We passed a standing carriage, in which was a large man in Montenegrin clothes, and a little further on passed a man in a grey suit walking.  Dr. Ob gesticulated wildly, and pulled up the motor to gather in a Frenchman—­somebody in the French legation who was going to Scutari for a week end.  He turned suddenly to Jan.

“Ce n’est pas une vie, monsieur,” were the first words he uttered.  He admired Miss Petrovitch very much, and told us in an undertone that she was a daughter of the governor of Scutari, niece of the King of Montenegro, and one of “les familles le plus chic.”

We descended steeply to the Port, ten variously coloured houses and twenty-five variously clothed people.  Miss Petrovitch, to our amazement, embraced a rather dirty old peasant, the doctor disappeared to find us luncheon, the Frenchman to wash, and we strolled about.

A voice hailed us, and turning round, we found our mackintoshed American of Pod.  We took him to the inn and stood him a drink.  Dr. Ob came in and we introduced; but Dr. Ob was snifty and the American shy.  His home was near by and he wished us to visit him, but there was no time.

We lunched in a bedroom plastered with pictures.  Montenegrins seem to be ashamed of walls, and they adore royalty.  In every room one finds portraits of the King of Montenegro, the queen, the princes, the King of Italy, his queen, the Tzar of Russia, the grand dukes and duchesses, the King of Serbia and his princes, and to cap all a sort of comprehensive tableau of all the male crowned heads of Europe—­including Turkey—­balanced by another commemorating all the queens of Europe—­excluding Turkey—­the spaces left between these august people are filled with family portraits, framed samplers, picture postcards or a German print showing the seven ages of man over a sort of step-ladder.

After lunch, loaded with grapes which Miss Petrovitch’s peasant friend brought us, we trooped down to the steamer, which had been an old Turkish gun monitor and had been captured when the Montenegrins took Scutari.

The boat was crowded, and the Frenchman took refuge in the captain’s cabin, which was crammed with red pepper pods, and went to sleep.  Jo began sketching at once.  There were two full-blooded niggers aboard with us:  they were descendants of the Ethiopian slaves of the harems; but the race is dying out, for the climate does not suit them.  We steamed out into the lake, down the “kingly” canal, a shallow ditch in the mud.  Magnificent mountains rush down on every side to the water, in which stunted willow trees with myriad roots—­like mangroves—­find an amphibious existence.  We passed through their groves, hooting as though we were leaving Liverpool, and out into the eau-de-nil waters of the open lake.