The drive from Cetinje to Rijeka, and from thence till the final descent to Podgorica, is quite as fine as any other part of Montenegro.  For about twenty minutes after leaving Cetinje the road climbs and attains its greatest altitude on this tour, and at its highest point—­only half an hour’s walk from the town—­possesses one of the most striking and beautiful views.  It is rightly called “Bella Vista,” and a shelter hut and chairs are thoughtfully provided for the visitor.

A wonderful panorama meets his eye as he suddenly reaches the top.  A fantastic sea, as it were, of hills, like the waves of a storm-tossed ocean, encircles him, and at his feet, green and wooded, lies a long fertile valley.  Stretching far away into the gates of distance in its vast expanse, glitters the Lake of Scutari.  Round a small dim spur of land running into the lake, lies Scutari itself, which is, however, not visible.  To the left a forbidding chain of magnificent mountains, dwarfing the intervening hills into insignificance, fascinate him by their repellent grandeur.  Snow-clad, except in the height of summer, these mountains seem symbolical of the land they border, that savage and unknown Albania.  A glimpse of a green valley below can just be caught, there lies Podgorica, our destination.  At our feet a long, low-lying plateau ends abruptly in a wall of rock, through which the road vanishes, and which can be traced white and threadlike on the overhanging hillside.  Beyond is the valley and town of Rijeka.  The mountains to the right are the Rumija, behind whose naked comb is the deep blue Adria, and which we must climb to reach the port of Antivari.  The lake is dotted at the near end with islands, distinguishable amongst which is a conical-shaped hill crowned by a fortress.  That is Zabljak, the whilom capital of Crnagora, and home of its ancient rulers, the Black Prince dynasty.  The whole view is like a map in bas-relief.

Gone now are the barren rocks and sparsely vegetated hills of the Katunska, and we are now in the fertile middle zone of Mediterranean vegetation, which includes the valley of the Zeta right up to Niksic.

As we careered along, we were closely followed by another carriage, in which were crowded five Montenegrins and Albanians, who were evidently bent on making the pace.  The Montenegrins are ever reckless drivers; they dash round sharp corners at full gallop, with a precipice of several hundred feet below—­and there is never sufficient parapet to prevent a carriage dashing over—­so that one involuntarily leans to the inner side of the carriage with that uncomfortable sinking feeling which can be experienced at sea.  With a shout to warn anybody coming up the hill, the driver cracks his whip and dashes round each corner with a sublime indifference to danger.

Whenever we slackened, our pursuing carriage came up at a rush, and its occupants emitted wild yells and vociferated polite requests to pass.  Off we tore again, and at last reached that point where the descent begins in serpentines to Rijeka.  When we were tearing along a lower level of the road, but a few yards below our rivals, we noticed with momentary misgivings that they had drawn their long revolvers and were holding them in their hands.