At Danilograd we marvelled at the enormous expensive bridge which seemed to lead to nothing but a couple of tiny villages.  We missed the picturesque Turkish houses, built indeed only for to-day like their roads, but full of unexpected corners and mysterious balconies.  The Montenegrin houses were small and simple, four walls and a roof, like the drawing of a three-year-old child.  The only thing lacking was the curly smoke coming from the chimney.  Broad streets lined with these houses were unexhilarating in effect, and would have been more depressing except for the bright colours with which they were painted.

When the horses were replete after their midday meal we loaded up, adding to our numbers a taciturn man who sat on the box.  We rolled on to Podgoritza, arriving at two o’clock in a steady downpour.

Podgoritza seemed unaware of our arrival.  The streets were empty, and the Prefect’s offices were tenanted only by the porter, a Turk, who remarked that the Prefect was taking his siesta, and seemed to think that was the end of it.

This was awful, after being Highnesses for a week, to be treated just like ordinary people, and perhaps to lose all chance of reaching Cettinje that night.

“Produce the Prefect,” said Jo, stamping her foot, but the Turk only smiled and suggested a visit to the adjutant’s office.  Back to the carriage we went and drove to a place like a luggage depot.  No adjutant, nothing but giggling boys.  Our coachman became restive and said his horses were tired of the rain, so we deposited the old lady, substituted a man in American clothes who seemed sympathetic, and drove back to the Prefect’s office with him.  There we found a sleepy lieutenant who ordered coffee, while our American-speaking friend explained to him that we were very Great People, and that something ought immediately to be done for us.  So the officer promised to get the Prefect as soon as possible, and we went to the hotel to drink more coffee with our baggy-trousered friend, who told us that he was one of a huge contingent of Montenegrins who had travelled from America to fight for the little country.  “Say, who are your pals?” said a nasal voice, and the owner, a pleasant-looking man in a broad-shouldered mackintosh, took a seat at our table.  He was also a Montenegrin, and had been mining in America for some years.  More coffees were ordered.  We confided to the new American Montenegrin that we did not like Podgoritza, and he tried to find excuses—­the hour, the bad weather.  The hotel-keeper came up and intimated in awestruck tones that the Prefect had just looked in with some friends.

Our appearance did not seem to impress the Prefect in the least, and small wonder.  He owned to having received a telegram about us, but there was no motor-car available for that day, and he departed.

“The Prefect is only more unpleasant than Podgoritza,” said Jo to the American in the mackintosh; but he deduced dyspepsia.