The Shadow was terribly puffed up about his feat.  The following morning as we were sketching in the town, an officer approached respectfully.

“His excellency the Sirdar invites you to supper,” he said.

We considered a moment, for we had intended to return to Plevlie.  The Shadow broke in.

“It is inconvenient to come to supper,” he said to our horror.  “Tell his excellency that the gentleman and lady will come to lunch if he wishes it.”

The Sirdar meekly sent answer that lunch would suit him very well, and we could drive back with him to Plevlie.  “Would we come to his house at 12.30?”

The Prefect told us that we ought to go to the lunch at twelve, because the Sirdar’s clock was always half an hour fast.  We arrived, but the Sirdar evidently had been considering us, he did not appear for the half an hour, so we sat with his staff sipping rakia by the roadside.

The lunch was excellent, but the Sirdar’s carriage, like every other carriage in Montenegro, was a weird, ancient, rusty arabesquish affair, tied together with wire.  We had two resplendent staff officers, armed to the teeth, who galloped ahead, we had two superior non-coms., also armed to the dentals, galloping behind, while on the box sat a man with gun, pistols, sword, dagger and a bottle of wine and water which we passed round whenever the Sirdar became hoarse.  The coachman was as old and as shabby as his carriage, and every five miles or so was forced to descend and tie up yet another mishap with wire—­ordinary folks’ carriages are only repaired with string.

The Sirdar occupied almost the whole of the back seat, and Jo was squeezed into the crack which was left.  Jan was perched on a sort of ledge, facing them.  The carriage was narrow, six legs were two too many for the space.  Jan’s were the superfluous ones.  He tried this pose, he tried that, but in spite of his contortions he endured much of the seven hours’ journey in acute discomfort and the latter part in torture.

In spite of his throat the Sirdar did nearly all the talking.  The country we were passing through were scenes of his battles:  with one arm he threw a company over this hill, with a hand, nearly hitting Jan in the eye, he marched an army corps along that valley; he explained how he had been forced to give up the Ministry of War because there was no other efficient commander for the north.

A blue ridge of pine trees appeared on our right hand.

“You see those hills,” said the Sirdar:  “I’ll tell you the story of a reply of mine, a funny reply.  I ordered a general last winter to march across those hills.  He said that the troops would starve.  I looked him in the eye.  Then you will eat wolves, I shouted.  He went.”

If we passed peasants he stopped them.  He seemed to have an extraordinary memory for names and faces.

“Never forget a face,” he said, “never forget its name.  That is the secret of popularity.”