The Lost Valley of Iskander | Page 6

the trees, Gordon scanned the cliffs in vain for
some sign of his enemies. He felt certain that neither Hunyadi, bold as
he was, nor any of his companions would try to follow them down "the
Road of the Eagles." They were not mountaineers. They were more at
home in the saddle than on a hill path. They would seek some other
way into the valley. He spoke his thoughts to Bardylis.
"They will find death," answered the youth grimly. "The Pass of the
King, at the southern end of the valley, is the only entrance. Men guard
it with matchlocks night and day. The only strangers who enter the
Valley of Iskander are traders and merchants with pack-mules."
Gordon inspected his companion curiously, aware of a certain
tantalizing sensation of familiarity he could not place.
"Who are your people?" he asked. "You are not an Afghan. You do not
look like a Oriental at all."
"We are the Sons of Iskander," answered Bardylis. "When the great
conqueror came through these mountains long ago, he built the city we
call Attalus, and left hundreds of his soldiers and their women in it.

Iskander marched westward again, and after a long while word came
that he was dead and his empire divided. But the people of Iskander
abode here, unconquered. Many times we have slaughtered the Afghan
dogs who came against us."
Light came to Gordon, illuminating that misplaced familiarity.
Iskander—Alexander the Great, who conquered this part of Asia and
left colonies behind him. This boy's profile was classic Grecian, such as
Gordon had seen in sculptured marble, and the names he spoke were
Grecian. Undoubtedly he was the descendant of some Macedonian
soldier who had followed the Great Conqueror on his invasion of the
East.
To test the matter, he spoke to Bardylis in ancient Greek, one of the
many languages, modern and obsolete, he had picked up in his varied
career. The youth cried out with pleasure.
"You speak our tongue!" he exclaimed, in the same language. "Not in a
thousand years has a stranger come to us with our own speech on his
lips. We converse with the Moslems in their own tongue, and they
know nothing of ours. Surely, you too, are a Son of Iskander?"
Gordon shook his head, wondering how he could explain his
knowledge of the tongue to this youth who knew nothing of the world
outside the hills.
"My ancestors were neighbors of the people of Alexander," he said at
last. "So, many of my people speak their language."
They were approaching the stone roofs which shone through the trees,
and Gordon saw that Bardylis's "village" was a substantial town,
surrounded by a wall. It was so plainly the work of long dead Grecian
architects that he felt like a man who wandered into a past and
forgotten age.
Outside the walls, men tilled the thin soil with primitive implements,
and herded sheep and cattle. A few horses grazed along the bank of the
stream which meandered through the valley. All the men, like Bardylis,

were tall and fair-haired. They dropped their work and came running up,
staring at the black-haired stranger in hostile surprise, until Bardylis
reassured them.
"It is the first time any but a captive or a trader has entered the valley in
centuries," said Bardylis to Gordon. "Say nothing till I bid you. I wish
to surprise my people with your knowledge. Zeus, they will gape when
they hear a stranger speak to them in their own tongue!"
The gate in the wall hung open and unguarded, and Gordon noticed that
the wall itself was in a poor state of repair. Bardylis remarked that the
guard in the narrow pass at the end of the valley was sufficient
protection, and that no hostile force had ever reached the city itself.
They passed through and walked along a broad paved street, in which
yellow-haired people in tunics, men, women and children, went about
their tasks much like the Greeks of two thousand years ago, among
buildings which were duplicates of the structures of ancient Athens.
A crowd quickly formed about them, but Bardylis, bursting with glee
and importance, gave them no satisfaction. He went straight toward a
large edifice near the center of the town and mounting the broad steps,
came into a large chamber where several men, more richly dressed than
the common people, sat casting dice on a small table before them. The
crowd swarmed in after them, and thronged the doorway eagerly. The
chiefs ceased their dice game, and one, a giant with a commanding air,
demanded: "What do you wish, Bardylis? Who is this stranger?"
"A friend of Attalus, Ptolemy, king of the valley of Iskander,"
answered Bardylis. "He speaks the tongue of Iskander!"
"What tale is this?"