“At Fundina,” said Dr. S., “you will meet one of the modern heroes of Montenegro.  A man named Keco, whose fame has reached to the uttermost ends of the land.”

We had bidden farewell to our host and were riding past the last houses and huts of the clan of Zatrijebac on our way to Fundina.  The path tended downwards, and shortly the great plain of the Zeta burst suddenly into view as we rounded a corner of the mountains.  Beyond lay the Lake of Scutari with its background of mountains.

It was early in the evening when we reined in our horses before a modest stone house and dismounted.  It was Fundina, a straggling village built on the sloping sides of a mountain from which it takes its name.

Voivoda Marko, the hero of Medun, defeated the Turks on these slopes in the first engagement of the last war, successfully inaugurating the campaigning which secured to Montenegro all the territory through which we had been riding for so many weeks, including the towns of Podgorica and Niksic, and the great valley now stretched at our feet.

Podgorica lies like an oasis of green trees on the rolling, but treeless, plain.

The Albanian border is but a rifle-shot away, and the village of Dinos and the fortress of Tusi are plainly to be seen.

We decided to spend the night here and hear Keco’s story, though Podgorica was only three hours’ distance.  It would be a fitting finish to our mountain tour to sleep on the battlefield of Fundina, and in the house of a modern hero.

“I warn you,” remarked the doctor, “that Keco much belies his deeds by his appearance.”

Keco was not in his house when we arrived, and we had our ceremonial and inevitable black coffee brought to us on a small natural platform of rock overlooking the magnificent valley.

Shortly afterwards a small and insignificant man approached us, with haggard looks and grey hair.  He greeted the doctor effusively.

“This is Keco,” said Dr. S.

As he took the tobacco tin which was proffered him his hands trembled so excessively that the rolling of a cigarette was a work of art.

“His nerves are gone,” explained the doctor.  “He lives in hourly danger of his life.”

Keco soon left us to prepare our meal and quarters for the night, and it was not till after supper, when we were seated round the fire in his little house and smoking, that he would consent to tell his story.  Even then he spoke at first reluctantly, but soon warmed to his subject.  His wife was always present and looked anxious.  Several men were in the room.

“Though my hands tremble and my hair is growing white,” he began, “yet I do not fear death.  We must all die, and I know that my fate must speedily overtake me.  This house I have built for my wife, and stocked with what money I had, to provide for her.  They shall not kill me easily.  Twice have they tried.  The first time I was in the fields when men fired at me from a long distance.  I took my rifle and made a detour, and, as my enemies recrossed the border, I was there waiting for them.  But I did not hit one.  Another time seven men hid themselves only thirty yards away from my house, in the evening, but they dared not shoot then, for my wife was by my side.”