Muddy and half-wet riding clothes and flannel shirts do not seem to go with crimson and gold, high boots of patent leather, and sparkling orders.  A Horseguardsman’s uniform would be more in keeping.  When we left, the dancing resumed and was kept up till a late hour that night.  We noticed another national dance at Ostrog.  A much more barbaric performance than the stately and solemn movement of the ring dance, or kolo.

In this case two performers dance at a time, a man and a woman.  A small ring is made by the spectators, who also supply the relay couples.  The man endeavours to spring as high as possible into the air, emitting short, Red Indian yells, and firing his revolver.  The woman gives more decorous jumps; and, keeping opposite each other, they leap backwards and forwards across the small open space.  After a few minutes they are unceremoniously pushed aside, after giving each other a hasty kiss, and another couple takes their place.  This goes on ad lib., and we were soothed to sleep by those wild yells.

[Illustration:  THE LOWER MONASTERY, OSTROG]

Next morning we were up bright and early, and about seven o’clock commenced the actual pilgrimage.  A steep and stony path winds up through a dense wood for about an hour.  Fanatical pilgrims make this journey sometimes barefoot, but the ordeal is sufficiently severe without these little additions.  The whole way is lined with beggars, sometimes hardly recognisable as human beings, who must reap a rich harvest by the exhibition of their ghastly woes. They constitute the ordeal.

Maimed stumps of limbs, deformed children, repulsive and festering sores, and other diseases too foul for description were proudly exhibited at every step.  A cap was placed invitingly in front of each, and partly filled with alms already given.  In piteous agony diseased hands and quavering voices besought us in the name of God and their saint to alleviate their sufferings with the gift of a kreutzer.  It was not a sight that will lightly escape the memory.

We reached the top, hot and nauseated, but were fully compensated by the unique view.  The monastery is built under an overhanging precipice which rises to a giddy height above.  The charred rocks bear telling evidence to the miracles which have saved the little edifice from burning.

We went straight to the shrine, through a little door scarcely more than four feet high (the wooden lintels of which being the handiwork of S. Vasili were piously kissed by the Montenegrins), through two long and narrow passages hewn from the living rock and emerged suddenly in a small rock chamber, dimly lit by an oil lamp and about twelve feet square.  The five of us filled the space, and, as our eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, we were able to distinguish a wooden shrine taking up the whole length of one side—­where the mortal remains of the Hercegovinan lay.  Another side was occupied by an open coffin containing the vestments and crucifix.  On a chair sat a Greek priest who rose when we entered.  At the foot of the shrine lay a cripple.