The Mahommedan is much more fanatic in these parts than his more civilized brother of Salonika or Constantinople.  Women of the two religions do not visit.  The hatred is partially political, and Jo began to realize that her dream of visiting a harem would not be easy to achieve.  We met three women walking down a lonely street.  Although their faces were covered with several thicknesses of black chiffon, they modestly placed them against the wall and stood there, three shapeless bundles, until we were out of sight.

Jan’s feelings were very much hurt, but he soon got used to being treated like a dangerous dragon.

When we reached our hotel again we found the elite of the town waiting in the bar-room for us.  There was a huge jolly Greek priest, all big hat and velvet, the prefect, the schoolmaster, a linguist, and the little black-hatted man whom we had mistaken for a hotel tout.

The priest was president of the Montenegrin Red Cross, the prefect was a former Prime Minister and a Voukotitch.  All important men who are not Petroviches are Voukotitches; the first being members of the king’s and the second of the queen’s family.

The little black-hatted man was secretary of the Red Cross, and was formally attached to us while there as cicerone.  He explained to us that they had all been in the hotel expecting us the night before, with a beautiful dinner which had been prepared in our honour.

We apologized and inwardly noted the grateful temperament of the Montenegrin.  We were solemnly treated to coffee and brandy, and the jolly priest emptied his cigarette box into Jo’s lap.  When the first polite ceremoniousness had worn off we asked delicately about the front.

“Did we wish to see the front?”

Certainly, said the prefect, we should have the first horses that should come back to the town, and the little transparent shadow man should accompany us.  And our letter to the Sirdar Voukotitch, commander in chief of the north?—­He should be told about it on his return that evening from the front.

At sunset the muezzin sounded, cracked voices cried unmelodiously from all the minaret tops.  Immediately, as if it were their signal, all the crows arose from the town, hovered around in batches for a moment, chattering, and flew away up the hill to roost in the trees round the hospital till sunrise.

Salonika rings with children’s cries, Dawson city with the howlings of dogs, but the towns of the Sanjak have no better music than the croaking of carrion crows.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER V

THE MONTENEGRIN FRONT ON THE DRINA