“My beloved husband wished to be buried in here,” said the widow, “but it was not allowed.  The Prince wished him to be buried in Podgorica, as he was never courtier and was so beloved and honoured by his people—­more than the Prince himself.  But my husband called me to his side, and with his last breath made me swear to bury him in this chapel, or at least in front of it.  And when the order came that he should be buried below, I swore to shoot myself on his grave, and the men of Kuc swore to take his body up here, even if they had to fight every inch of the way.  So it was allowed that he should be buried here, but we shall bury him in the chapel, for that I promised him as he died.”

And she took my hand solemnly in hers, illustrating her oath to the dying man, and I shivered in that gloomy chamber as her impassioned voice echoed in its arches.

Suddenly a wailing of women broke upon the utter silence which ensued, and nearer and nearer came that weird singing as it approached the summit.  The women were chanting Marko’s death dirge.  At last, as they passed the little window, we went outside and saw four women, dishevelled and weeping, approach the grave, kneeling on one side.  The widow left us again and knelt alone opposite.

One woman only sang at a time, a series of extempore verses telling of the life and deeds of the hero—­his accomplishments and goodness—­in the poetical language of this wild people.

“Oh, thou grey falcon, who was so mighty a hunter as thou?”

“Who indeed shall now wield thy bloodstained sword?”

“Oh, thou wolf, who is worthy to take thy place as our ruler and father?”

And the others beat their breasts and tore their hair, wailing in a wild unison, until the singer was exhausted and then another began.

Here and there a deep sob broke from a man, but otherwise the ring of men with bowed heads remained in dead silence and immovable as the rocks around them.

It was one of the most impressive scenes it has been our fortune to witness, but we were glad when the widow rose and conducted us back to the house.  Some letters and poems of the Voivoda were shown to us, and one of the letters to a friend then present in the room was read aloud.  The great rough Montenegrin was so touched at hearing the words of his master and lord, that he turned away his head and sobbed.  All this time the women ceased not with their wild lamentations, and even after we took our leave and started on our rough ride home in pouring rain, that death dirge followed us, echoing in the ravines and mountains.

[Illustration:  THE GRAVE SCENE AT MEDUN]

Since then we have often heard the death dirge sung in Montenegro.  Sometimes in a house in passing; again, an old woman trudging to market will sing the death dirge of a relation, perhaps dead many years.  But we never heard those piercing, wailing notes without having the picture of Medun recalled vividly to our memory.