The Suliotes scattered here and there looked at each other. A tremendous roar filled the air--a roar of grief and rage and terror--breaking forth into despair. Those from before, those from behind, fell upon the ranks of the Moslems. In a moment Gaskho Bey's whole camp was converted into a chaotic mob, where Albanians and Spahis. Suliotes and Timariotes, fought together without any fixed plan, and, in utter defiance of all military science, recognizing neither friend nor foe. In vain the standard-bearers raised their banners, in vain the officers of the Spahis roared themselves hoarse, and the Sorbadzhis and the gigantic Gaskho Bey himself did the same. The army was so completely disorganized that not even the victorious enemy could make head or tail of it. Towards evening the Suliotes, under Kleon and Artemis, captured Lithanizza; while Gaskho Bey, in his despair, fled all the way to Durazzo. When he got there he discovered that of all his army only twelve ciauses remained with him. The whole host had fled higgledy-piggledy along the first road it came across, leaving behind it all its artillery, baggage, and ammunition wagons. But Ali Pasha, sweetly smiling, calmly looked on from the red tower of Janina, while the enemy worried itself to death, and the besieging thousands scattered in every direction without his having to waste a single cannon-shot upon them. But as I have already said. Ali was often so reduced as to possess nothing but his sword, and with this same sword he would win everything back again. CHAPTER VII THE ALBANIAN FAMILY And now we will let the rumor of great deeds rest a while; we will close our eyes to the wars that followed upon the siege of Janina; we will shut our ears against the echoes of the names of a Ulysses, Tepelenti, a Kolokotrini, those heroes who shook the throne of the Sultan, and all of whom the Pasha of Janina called his very dear friends. While these bloody wars are raging we will turn into the grove of Dodona, where formerly the ambiguous utterances of sacred prophecies were always resounding in the ears of contemplative dreamers. Let us go back eighty years! Let us seek out that quiet little glen whither neither good report nor evil report ever comes flying, whose inhabitants know of nothing but what happens amongst their own fir-trees; why, even the tax-collecting Spahi only light down amongst them to levy contributions once in a century!