[Footnote 2:  This story was published in the Wide World Magazine, and is reproduced with the Editor’s permission.]

To return, however, to the story:—­

“After several weeks I made a day’s tour with Marko to the Bojana.  At the mouth of the river, which you know is the outlet of the Lake of Scutari, a large island has been formed by a stranded ship which sank there, and all the debris, logs, and other rubbish have formed a delta of some size upon the wreck.  It abounds in game, and thither we journeyed one morning early, reaching it some few hours later by a small boat in which we ferried ourselves across.  During the day a great storm sprang up, precluding all chance of returning to the mainland that evening.  In a hut of boughs we spent a miserable night, drenched to the skin by the incessant rain.  Not till towards evening of the following day could we recross, and it was bright moonlight when we commenced our weary tramp, heavily laden and wet, to Dulcigno.  The neighbourhood is dangerous, both Albanians and Montenegrins shoot at sight, and care must always be exercised.

“Perhaps we had covered half the distance, when Marko suddenly and without a word of warning threw the bags and other things he was carrying to the ground.  ’It is a dog’s life, nay worse, that I lead with thee.  My health is ruined, my clothes spoilt, and not a kreutzer do I get.’

“I was furious at the man’s infamous lie, for he was still several guldens to the good, and even more so at the disadvantage he had taken over me.  Here we were alone in a wild and dangerous district, miles from home, and not a human being near.

“‘Thou liest, thou ungrateful dog.  Thou art an ass without a face.’

“As I said this in my rage—­it is a terrible insult to call a man a faceless ass—­Marko’s face was transformed with speechless fury.  His high cheek-bones and black curly hair always made him unprepossessing, for his was a distinctly negro type of face, and now with his lips drawn back like a snarling wolf, disclosing his yellow teeth and gleaming eyeballs, he looked like a fiend incarnate.  I shudder now when I recall that moonlit scene.

“His hand dropped like lightning on the butt of his revolver, but in the moment I had sprung back a pace and covered him with my gun, which I was luckily carrying cocked.

“‘Thy hand from the revolver,’ I cried, ‘or thou art a dead man.’  Slowly his hand sank to his side.  ’Pick up those things at once and carry them before me, or as sure as there is a God in heaven I will shoot thee like the dog thou art.’

“As if every movement was of the greatest exertion he picked up the traps, saying as he did so, ‘Thou shalt remember these insults.’

[Illustration:  MARKO IVANKOVIC]

[Illustration:  THE BRIDGE AT RIJEKA]

“‘Be still!’ I cried, covering him with my gun, ‘and now precede me.’

“And in this fashion we returned to my house.  He threw the load into a corner of the room, and at the door he returned and repeated his warning, vanishing in the darkness.