Buffaloes were sitting in couples round the big square.  They chewed the cud with an air of incomparable wisdom so remote from the look of reproachful misery that is generally worn by an ox.  Goats came in from the hills with their hair clipped in layers, which gave them the appearance of ladies in five-decker skirts; and children were playing a queer game.  They jumped loosely round in circles with bent knees, making a whooping-cough noise followed by a splutter.  We saw it often afterwards, and decided that it must be the equivalent to our “Ring o’ Roses.”

Work was over for the day, the sun set behind the hills which ringed us round, and we went to kill time in a cafe.

While we were exchanging coffees with an “American,” who was showing us the excellences of his wooden leg which he had made himself, a breathless man ran in.

He had been searching the town for us.  The governor had ordered him to put us up, as his had the notoriety of being a clean house.  Having taken a room already with the amiable old lady we feared to disappoint her, so we decided not to move.  The man piteously hoped that we were not offended; and we explained at length.

When we reached the hotel again our old hostess bustled up, more sugary than ever.

“We have just thought of a little rearrangement,” she said.

“How so?”

“Well, do you understand, the inn is very full to-night, so we thought it best that you should both take the one bed and I and my daughter will take the other.”

“Oh,” said we, “in that case we had better move altogether, we have anoth—­”

“Indeed, no no,” said the old lady, horrified.  “Stay, stay.  There sit down.  It is good, keep your beds.”  She patted us and left us.

We had an uninspired dinner.  Greasy soup, tough boiled meat which had produced the soup, minced boiled meat in pepper pods, and two pears which turned out to be bad.  The company, composed of officers and nondescripts, pleased us no better than the dinner, so we decided to eat elsewhere on the morrow.

The governor’s secretary came in to arrange for an interview with his chief—­yet another Petrovitch and brother to the governor of Scutari.  By this time we had each imbibed a dozen Turkish coffees during the day, but we slept for all that from nine until nine in the morning.

Marko Petrovitch, whom we saw early, was the best and last Petrovitch we met in Montenegro.  Like all the Petrovitches he wore national costume.  He was handsome, shy, and kindly, said we must go to Dechani the most famous of Balkan monasteries, and promised us a cart for the journey.

After leaving the governor we plunged into melodrama.

Hearing a noise we discovered crowds of weeping women and children round the steps of a shop.  A young man in French fireman’s uniform seemed to be very active, and an old trousered woman passively rolled down the steps after receiving a box on the ears.