Many weeks afterwards—­P. and I had been on an expedition in the meantime—­we sat again in Petri’s garden at just such a sunset.  We remembered the musician, and one of us jokingly remarked that his music would not be so appreciated in Greece as by us music-starved exiles.  Then the Austrian told us the sequel.  He had heard it from a murderous Albanian friend of his, who sometimes brought him specimens.  The wanderer had not used his ticket, and had walked from Antivari to Dulcigno, from thence he had attempted his original plan of crossing Albania on foot.  He knew nothing of geography or nationality, and doubtless imagined that he could earn his way as in a civilised country.  On the way to Scutari a band of Albanians stopped him, and he played to them.  The instrument pleased them, and they took it from him.  Then they took the boy—­though why they did so is not clear, for they do not kidnap children—­and the father, in a fit of wild despair, sprang at the nearest Albanian.  The Albanians are always glad of an excuse to kill; the wanderer found his death in perhaps the only moment of heroism that he had displayed throughout his wretched life.  Such, though, was the story our informant had gleaned, and it took the edge off our evening’s amusement.

But other evenings we were merry, and many were the wonderful stories of adventure told over bottled beer and an extraordinary salad which old Gugga mixed before us—­to make an appetite, as he said.

We got to love Podgorica in the end, and left its streets, full of gaudy-coloured humanity, the old shot-riddled town across the river, and the glorious mountain panorama, with sorrow.  There was always something to talk about, from a threatened raid of the Albanians to the abduction of a Turkish maiden.  Death is always very near in that unknown border town.

The day of our final departure from Podgorica, we drove to the famous Crna Zemlja, or Black Earth.

The object of our visit was chiefly to call on a young Albanian, who had repeatedly invited us.  Though an Albanian, he is a Montenegrin subject and a corporal in the standing army.

As a matter of fact, he is a fugitive from his clan, the Klementi, where his life is forfeited in a blood feud.  The Prince wisely uses such men as a kind of extra border guard, giving them land and houses on the actual frontier line, knowing that they will keep a doubly sharp watch to preserve their own lives.

The Black Earth is an absolutely flat and treeless plain, covered at times with grass, which mischievous Albanians love to set fire to in the hopes of some sport with peasants, who might attempt to extinguish the conflagration.  The River Zem divides it and constitutes the boundary, but the land on both sides is neutral by mutual consent.  It is courting death to walk upon it.  Block-houses dot it at frequent intervals, containing small garrisons of Montenegrin and Turkish soldiers.

As we drove past the first Montenegrin block-house, we were reminded of a ride which we once took to it, while our knowledge of the border dangers was nil.  On that occasion we had cantered, innocently, straight towards it, and were amused to see its little garrison promptly turn out.  A man came running towards us motioning us to halt.  This unmistakable request we suddenly obeyed, for the men behind had covered us with their rifles.