He was very anxious that we should go to Cettinje and to Scutari.  He kindly promised to see about it, to arrange for our horses and to have our passage telegraphed before us.  At Podgoritza he said a government motor-car should wait for us.  He advised us to make a detour from the straight road and to see the famous black lake of Jabliak and the Dormitor mountains.  We thanked him gratefully.  He waved our thanks aside.

“And I will write to my friend the Minister of War.  He will arrange that you go to Scutari.”  He then explained all the reasons why Montenegro should hold Scutari when the war was over.

“It was ours,” he said; “we only gave it up to Venice so that she should protect us from the Turk.  If we do not hold Scutari, Montenegro can never become a state, so if we cannot keep her we might as well give up Cettinje.  After all we are but taking back what was once ours.”

He was daily expecting the uniforms from Russia, and asked every soldier on the road for news.  At last one said that he had seen them.

“The stuff is rather thin, your excellency, but the boots are splendid.”

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VI

NORTHERN MONTENEGRO

We were accosted by a clean-limbed, joyous youth, who bore on his cap the outstretched winged badge of the police.  He said—­

“Mister Sirdar, he tell me take you alon’ o’ Nickshitch.”

Sure enough the next morning there he was, with three horses, which if not the identical animals of our Chainitza trip were sisters or brothers to them.  It was a wretched day, gusty, and the rain sweeping round the corners of the old streets.  Early as was the hour, the wretched prisoners were peering through the lattice windows of their prison, which evidently once had been the harem of some wealthy Turk; where beauties had once lain on voluptuous couches, wretched criminals now crouched half-starved, racked with disease, and as we passed held out skinny arms.  All Montenegrin saddles are bound on with string, even those of the highest in the land; indeed, one cannot imagine how the people did before string was invented, and ours began to slip before we were well clear of the town.  Necessary adjustments were made, and on once more.

Our guide was well armed—­he carried two murderous-looking pistols, and a long rifle slung over his back.  He was in high spirits and showed us that the proper way to ride Montenegrin horses was to drop the reins on to the animal’s neck, kick it in the stomach with both feet, elevating your arms and uttering the most unearthly yells.  Thus terrified, the unfortunate wreck would canter a few yards, and our cicerone would turn in his saddle and grin back at us, who were humanely contented with the solemn jog-trot of our aged steeds along the well-worn horse-track—­for there was no road.