Yorkville Enquirer

THE STORY TELLER.

MULE DRIVER OF RILO-DAAH.

Story of the Bulgarian Insurrection Against the Turks.

All through the gorge of the Barenta floated a delicious odor—the odor of thousands of roses borne by the warm winds from the gardens and distilleries of Rilo-Dagh, a valley almost as famous for its roses as the vales of Kezanlik and Iran.

In other years at the same season the steep, perfumed slopes of the Turkish Balkans were the scene of extraordinary animation. Along the numberless paths, winding in every direction, came donkeys laden with baskets of flowers and looking as if adorned for a fete of roses. But today all the countryside was quiet and deserted.

Ten thousand Turks occupied the Barenta from Rilo-Dagh as far as the Shipka passes on the Bulgarian frontier; and this time it seemed as if they could not fail to capture the famous bandit chief—Boris Schokol, who, with his Macedonian followers, had been completely surrounded and cut off in his mountain retreat.

It could be only a question of hours at the most. And in order that not one of the band should escape in disguise the Turkish soldiers had orders to arrest all travelers, whoever they might be and journeying for whatever reason.

A man must, indeed, care little for his life who would run the gamut of cross-firing from the sentinels in ambush at each corner of the ravine.

Nevertheless there was one traveler brave enough, for a mule driver had just appeared on the path which leads to the Gabrov farm, situated half way up the mountain side.

He was a peasant of simple, peaceful appearance, dressed in rags and with bare feet and a rose stuck in the crown of his tattered hat.

Thirty steps before him trotted a little silvery gray mule carrying two baskets full to overflowing of fading roses, and fastened to the saddle was an enormous flowering rose bush, whose soft leaves rustled caressingly.

The driver, whose white hair was in striking contrast with his youthful, almost childish face, strode along with an easy step, glancing about indifferently at the desolate countryside.

Once or twice at the sight of the charred ruins of what had formerly been a prosperous farm, a pile of smoking timbers from which arose the dreadful odor of burned flesh, the old man turned away his head and a dark shadow crossed his bright face.

Still walking at a discreet distance from his donkey, the peasant had just reached the summit of a steep hill when a bullet whistled by his ear.

"The music has struck up for the dance," he murmured to himself, quite undisturbed. "The Turks are going to have a good time now!"

But he trembled an instant and turned slightly pale as the rosebush which was fastened to the saddle stirred as if by a sudden wind. A shower of petals fell to the ground while a rose, evenly severed from its stem, was carried twenty feet.

"The clumsy fools!" growled the driver, but his cheeks were white.

A score of stinging pellets hissed by him and the dust sprang up in little squirts about his feet.

"I like that better," he remarked thoughtfully, again repeating his enigmatic phrase. "The clumsy fools! What an omelet it would make."

The Macedonian hastened to descend the hill on the other side. A few scattered shots passed above his head, and the echoes caught and repeated the report.

The donkey halted, frightened. His long ears wavered back and forth and his delicate legs shook violently.

The driver ran to him, embracing him and patting his sleek neck.

"Come, come, Filiberta, my little white lamb, be quiet; there is nothing to make you afraid now. The worst part is over. A little more, and we will be among friends, the soldiers of Lieut. Achmed. They are honest people."

In fact, after this the firing ceased, but the traveler was none the less observed and followed. From time to time a head with a red fez emerged from its hiding place looked quickly and disappeared.

The Bashi-Bazouks knew the mule driver with the rose decked hat for a poor devil, a grower of roses and something of a poet, an unmistakably Oriental character with no other love but his flowers, which were the finest in Rilo-Dagh. Several of the Turkish officers, whose commissions he executed, had taken him under their protection.

Presently a soldier hailed the inoffensive traveler:

"Hullo, there, Filiberta!"

The gardener, whose name was doubtless the same as his donkey's looked about him.

"Good day, Gulkana, good morning bravest of soldiers."

"Where are you taking your roses?"

"To the camp at Shipka. They are for the commandant there, the brave and handsome Capt. Murad-Bey, who will give me a fine Turkish gold piece for my pains."

