■MORE DAYS OF ROAMING AND SPORT 309 



The old Greek legends are known, dimly, to many of 

 the Caucasian tribes, and are told through the centuries 

 to the wild-eyed little ones. Only the spirit of happi- 

 ness, the gladness and the sense of Spring has gone ; 

 instead there reigns the sombre melancholy of the 

 cradling peaks. 



If a Caucasian does smile the effort is so wintry, so 

 foreign to the smiler's type of beauty, that you, watch- 

 ing, wish he wouldn't do it. I only once heard Ali 

 laugh during all his sojourn with us, and that was 

 outside a duchan in Georgia, a little place built beside 

 a sort of Bethesda pool waiting for a visit from an 

 inspiring angel. Cecily had primed herself up with 

 salutations, and bowing to our host as he stood on the 

 verandah, said " Kvertski ! " graciously. 



Instantly he vanished, to return with a basketful of 

 eggs, brown eggs, white eggs. 



" Kvertski ! " said Cecily again. 



More eggs. This time a perfect glut of them. 



" Perhaps I had better not say it again," my cousin 

 remarked ruefully. " I suppose it is my pronuncia- 

 tion." 



But " kvertski " is " egg " in Georgian, and then we 

 heard Ali laugh. Not a real let-you-have-it sort of 

 laugh. A dry cackle like an angry turkey arguing. 



None of the Karbardans shone if you required them 

 to walk far. Though they cover the ground with a 

 grace and elasticity of gait which as a rule goes with 

 untiring pedestrianism, they dislike walking and rarely 

 practise it. 



Kindly good-tempered beings, with no suspicions 



