodra.] I held my breath. Had the place actually revolted against the Turk just at the moment of my arrival? If so, I was in luck’s way. I knew that the Albanian hated the Turk, for Palok had told me that the revolution was only a question of time, and that one day his people would drive them out of Skodra. The place was once Servian, and captured by the Turks in 1479. Yet the Albanian still looks upon the Turk as a miserable intruder, and intends one day, ere long, to drive him out. Around me, on every hand, pistols were being fired, the flashes showing red in the night, and I stood breathless, wondering what was happening. The man who had fired in my face was grinning at my alarm, when Palok dashed out to me. “Signore! Signore!” he cried, in Italian. “It is nothing! Don’t be alarmed. It is only the vigil of the fast of Ramadan. It is our way of celebrating it!” By that time every man in the whole town was firing off his revolver. The din was deafening. “Very well,” I laughed. “Then I’ll celebrate it too,” and, raising my arm, I also emptied my weapon in the air. The grinning Turk who had first fired and alarmed me saluted me by touching chin and forehead, and then we laughed together. It was certainly fortunate for him and for myself that I had not let fly, but he did not seem to heed at all the danger of firing suddenly upon a foreigner ignorant of what was about to happen. The _han_, with the dignified name of “hotel,” was certainly an uncomfortable place. Cold roast pork, a trifle “high,” was all I could get to eat, and this was washed down by a light red vinegar, which was probably at one time wine. For five days running I had that very same pork served twice a day, until I sent Palok into the bazaar to buy me other supplies. A narrow camp bed, an iron washstand with tin fittings, a pail and a deal table, comprised my furniture, the best accommodation that Skodra could afford. Yet the town is perhaps one of the most interesting in all the Balkans, and its people the most strangely mixed and wearing a greater variety of Eastern costume than even in Constantinople itself.