The Prefect, having been to his office and having seen the lieutenant, came back in five minutes, rather more suave in manner, and announced impressively that he was going to give us his own carriage.

But the rain, the giggling boys, the smiling Turk, and the sudden drop from royalty to insignificance had been rankling in Jo’s mind.  She sat back haughtily and remarked—­

“But the Sirdar promised us a motor-car.”

“I will go and see if it is possible,” said the Prefect, and he dashed out into the rain.  He returned full of apologies.  All the motors were out, but he would send his carriage round immediately.  “A delightful carriage,” he added.

It arrived—­a landau such as one would find at Waddingsgate-super-Mare, so free from scars that every Montenegrin turned to look at it.

The hotel-keepers, our American friends, and the Prefect and his captain stood pointing out its beauties, and we left them standing in the rain.

“I shall always put on side in this country,” said Jo as she bit a large mouthful of cheese.

We pounded along, and the day slowly grew darker.  We passed an encampment, where the firelight thrown up on to the trees made a weird and jolly sight.

The hours passed by slowly.  Suddenly (our coachman was probably dozing) we ran into something.  It was a carriage, a square grey thing.  Our coachman howled to it, and it started slowly forward up the steep hill.  A bright light streamed from the windows and cut a radiant path in the foggy rains.  Some one threw away a cigar-end.  The wet road shining in the glare of our pink candles, and the lightning flashing intermittently so that the mountain-tops sprang out to disappear again in the darkness; we felt as if we were living in the introduction of a mystery story from the Strand Magazine.

At last in the misty rain we saw the aura of the lights of Cettinje.  At last we wound slowly into wet streets, passed our mysterious companion without being able to see who was in it, and so to the hotel.  Since the morning we had driven fourteen hours, and we were glad beyond measure to stretch and to find really comfortable beds.

The next day we got up early.  There was much to do.  We were to see the War Minister about Scutari, to present a letter of introduction to the English minister, and to inspect the town.

Nature has half filled a big crater with silt, and the Montenegrins have half covered it with Cettinje.

It is a polychromatic village of little square houses, cheerfully dreary, and one does not see its uses except to be out of the way.  The only building with any architectural beauty is the monastery where the old bishops reigned, and which must have many a queer tale to tell.

Asking for the Count de Salis, the English minister, we were directed to the diplomatic street, a collection of tiny houses grouped respectfully in front of the Palace, which itself was no larger than a Park Lane house laid edgeways, and with the paint peeling from its walls.