The road climbs to a good height immediately and commands a fine view of the valley with the little river winding in and out.  In winter the effect is that of a great flood, for everywhere partially submerged trees and bushes show above the water.  But in reality it was only a natural course of events, for in summer the water recedes and leaves great fields on which crops of maize are grown, while during the winter or rainy months the whole district of fertile land becomes again submerged.  This view of the Rijeka was decidedly one of the prettiest in the country, combining, as it does every now and then, glimpses of the lake and the majestic Albanian Alps.

Always followed by our rival party, we halted at a wayside inn to refresh both man and beast.  These inns are quaint little places.  There is seldom any other floor than that already provided by Nature, which has been beaten flat.

We called for coffee, and partook of the country’s wine, to whose acidity we never accustomed ourselves, and entered into conversation with our convivial companions.  One, a horse dealer, spoke excellent Italian, and we met him often afterwards in the course of our travels.

When we had finished our libations, we naturally wished to have the bill or rather to know how much there was to pay.

“Nothing,” was the answer.

“But we have had ——­” It is not well to particularise—­it was a thirsty day.

“There is nothing to pay,” the woman reiterated.

The other party had guiltily slipped out of the room and climbed into their carriage, and our driver became impatient to maintain the lead.  With mixed feelings we followed him out, and in another second were off again at a gallop.

It was always like that in Montenegro.  We have gone into an inn or cafe and drunk a liqueur (a polite name for the fiery but wholesome local spirit), when a fresh glass will be silently placed before us.  We have waved it away.

“Not ordered it,” we would say.

“That man has,” answers the boy, and points at a smiling Montenegrin on the other side of the room.  Sometimes, and very often too, other guests follow suit, and the result is trying.  We gave up visits to cafes afterwards, except when we were on pleasure bent and had an hour to spare.  Hospitable, reckless, poverty-stricken Montenegrins—­one can travel far before another such a race can be found.

The last two hours of the drive are uninteresting, chiefly because eight hours in a carriage is trying.  Podgorica comes in sight long before it is reached, in the form of a cluster of trees on a grassy but dead-level plain, out of which two minarets show their graceful spires.  The background is imposing, lowering Albanian mountains rise abruptly to their lofty heights from the level of the plain.

For an hour we drove along the plain, and passed a solitary building situated on a slight eminence.  It was Krusevac, one of the Prince’s country palaces, or, to be more correct, Prince Mirko’s palace, as “Voivoda” or Duke of the Zeta, which ancient and historical title is his.  Then for some distance we skirted the Moraca, driving in an opposite direction to Podgorica till we came to the “Vizier” bridge, over which we crossed and retraced our way to the town.