When a man dies he is laid out in the sitting-room, and all the friends and relations are summoned.  Then the men enter the room singly and approach the corpse.  Tearing open their shirts they beat themselves with their fists on their naked breasts, often tearing the flesh with their nails, and give vent to ear-piercing wails.  Each new-comer strives to outdo his predecessor in excesses, and horrible scenes ensue.  But the Prince discountenances this custom, and it is slowly dying out, but only in the upper classes.

We often took our rifles and went out into the country for a little target practice, and always succeeded in attracting a group of spectators from adjacent villages or huts.  Towards Albania we were requested not to go for shooting, as the noise of rifle-shots is apt to mislead the surrounding villagers.  Even when shooting in other directions, we were carefully warned not to fire rapidly, but to shoot slowly and deliberately, as at target practice.

Rapid firing is “the alarm,” and would mobilise a brigade of infantry within an hour or two.

On one occasion we were shooting at a somewhat difficult object about one hundred and fifty yards away.  We were trying to hit it, standing, and had not succeeded.  A group of some twenty men had collected, and they soon began to make facetious remarks.  One offered to bring the target nearer.  Another said he would stand target for a few shots—­we shouldn’t hit him.  So we gave one or two of them our rifles and told them to hit it.  Immediately they selected stones as rests, and lay down for their shot.

“Ah,” said we, “we can do that; shoot as we do, standing, and without a rest.”

“That,” they said, “is not shooting—­who shoots like that in war?”

But we were inexorable, and needless to say they failed to hit anywhere near.

The Montenegrins are good shots enough, if they can take long and deliberate aim, steadying their rifles on walls or rocks, but otherwise they are miserable marksmen.

Quite close to Podgorica there lives a hermit, a wonderful man who has hewn out of the living rock a tiny chapel, a store-room, and a passage leading to the chapel.  He has only just completed it, and we inscribed our names in his new book as his first visitors.

[Illustration:  VOIVODA MARKO]

[Illustration:  SIMEON POPOVIC AND HIS CHAPEL]

The hermit, a priest of most refined manners and appearance, named Simeon Popovic, was most delighted at our visit.  He spoke Russian and French fluently; his story is quite a little romance.