Wasso Mikali was a very wise man. He questioned Nikka closely concerning our situation, and this was his verdict:  
"When you fight with thieves you must use thieves' tricks. You did right to come to me. Now I will secure fitting garments for you, my sister's son, and for your Amerikansky friend, Jakka. For him also I will brew a dye of walnut bark and chestnut leaves that will make him as dark as our people, so that men will not turn and stare at him on the road.
 
"After that I think we had best go away from this place as soon as possible. You have traveled rapidly and shaken off your enemies' pursuit. It is well to take every advantage of an opportunity. Moreover, we must go across the Rhodopes to the place where the tribe have hidden some horses we got from a Roumanian boyar. We will collect the horses, together with some of my young men who can handle a knife, and go on to Stamboul. All men go to Stamboul, and who will notice a Tzigane band?"
 
"But it was not my thought that you should abandon the affairs of the tribe, and come and fight with me," remonstrated Nikka.
 
"Are you not the son of my sister?" rejoined the old Gypsy. "If you had not elected to go to Buda with your violin would you not be chief of the band? Do I not stand in your place? Well, then, light of my eyes, we will do for you all that we may."
 
And he produced a battered silver tobacco box, and rolled himself a cigarette, sitting back on his haunches with the lithe grace of a cat. Nikka flung me a proud glance as he translated the pledge.
 
"It's all right," I admitted with due humility. "And I was all wrong, but I didn't know the Middle Ages were still with us."
 
Nikka laughingly repeated my remark, and his uncle's twinkling eyes and mocking smile conveyed his retort before it was translated:
 
"Say to my young friend Jakka that if a tribe cannot stand by their own then these days are worse than the old times."
 
With that he left us, and Nikka and I secured another hour's sleep. When he returned he was accompanied by a younger edition of himself, who carried two bundles which were disclosed as complete suits of Tzigane dress. He, himself, carried a pot of warm, brown liquid, and he proceeded to apply the stain to me with a small paintbrush. Hair, mustache, face and body were darkened to a mellow brown. The stuff dried quickly, and I was soon able to pull on the strange garments, which Nikka showed me how to adjust and fasten.
 
I could not help laughing at my reflection in the mirror of the cheap French bureau de toilette. The tight trousers, the short jacket and the big turban increased my height, and the gaudy colors of turban and waist-sash gave me a bizarre appearance that was startlingly unfamiliar. I felt uncomfortable, as though I had dressed for a fancy-dress ball, and overdone the part. But there was none of this effect in Nikka's get-up. With the donning of his Gypsy costume he discarded his last visible link with the West. He looked the Gypsy, the Oriental, a kingly vagabond.
 
"You belong," I said. "But I feel like an imposter."
 
"You'll grow used to it," he answered, folding in the ends of his sash. "Did they give you a knife?" I exhibited the horn-handled, eight-inch blade, with its sheath hooked to a leather belt that encircled my waist beneath the sash. "Good! Got your automatic and spare clips?"
 
"And these clothes?"
 
I pointed to the civilized garments we had discarded.
 
"Kostabidjian will send them on to Constantinople in a few days." He sighed. "Personally, Jack, I don't care if I never wear them again. I can earn a thousand dollars an hour with my fiddle, but what's it worth compared with this? Rawhide on your feet that flexes with your soles; clothing that covers you, but doesn't bind; and the open road ahead! Civilization is a fraud, Jack. I was a fool ever to quit the Gypsy life.'
 
"Well, you're back in it again," I replied, "and perhaps you'll be feeling you were a fool to return to it. I know I feel like a fool. Let's go."
 
It was still dark when we left the house. Kostabidjian and his servant were awaiting us in the courtyard. They had saddled two horses, and a mule was loaded with bulky packs, food, and blankets, tarpaulins and several cooking utensils. The Armenian kept himself in the background. He seemed in deadly fear of Wasso Mikali, who treated him as though he was a cur to be kicked into the gutter if he interfered. And indeed, there was something singularly imposing about the old Tzigane, who strode around with the air of one used to taking as he desired and giving as he pleased.
 
But just as we were leaving, the dumb servant having swung open the outer door, Kostabidjian mustered sufficient courage to press to Nikka's side.
 
"Everything was satisfactory?" he inquired timidly. "I have served—"
 
"Well enough," returned Nikka, swinging into the saddle of one of the horses, "except that you talk too much. Guard your tongue if you would keep it. Your servant there—"
 
He shrugged significantly. Even by the starlight I could see the pallor that blanched the Armenian's face. He took the threat in sober earnest.
 
"You shall have no cause to blame! All shall be as you wish. I will remit the charges for the last distribution. Take your horse, Monseigneur, both horses—the mule! Take all!"
 
Nikka gave him a single look, and he subsided.
 
"Heidi, Jakka!" called Wasso Mikali.
 
"Mount, Jack," added Nikka. "The other horse is for you. We must hasten. My uncle does not like to be seen entering or leaving the town."
 
We rode out in single-file, first Wasso Mikali, then Nikka, then myself, last the young Tzigane, leading the pack-mule. The Gypsies set a pace that made the horses trot to keep up with them, a long, slack-kneed shamble, ungainly in appearance, but tremendously effective. By sunrise we had left the town behind the first mountain-ridge, and were heading north towards the waste of mountains that fringed the Bulgarian frontier. Hour after hour we plodded along. More than once I suggested a rest, for I knew our escorts had been afoot all night. But they would not hear of it. Neither would they consent to sharing the horses with us turn-about, and in this Nikka upheld them.
 
"Our feet are soft," he pointed out. "We could never maintain such a speed, and it is best to put as long a distance as possible between us and Seres, lest our trailers should pick up the scent."
 
During the early part of the day we passed frequent villages, melancholy collections of hovels that had been scorched by the awful visitation of wars the Balkans had known for a decade. But in the afternoon we departed from the main road, and struck off across the hills. Occasionally we saw farmhouses or sheepfolds, but when night came we made camp in a lonely ravine with the stars for roof. There was not a light on the horizon, not even the barking of dogs to indicate a human habitation.
 
The next day it was practically the same. The trail we followed was a mere trace that sometimes disappeared. Toward evening we entered a vast forest, and finally halted on the banks of a stream where a campfire blazed. Against the flames showed gaunt, turbanned figures.
 
"Are these our friends?" I asked.
 
"They are Pomaks," said Nikka.
 
He spat contemptuously.
 
"What—"
 
............