In the Turkish town lies the prison, soon to be the only one in Montenegro.  A new wing is rapidly nearing completion to accommodate the female prisoners, who are at present incarcerated in Cetinje.  We visited the director that Easter Monday morning, and were received unofficially in his quarters.  We always had great fun with that man—­a pompous individual filled to overflowing with the importance of his position, and, not unlike men similarly afflicted, most aggressively stupid.

As a great favour, and after our united persuasion, he allowed us at last to look from a window overlooking the courtyard of the prison.  As in Cetinje, the prisoners walk without let or hindrance in the spacious walled-in courts before their cell doors.  Being Easter no man was chained, a privilege they owe to the Prince, who always releases the prisoners from their fetters during the great festivals; one wretched individual, however, we noticed more heavily manacled than even a murderer of the worst kind.  He was, we were informed, a dangerous madman, though, poor devil, he looked harmless enough, slouching round and round the yard.  The primitive custom of confining dangerous lunatics (for the harmless are allowed their full liberty outside) in the common prison is soon to be done away with.  A large lunatic asylum is rapidly nearing completion near Danilovgrad—­another memorial of Prince Nicolas’ improvements.

The prisoners were sleek and fat—­those imprisoned for long terms or for life bearing witness of the good treatment which they receive at the hands of the authorities.  One youngish man in particular attracted our attention, a merry laughing fellow whose girth had reached alarming proportions.  He was imprisoned for life, and his crime, which sat so lightly upon him, had been a particularly atrocious and dastardly murder for plunder—­a crime practically unknown in Montenegro.

Imprisonment is more real here than in Cetinje.  There is none of that delightful promenading up and down before the prison walls, hours pleasantly whiled away with a friendly visitor from afar over a pint of wine.  The only glimpse of the outside world that these prisoners obtain is when a few of them fetch water daily from a well outside the walls.

As we gazed upon the strange scene from the window above, of prisoners and warders amicably chatting together, others squatting in groups over a harmless game, a horrible voice disturbed the serenity of the picture.  Then at a closely barred window a face appeared, with matted hair and long unkempt beard.  It was the face of a madman; with terrible curses he filled the air, and we looked inquiringly at our cicerone.

“That man is a political offender,” came the answer.  “For fifteen years he has waited his trial, and now he has become hopelessly insane.  Many years ago he endeavoured to stir up a revolution against the Prince, and fled to Vienna, where he carried on his treasonable propaganda.  But he was enticed back, and thrown into solitary confinement such as those who are traitors to their Prince receive.  For an hour every day these prisoners are allowed to walk in the yard, but this man from the first refused to avail himself of the privilege, and now he has become what you see.”