One lady had ventured unveiled into the bazaar, and one of the lowest of women had given her a blow on the face.  On appealing to a policeman she had received small comfort, as he told her she ought to be ashamed of herself.

As we went home we met women coming home from the fair with unsold carpets.  They accosted us and wanted to know why we were writing them in the morning so that they could tell their relatives all about it.

When we reached our bedroom the old innkeeper came in.  In dulcet tones she admired our purchases.  We were rather stiff.

Suddenly she fell upon Jo’s neck saying, “You mustn’t be angry with me,” and remained there explaining.

When she left, Jo looked gravely at Jan, took a toothcomb, let down her hair, and worked hard for a while.

Next day we went for a long walk.  As we were returning a terrific storm burst over us.  We had left our mackintoshes in the inn, and were soon wet through.  We got back just at supper time, and after, as Jan had no change of clothing, he decided to go to bed in his wet things, heaping blankets and rugs over himself in the hopes of being dry by the morrow.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XII

THE HIGHWAY OF MONTENEGRO—­II

Jan awoke nearly dry, or in a sort of warm dampness, at 4.30 a.m.  Not a soul was about, and we packed by candle.  There was a purple dawn, and the towering cliffs behind the minarets glowed a deep cerise for at least ten minutes ere the light reached the town.  The streets were still and deserted, but at last an old man with a coffee machine on his back, and a tin waistbelt full of pigeon-holes containing cups, took a seat at a corner.  At six he was surrounded by groups of Albanian workmen drinking coffee, and he beckoned us to come and take coffee with him, but we were suspicious of the cleanliness of his crockery.  A miserable-looking woman in widow’s weeds was loitering about the door of the post office, and with her was a tattered girl surrounded by trunks, suit-cases, and bandboxes, so we guessed they were there to be fellow passengers.  A waggon loaded with boxes halted before them, but the widow declined to let her baggage go by it.

At last the post waggon came.  It was a small springless openwork cart with a rounded hood on it, so that it could roll when it upset—­which was the rule rather than the exception—­luggage accommodation was provided only for the “soap and tooth-brush” type of traveller; but the widow insisted upon packing in all her movables, and after that we four squeezed into what room was left.  The seat was low, one’s chin and knees were in dangerous proximity, and a less ideal position for travelling some thirty-five miles could not be imagined.  The widow’s portmanteau, all knobs and locks, was arranged to coincide with Jo’s spine.  The tattered maid was loaded with five packages on her knees which she could not control, so we looked as cheerful as we could and said to ourselves, “Anyway it will do in the book.”