ons by means of a long rope, and,
crossing the lake of Acheruz on a pine log, sought out Gaskho Bey in
his camp that very night.

Ali Tepelenti was dead. They were the first to bear the joyful tidings
to the bey. He died in his grief, in his wretchedness. Perhaps also he
had taken poison. On the morrow, at three o'clock, they had arranged
to bury him in the fortress! Before his death he had called together
his lieutenants, and taken an oath of them that they would defend the
fortress to the very last gasp of the very last man. His treasures
were piled up in the red tower--more than thirty millions of piastres.
He had left it all to them. But what was the use of all this treasure
to them if they could not get out of this eyrie? They would not
surrender themselves, for Ali had made them swear by every Turkish
saint that they would defend the fortress to the death. But the rank
and file were of a different opinion; they would joyfully retire from
the fortress if they were assured of a free forgiveness. Gaskho Bey
had only to stretch out his hand and the fortress of Janina, the
impregnable fortress with its two hundred cannons and its enormous
mass of treasure, would be his.

Early in the morning the gray moonless flag, the sign of death, was
waving on the red tower of Janina, and the guns overlooking the water
fired three and thirty volleys, whose echo proclaimed among the
mountains that Ali Tepelenti was dead. Within the fortress sounded the
roll of the muffled drums, and it was also possible to distinguish the
dirges of the imams.

Gaskho Bey and his staff, from the top of the Lithanizza hills,
watched the burial of the pasha. There was an observatory here from
whose balcony they could look down into the court-yard, and the
splendid telescopes, which the sultan had got from Vienna, rendered
powerful assistance to the onlookers, who through them could observe
the smallest details of what was going on in the court-yard of the
fortress; one telescope in particular brought the objects so near that
one could read the initial letters of the verses of the Kuran which
the imams held in their hands.

In the midst of a simple coffin lay Ali Pasha. It was really he; of
that there could be no doubt. Let every one look for himself! There he
lay--dead, cold, motionless. His lieutenants and his servants stood
around him weeping. Those who walked along by his side stooped down to
kiss his hands.

In the town outside the Suliotes