Away at the end of one fjord lies the village of Risano, an idyllic spot, whence a road is in the course of construction to Niksic.  All the worthy Bocchese are absolutely Montenegrin in sympathy, and Austria has had much trouble with these equally warlike Serbs.

A curious conical hill rises out of the town, a high wall zigzags up to the fort above, showing Cattaro’s strength of former days.  Now, a few insignificant mounds of earth far away on the mountain-tops are all that is to be seen of the military might of modern Cattaro.  Yet how powerful are those forts only the Austrian authorities know.  Cattaro and the Bocche are impregnable from sea or land, though this array of strength against land attack seems almost unnecessary, as Montenegro possesses no heavy cannon at all.  However, Austria is not reckoning in this case with Montenegro alone.  But these are political questions.

We were fortunate in securing a carriage of the Montenegrin post, which has good drivers, and what is still better, a fixed tariff, over which there can be no dispute.  The drivers of Cattaro ask, and often get, twice the legal fare from ignorant strangers.

Cattaro affords no comforts to the traveller; more is the pity, as it is one of the most magnificent spots in the world.  The town itself is tiny and a perfect maze of little Venetian streets, in which it is easy to lose oneself if it were only larger.  To walk upon the Riva and gaze upon those precipitous mountains which tower above the town and its militarily guarded walls is a sight which at first is hardly to be comprehended.  It is too stupendous.  Such a masterpiece of Nature can never tire.

Montenegrins crowd the streets, and the little market is full of peasants who have wearily staggered down those steep paths in the early dawn with their enormous loads of field produce.  Stately men wearing the insignia of their rank on their little caps pace up and down majestically and contrast strangely with the dapper Austrian officers.  Their belts yawn suggestively, something is missing to complete the attire.  It is the revolver, which Austrian law compels them to leave behind on entering her land.  They are obviously ill at ease without that familiar weapon, for ever and anon a hand strays unconsciously to the empty belt seeking its wonted resting-place on the butt.

Strolling one night on the Riva, we involuntarily held our breath as we came in sight of the huge lake, for it is easy to forget that this is the Adria.  The waters lay unruffled before us, not a ripple disturbed those glassy depths which reflected every tree and cottage on the opposite bank.  Each star found its double twinkling in that placid mirror, and mountain frowned back on mountain.  It was almost unreal, so marvellous was the reflection.  Behind us, at the top of the great ridge, a silvery effulgence proclaimed the coming of the moon.  Her brilliant light silhouetted the grim and rocky ridge in startling clearness, though