Then he was carried to the hospital in Cetinje and lay six weeks recovering.

When he was well again, his thoughts were occupied with revenge, and in this scheme he was greatly assisted by his relations.

“Thou wilt be killed, of course,” they said, “but thine and our honour must be avenged.  Who are the men of Bajice to beat one of us and go unpunished?”

He was of the same opinion, and cast about for a suitable victim.  Now the son of the aged Voivoda who had ordered the assault lived in Cetinje.  He was the captain of the Royal Body Guard, the hero of many a fight with the Turks, and famed throughout the land.  We knew his son, who stands about six feet four inches, and he is said to have been small compared to what his father was.

“He shall be the victim,” said the man of Cetinje, and his relations applauded the choice.

One morning early the captain emerged from a shop, and from a distance of a few feet, the avenger of his honour fired at him from behind, hitting him in the neck.  The captain fell forward on his face, saying, “Who has shot me?” and turning saw the assassin running up the street.  With his last strength he drew his revolver, and resting his elbow on the ground, he fired once; the man reeled but continued his headlong flight:  again the wounded officer fired, and as he sank forward dying, he had the satisfaction of seeing the fugitive throw up his hands and fall dead, shot through the heart.  The last shot was fired at a distance of fifty yards.

“As you can imagine,” concluded our informant, “the news of this affray nearly caused a pitched battle between Bajice and Cetinje, which was only prevented by the energetic action of the Prince.  He called the two clans together before his palace and with marvellous judgment picked out the ring-leaders and imprisoned them, and the rest were sent home with such a warning of what would come if he heard any more about it, that all interest was lost in the dispute.  Men do not like to face our Prince when he is angered, and his constant presence in Cetinje is a great drawback to the vendetta.  Now I must leave you, and to-morrow you shall visit the hospital.”

We strolled to the market-place, which was full of peasants and their produce.  It is not nearly such a scene of life as is met with elsewhere.  The Albanian element is almost totally absent, and that alone takes fifty per cent. of the wildness off.  Neither are rifles brought to Cetinje, so that it presents a far more peaceable aspect.  Still it is crowded, the guslars do a literally roaring trade, and there are always a sprinkling of men from the Vasovic and other outlying clans to liven up the scene.

Here old friends and comrades in arms meet, called to the capital as witnesses, or principals, in a law case, or to draw their salaries as small officials of their districts.  The conversation on these occasions is always the same, and if heard often, becomes monotonous.  The unvarying formula of greeting is quaint and terse, but it loses much of its impressive character by translation.  One word in explanation.  The Montenegrins cannot utter the simplest remark without invoking the Almighty in some form or another.  The use of the word “Bog,” or “God,” is incessant.