"Haven't you anything for me in your pack?"

"Nothing, child of the Prophet, red-headed soldier of the crescent; but perhaps it will be a different story when I return if the commandant be merciful to his slave."

"May Allah inspire him, then!"

The mule driver continued on his way. A kilometer distant he made a halt before the farm of Gadrovo, stopped by the sentinel at the gateway.

As the two talked together the driver felt in one of his baskets and produced a small box, which he handed to the guard.

"For the brave Lieut. Achmed," he said.

Just then the officer himself came around the corner, wearing a long curved sword which dragged on the ground. He was a man of tall stature, with a heavy cruel face, true type of a Turkish executioner.

"Have you brought me the eggs?" he demanded, sharply.

"Yes, my Lieutenant," replied the Macedonian. "They were chosen especially for you, and each one is absolutely fresh. They were tested by lamplight particularly."

"Good," interrupted the officer. "Do not forget that I detest chatterboxes."

Then, continuing his questions, he added:

"What in the name of the Prophet have you tied a rose tree to your saddle for?"

"The rose bush," said Filiberta, assuming a mysterious air, "is for your friend, Capt. Murad-Bey, from a lady—but you must not betray her!"

Achmed smiled coarsely, revealing his sharp teeth.

"And these?" he went on, striking the baskets with his heavy hand so that a few petals fluttered to the earth.

"Those—those are for one of my friends, a poor distiller in the mountains. He is a faithful servant of the sultans, for whom may Allah be praised, and he is trying to prepare his essence now as in other years."

"Did you see anything of the rebels on your way up?"

"Not the least sign of one, my lieutenant. Since you and your soldiers came the bandits have run to cover like so many rabbits. But I struck quite a shower of bullets."

"Who fired them?"

"The Turks, of course. They were practising, I imagine."

The officer laughed.

"Weren't you afraid?"

"Bah! the length of our life is decreed before we are born! However I did tremble once for you, or for your eggs, at least, and for my donkey also. If I had only brought you a fine omelet, what would you have said?"

"Nothing. But I would have had your ears cut off."

"And you would have done well. Fortunately, the shooters were too far away."

Achmed ceased his catechism.

"It's just as well for you that they were. They wanted to make you afraid. Would you like me to send a guard with you?"

"No, my lieutenant, though may Allah be praised for the great kindness of his servant: but I do much better to go alone. The Bulgarians have no powder to waste on sparrows or such poor devils as I am—while—You have no message to send to the captain?"

"Nothing, except to tell him that I offered you an escort and you refused—for you do refuse?"

"Yes, it will be better."

"Very well; go to the devil in your own way, then. There will only be one less fool in the world!"

The mule driver hastened to obey. Once out of sight of the camp he grasped the donkey's bridle and turned abruptly aside from the regular mule track to follow a cross path marked by little piles of stones carelessly thrown together by the side.

Two hours later he reached the high crests of Shipka, behind which the sun was sinking in a mist of rich purple haze.

The peasant branched off along a trail already covered in darkness, when a man suddenly rose from the bushes beside him, a man with powder blackened hands, who demanded hoarsely.

"Have you been successful, Filiberta?"

The mule driver, straightened his shoulders with an air of intense satisfaction and pointed to the basket of rose leaves.

"There are the bombs, Boris Schokol!" he said.

The night fell upon the mountain tops, bringing with it a furious storm. In the ravine the three hundred men of Murad-Bey, worn out by thirty hours of vain and constant search, lay sleeping heavily, guarded by their sentinels, when suddenly a loud firing broke the silence, followed by the sound of horses galloping madly.

At the same moment a hailstorm of bombs burst throughout the entrenchments, reaping a fearful harvest of death and disorder.

Then fifty men, fifty demons, whose hands cast thunderbolts, rushed like a whirlwind through the lines, destroying everything in their passage and gaining the road which led from the mountains to the plain below.

Boris Schokol, the terrible Macedonian chief, was free once more!—From the Hungarian.