The sight was strangely impressive; the silence unbroken save for the low voice of the priest and now and then the clank of arms. For two days in the year, to celebrate the Christian festival, the brigand tribes from the mountains come down, notwithstanding that upon the heads of many of those sinister-looking men before me the Turks had long ago set a price. I stood gazing at that kneeling throng, to whom, though devout and humble in God’s house, murder was deemed no wrong. The service ended, a great procession was formed, and headed by four fine stalwart men of the Skreli with loaded rifles, made a slow tour from the altar outside and round the enclosure, while an orchestra in a band-stand opposite played selections. The sight was curious—those armed men ready to protect their priests in case of sudden onslaught by the Turks. During the whole morning I took many photographs, and in the afternoon, when I returned, I found the orchestra playing operatic music, which was being listened to by the tribesmen with marked attention. They are, I afterwards found, devoted to music. The programme ranged from selections from _La Bohème_ and _Carmen_ to the “Segovia” valse and our old melodious friend, “The Honeysuckle and the Bee.” The latter air quickly became popular among the tribesmen, who picked it up and began at once to whistle it. [Illustration: The Mirediti: An Alarm!] [Illustration: The Mirediti at Prayer.] Slowly fell the mystic twilight of the East. The glorious afterglow had deepened into grey, and night was creeping on quickly when fire balloons were sent up, and then gradually the whole Cathedral became outlined in fairy lamps against the steely sky, even to the utmost point of the high square tower. Men and women gazed upward, and crossed themselves. Later, while walking back with Palok, we encountered a group of armed tribesmen talking excitedly, shaking their fists, and apparently quarrelling. Palok joined the crowd, and inquired what had happened. Then, turning to me, he said— “Oh, it is nothing, signore. The town of Kroia has revolted. The Turks sent soldiers yesterday, but they were Albanians, and would not fire on the people. To-day some artillery arrived, and thirty people have been killed—mostly women. A man has just ridden in with the news. It is nothing. We are always fighting the Turks at Kroia. There will probably be a massacre to-night.” And he deftly rolled a cigarette as he spat in defiance of the hated Mussulman. Later that night I was awakened from sleep by a shot below, and, taking my revolver, went to the window. The night was black, and I could discern nothing. I heard men’s voices raised in the street below, and suddenly saw the red flash of firearms and heard a second report. Then all was quiet, except receding footsteps.