We crawled along, wretched in the downpour, the scenery completely hidden by the clouds; but towards midday, as we climbed ever higher and higher, we plunged into pine forests where the rain began to thin to mist, veiling the trees with layers of drifting fog.  Out of the forests we came—­the rain having ceased—­into a strange-looking landscape, whose japanesiness is equalled possibly only by Japan itself.  There were the queer rounded hills, the gnarled and twisted little pines and dim fir-clad slopes cutting the sky with sharp grey silhouettes.

Here we stopped to eat.  We opened a tin of meat and made rough sandwiches with the coarse brown or black bread which is the staple food of Serbian nations.  When we were satisfied there was meat left in the tin.  Two wretched, ragged children came on the road singing some half-Eastern chant, and we hailed them.  They refused the food with dignity, and marched on offended.

We came to the Grand Canyon of Colorado—­we beg its pardon—­of Montenegro, The Tara.  Great cliffs towered high on either side, great grey, rugged cliffs topped with pine and scrub oak.  Down, down, down to the river, an hour, and we crossed the bridge out of Novi Bazar into Montenegro—­thirty years free from the Turk.  We halted at a little coffee stall made of boughs.  Jan wanted to get a photo, but the women were so shy that Jo had to push them out into the open.

On the way up the other cliff our guide became communicative.  He had been in America, in the mining camps, and spoke fair American.

“In ole days, dese was de borders,” he said; “’ere de Serb, ’n dere de Turk.  Natchurally dey ’ate each oder.  Dey waz two fellers ’ad fair cold feet, one ’ere, one over dere, Turk ’n our chapy.  Every day dey come down to de ribber ’n dey plug’t de odder chap wid dere ole pistols what filled at de nose.  But dey neber hit nuttin.  One day de Serb ’e got mad and avade in de ribber, but ’e did’n ‘it de Turk.  Nex’ day dey hot’ avade in ’arf way across.  Dey miss again.  De tird day dey avades in rite ter de middle, ’n each shoots up de odder dead.  Yessir, ’n dere bodies float down ter ’ere.”

He looked up and pointed.

“Dey was a gooman up dere,” he said.

“A gooman?”

“Yes, a man wat ’ad a gooman all to ’isself.”

“!!!!”

“Dey was an ole town all made o’ stones,” our guide explained, “where dis man made ’is gooman.  You know wat a gooman is?—­kill all de fellers what pass ’n do wat you likes.”

We understood suddenly that “Government” was indicated.

“Dat’s wat I say,” he answered, “gooman—­’e was killed by a Montenegrin chap wat throwed ’im orf de cliffs, ’n a Turk gets all ’is land.  Dat’s ’ow dey was done dose days.  Dere ain’t much ’o de ole town lef now.”

“We ’ad to chase de Turk outer ’ere,” he went on; “lots ’o fighting, but we ’ad luck.  You see, dey ’ad two lines, ’an we got de first line before ’e was ready, ’n wiped ‘im out, so de secon’ line did’n know if it was ‘im retreatin’ or us advancin’, and we was into ’em before dey ’ad made up dere minds.  Yessir.”