We reached the outskirts of Scutari about seven hours after our start, and the town is entered by a great bridge.  But before coming to the bridge we rode through a great assembly of Albanians, judging from their different costumes, from every part of the country, with their flocks and herds for the market.  The men were lying about singly or in groups, sometimes under a rough tent, while the women attended to their wants and to the flocks.  Each man was heavily armed with rifle and revolver, and turned lazily as we passed, with no friendly looks, plainly intimating that we were intruders.  Still they were fine, fierce-looking men, though their expression is not nearly so prepossessing as that of the Montenegrin.  It was a strange scene of life, but only one of many that abound in and about the capital of Albania.

At the bridge we had to dismount and cross on foot, and a very painful operation it proved after so many hours in the saddle.

The custom-house was situated immediately at the other end of the bridge, and here we entered.  In the guard-house, full of disreputable-looking Turkish soldiers, were hung rifles and revolvers on nails in great number and variety, which the mountaineers have to leave on entering the town precincts.  The custom-house official was peacefully sleeping when we came in, and had to be awakened.  We were led to a divan, and cigarettes and coffee promptly brought to us while our passports were examined.  In a quarter of an hour we were allowed to proceed, but a man came running after us saying that our baggage had not been examined.  He gently hinted that he had no wish to examine it all if ..., and we understood.  We forced a handful of backsheesh in his seemingly unwilling hand, and slowly, with many muttered exclamations, climbed into the saddles.  We even did not scorn the friendly aid of a low wall, so painfully stiff were we.

A short ride round the once mighty and historical fortress of Scutari, past a ruined building liberally painted with white crosses, said to have been once the Cathedral, and where we had noticed that Christian Albanians piously crossed themselves on passing, led us to the famous bazaar.

It was not our first visit to Scutari (we had visited the town by steamer from Montenegro on several previous occasions), but as we clattered through the evil-smelling alleys filled with a surging mass of more or less unclean humanity, we were struck more forcibly than ever with the picture.  At times our passage was blocked by the crowds, and misshapen figures and hideous faces would peer out of doors and shop windows at us, and swaggering Albanians would jostle each other, their belts for the most part empty, though many were armed in spite of the stringent rules to the contrary.  Slowly we forged our way through this seething crowd, and emerged on the open road beyond, leading to the town proper, which lies about half-an-hour’s distance away.

At the hotel we dismissed the man (and the horses), who remarked with a certain grimness, in Italian, “Buon arrivato,” and we staggered into a meal which our eight-hour fast and torture had rendered extremely necessary.