[Illustration:  CHRISTIAN WOMEN HIDING FROM THE PHOTOGRAPHER.]

[Illustration:  SCUTARI—­BAZAAR AND OLD VENETIAN FORTRESS.]

Mr. Suma came along the next day in good time and gave Jan a letter for the Count de Salis.  We bade him a most cordial farewell, assuring him prophetically that we should revisit Scutari—­little did we dream in what circumstances,—­and he said we would then see the “Maison Pigit,” a show castle which he had, in vain, urged us to visit.  Paget was an Englishman who seems to have spent ten or twelve years dreaming away life in Scutari, and collecting ancient weapons.  With the outbreak of the South African war he disappeared.  He was then heard of fighting for the Turk against the Italian, and later for the Turk against the Balkan alliance.  He has never returned.

With Dr. Ob we drove to the quay, on the road passing an old woman staggering along beneath the weight of a complete iron and brass bedstead.

As we got out of our carriage we noticed a rabble of Turks hurrying towards us.  In its midst was a brougham with windows tight shut and veiled, from which we guessed that some light of the harem was to be a fellow passenger.  The carriage halted, and whatever was within was hustled from the farthest door and in the midst of the dense mob of men hurried down the quay.  The side of the steamer was crowded with craft, so we passed beneath the stern to embark on the far side, to find that the Turkish lady and her escort had passed beneath the bows for a similar purpose.  We caused a flutter, the beauty was hastily lifted on board like a bale of goods, and we caught a glimpse of magnificent pink brocaded trousers and jewelled shoes beneath her red orange covering.  Two women—­one a Christian—­followed, and when she was seated, bent over her as a sort of screen to hide even her clothes from the gaze of the naughty infidel.

Governor Petrovitch came down to the quay to bid us good-bye.  With him came his daughter, who was returning with us.  She had nothing interesting to say about Scutari.  The Frenchman had brought with him a cook whom he had engaged to look after his digestion.

We found comfortable seats on a long box with a bale as a back rest, and the governor sent two chairs for the ladies.  As we steamed away we pondered on the problem of Scutari.

There are in all, say, 300,000 Serbs, a high estimate, in all Montenegro.  The population of the Sanjak and its cities, Plevlie, Ipek, Berane, and Jakovitza, are of course largely Mussulman or Albanian, and already the balance of people in the little mountain kingdom is wavering.  If Montenegro adds to herself Scutari, a town in which the Serb population is practically “nil,” the scales swing over heavily against the ruling classes, and either one will see Montenegro absorb Scutari, to be in turn absorbed by Scutari itself; or we shall see the crimes of Austro-Hungary repeated upon a smaller scale, and Montenegro will be some day condemned before a tribunal of Europe for continued injustice to the people entrusted to her.  The Albanians loathe the Serb even more than they hate the Turk, and at present, in spite of the fact that they are on their best manners, the Montenegrin police and soldiery have the appearance of a debt collector in the house of one who has backed a friend’s bill.