This and other events led up to the attack made by the Turkish troops on the tribe of Kuc, when, at Fundina, Marko and his small tribe smote the Moslems hip and thigh.  The rest is a matter of history.  He had died but a few months before our visit, and by his last wish was buried in the little fortress of Medun, which many years ago he had stormed at the head of a handful of men under circumstances of great bravery.

The ride thither gave us our first taste of the mountains.  Rough, stony paths through rocky ravines, sometimes skirting deep precipices, and all round the intensely wild and magnificent mountains, led us to the great gorge where Medun is situated.  Perched on a seemingly inaccessible crag, stands the famous ruined fortress, and at its foot Marko’s house.

We were made welcome by his widow, a regal woman of middle age, and still strikingly handsome.  Her dead husband was not only a great hero, but a poet and historian, and one of the most remarkable features of his life was that, at the age of forty, he taught himself to write, and made his name famous as well in the Serb literary world.  He had always treated her as his companion, and not as the average Montenegrin treats a woman—­as a being of inferior quality and a better class of servant.  Marko had a wonderful character; a great athlete, perfect rifle-shot, and a military warrior and leader of men, he brought home during his campaigns over one hundred Turkish heads; but he was also a refined gentleman, a true poet, and merciful to his enemies.  He was a notable exception in the matter of prisoners—­he always let them go unharmed, sometimes escorting them himself to a place of safety.

Our visit gave much gratification to his widow, who was pleased that strangers from such a distant land should wish to visit her husband’s grave, and she was hospitality itself.

After a rest and food in her house, she conducted us herself up the steep winding path to the grave.  We came abruptly upon a small plateau in front of a tiny chapel.  The scene was striking in the extreme.  There was the grave, with a rough pile of stones at the head, on which were placed the dead man’s “handjar,” revolver and sword, and many wreaths.  Two lighted candles were flickering in the wind, and in a semicircle stood a group of rough, fully-armed mountaineers, the retainers of the Voivoda.  It was stormy, and great gusts of wind and rain dashed round the rocky fortress, and in the distance a rugged pile of mountain peaks towered up into the descending mist.

The widow left us, and, kneeling at the grave, quietly kissed the cold stones, praying for a few moments in deep silence.  Not a man spoke or moved as we stood with bared heads and waited.  Slowly rising, she came to us and led us into the chapel, a bare shell, not even furnished with an altar, and with the original earthen floor.