[Illustration:  A REALISTIC PERFORMANCE]

[Illustration:  AN ALBANIAN HOME ON THE CRNA ZEMLJA]

The room, our treatment, and the coffee-brewing are typical of many such visits that we paid in Montenegro.

Afterwards spirits were produced, tobacco tins exchanged, and arms—­rifles, revolvers, and handjars—­inspected and criticised.  Any relics or curiosities are produced, and everyone becomes very friendly.

Before we left, an old man (some relation of our host) came up as we were examining a fine handjar, that heavy and hiltless sword which forms part of both the Albanian and Montenegrin fighting kit, though they are no longer universally carried in times of peace.  The handy revolver has replaced the former beltful of pistols and yataghan.  But in border fighting the handjar is always taken, and, when time permits, the victim is still decapitated by a single blow of that murderous weapon.

The old man—­a villainous-looking rascal, with shaven head and scalping lock—­favoured us with a graphic mimicry of a fight, showing the methods in his day.  He took the handjar between his teeth and a musket in his hands, yelling and scowling fearfully; then, the last cartridge fired or the moment for hand-to-hand combat arrived, the rifle was thrown away, and brandishing the handjar in the air, he darted towards us.  It was a most realistic performance, and made us feel thankful that it was only play.

Suddenly the old man stopped his wild yelling and burst out laughing.  He laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

We glanced behind us at the loophole door, and there, with a horrified look, peered our driver, revolver in hand.

He thought that we were being murdered.  He was a foreigner and new to Podgorica, but more of him anon.

Then we took our leave and drove on to another block-house, and visited the commandant.  After that we returned to Podgorica, and that afternoon, affectionate leave-takings over, we departed for Cetinje, en route for Cattaro.

That drive, which should have taken about seven hours, was a memorable one, and a fitting conclusion to our visit.

We wired to the hotel in Cetinje in the morning, ordering supper to be ready for eight o’clock.  Then we had hoped to leave at one p.m.  At two we again wired from Podgorica for supper to be delayed till ten.

A hundred yards from the town we stopped, and the driver mended some harness with a piece of wire.  A mile further on something else broke.  If nothing gave way, a horse kicked a leg over a trace, necessitating its partial unharnessing.  Each time the driver (he of the morning’s drive and a native of Hercegovina) descended, swearing softly between clenched teeth, in caressing tones, and his face set in a forced smile.  If we had not understood what he said, he might have been addressing endearing remarks to his horse, or holding serious converse with a friend.