Luckily we had taken a supply of food with us, though we had been told that we should be in Dulcigno for supper, and this again we devoured with ravenous appetites as the long hours wore on.  The coast was monotonous, a never-varying bank of hills descending to the water’s edge.  Here and there a tiny village could be seen, but otherwise no life, and little vegetation.

Not till nine o’clock in the evening did we reach Dulcigno, and the impression that the lights in the houses on the hillsides made is not easily to be forgotten.  It seemed like a colony of spacious and luxurious villas on well-wooded slopes.  In pitch dark we arrived at a quay, and groped our way out of the boat, and were led to the inn.  Great knockings and shoutings summoned the innkeeper from his early slumbers.  While waiting in the darkness below, the Turkish muezzins ascended the many minarets, and began the evening call to prayer.  The weird chanting from so many voices (there are seven mosques in Dulcigno) in the otherwise utter stillness had a most uncanny effect.

It was a strange arrival.

Our inn was slightly less primitive than the preceding ones.  We had a tiny bedroom apiece, and there was a room downstairs for eating purposes, though we were always able to take our meals outside under the trees.

Dulcigno, or Ulcinj, is certainly the prettiest town in Montenegro, though it is to all intents and purposes Turkish in appearance.  Built partly on a hill overlooking the sea, it descends into a small bay where the occasional passing steamers anchor.  Well wooded and hilly, it is really a delightful spot, though the Turkish element may or may not detract from its beauty according to personal taste.  The irregular houses, the mosques with their slender towers, the bazaar, and the gaily-dressed if dirty crowds that circulated between the rows of shops—­gave a distinctly pleasing effect.  The heavily-veiled women, wearing in addition to the veil a thick cloth cape with a capacious hood, amused us greatly, for on meeting us, lest our bold eyes should pierce their disguise, they would stop and turn their faces to the wall.  What these poor creatures suffer from the heat in these ponderous cloaks can only be imagined, and Dulcigno is by no means cold.

Though the fantastic picture conjured up the night of our arrival by the twinkling lights, peeping out of the dark foliage, on the hillside was not realised, still the entirely different picture of the reality was equally pleasing.

We called the next morning on the harbour captain, an Austrian and ex-sea-captain, who received us most kindly and courteously.  Through him we were at once able to make the acquaintance of one Marko Ivankovic, a hunter of great prowess, whom we immediately engaged to attend us for the shooting in the neighbourhood.