The ascent was terribly laborious.  Our animals were sweating, though they were carrying nothing but the knapsacks.

“Ye see dat flat stone?” said the guide.  “Dat’s were de gooman feller ’ide ’is gold.  Dey was tree Italians chaps ’ere ’n dey turn ober dat stone ter roll it downill.  ’N underneat was all dat feller’s gold.  Dat madum larf, I tell yer.”

We climbed higher and yet higher; we thought we would never reach the crest.  The sweat poured from us, and we were drenched.

On the top there were but few stones of the old castle, and we rode over the ruins.  We passed into a queer pallid country, pale grey houses, pale yellow or pale green fields, grey sky and stones, a violently rolling plain where our guide lost his way, and we became increasingly aware of the discomfort of our saddles, and prayed for the journey to end.

We refound the route, and asked a peasant, “How far to Jabliak?”

“Bogami, quarter of an hour.”

We cheered.

At the end of twenty minutes we asked once more.

“Bogami, quarter of an hour.”

At the end of twenty minutes more we asked again, our spirits were falling.

“Bogami, quarter of an hour.”

“* * *!”

We then asked a peasant and his wife.  The woman considered for a moment.

“About an hour,” she said.

Her husband turned and swore at her.

“Bogami, don’t believe her, gentlemen,” he cried, “it’s only a quarter of an hour.”

We left them quarrelling.

It grew dark, and we grew miserable.  Jabliak seemed like a dream, and we like poor wandering Jews, cursed ever to roam on detestable saddles in this queer pallid country.

At last a peasant said it was five minutes off, and then it really was a quarter of an hour distant.

We came down from the hills to find the whole aristocracy—­one captain—­not to say all their populace, out on the green to do us honour.  They had been informed by telegraph of our august decision to sleep in their wooden village.  When we got off our horses our knees were so cramped that we could scarcely stand, and we hobbled after the captain into a bitterly cold room without furniture.  Various Montenegrins came and looked at us, and an old veterinary surgeon, also en route, but in the opposite direction, conversed in bad German.  The old vet. was a Roumanian, and the only animal doctor in all Montenegro.

To their great surprise we demanded something to eat.

“Supper is at nine,” they said severely.

“But we have had nothing since ten this morning,” we protested.

“But supper will be ready at nine,” they said again.

After a lot of trouble we got some scrambled eggs, but nothing would persuade our guide, whose name, by the way, was “Mike,” to have anything.  It almost seemed improper to eat at the wrong hours, even if one was hungry.