Explanations followed, and the rest of the men came up smiling; but they sent us back towards Podgorica at once, which was only half an hour’s ride away—­saying that a bullet from the overlooking hill would be no unusual thing.

To-day we left this block-house on our left, and, striking the Zem, we drove along it till we reached a solitary house.  A few hundred yards further down was a Turkish fort, with the banner of the Star and Crescent hanging lazily at the mast.

This house was the home of our friend, quite a young man of sixteen, but married and a proud father.  He could well have been mistaken for twenty-five.

He was working in his field as we drew near, and hurried to meet us.  First of all we went to the Zem, which fifty yards away would be unnoticed, as it lies between two deep banks, which break off suddenly and without any indication.  This historical little river looked very peaceful as it flowed through deep basins, hollowed out of the rocky bed, and splashed over great boulders.  How often has it been crossed by bands of men intent on bloodshed and murder, who often recrossed, flying and hunted fugitives!  What quantities of blood have dyed those clear and crystal pools!  What awful doings of death have they reflected!

The Turkish soldiers opposite turned out, and viewed our movements inquisitively.  Our Albanian friend hinted that a too lengthy inspection might be misunderstood, so we withdrew.

The house was a curiosity.  One-storied, and solidly built of stone; it had no windows, but suggestive loopholes.  The ground floor was empty.  We looked inside for the staircase, but in vain, and this was scarcely odd, because there was none.  The family lives above, and the only means of entry to their dwelling is by a ladder.  This is drawn up after the last man, for the night.

As we clambered up the ladder and crawled through the narrow doorway, the young mother (of fifteen) kissed our hands.

An aged lady, evidently the great-grandmother of one of the young couple—­at least, to judge by her decrepit appearance, she might well have been that (in reality she was the boy’s mother)—­sat spinning in a corner.  A weeping and noisy infant lay strapped immovably in a wooden cradle with no rockers, which a young maiden attempted to soothe by covering it with a thick cloth and rocking it vigorously.

That Montenegrins survive the ordeal of infancy is a proof of their iron constitutions.  An ordinary healthy English baby would be suffocated in five minutes under that hermetic pall, or, escaping this fate, would die of concussion of the brain from violent jarring to and fro, which we have inadvertently termed “rocking.”

A wood fire smouldered in one corner of the room, and the embers were blown into flames as the little can of water was placed in them to boil.  As the water boils, several spoonfuls of coffee are put in—­of the good coffee, only used for distinguished visitors—­and the whole allowed to boil up three or four times.  Then cups are produced, sugar added, and the thick mixture poured out.  This beverage is drunk when it is cool enough, and when the grounds have sunk in a thick sediment at the bottom of the cup.