[Illustration:  THE CONSULAR QUARTERS, SCUTARI]

Though Scutari, strictly speaking, does not belong to this account of Montenegro, it is still so interesting, being in former days part of Montenegro, that it deserves some mention.

The actual town is Mahometan, three-quarters of the inhabitants belonging to that faith; but as the surrounding mountains are all Christian, and it is the seat of the Roman Catholic Bishopric of Albania, religious feuds are common.  The Christian Albanian belongs literally to the “Church Militant,” and emphasises his feelings occasionally by throwing a dead pig into a mosque.  On other occasions playful Albanians have been known to tie white cloths round a fez, thereby imitating the headgear of a Mahometan priest, and so parade through the town.  Very naturally the Mahometans object to it, and trouble ensues.  About a year ago Scutari was in a state of siege, and closed to trade for a fortnight.[3]

The consular quarter of the town is really quite fine, and here all the rich merchants, of whom there are very many, live in large houses often beautifully fitted up and surrounded by a formidable wall.  A street where such houses are situated is externally very gloomy, nothing to be seen but high walls pierced by massive gates.  Behind those walls, however, are lovely gardens and imposing houses.

[Footnote 3:  This has again happened since writing the above.]

The consulates are very much in evidence, with guards of splendid-looking Albanian kavasses.  Politically only Austria and Italy are vitally interested in Albania, and these countries have large consular staffs and fine buildings and post offices.

Owing to the absence of the British Consul, we went to see the acting Vice-Consul, who is a Scutarine, and a very courteous gentleman.  Like all the rich merchants of Scutari, he spoke Italian fluently, and through him we got an insight into the merchant houses.  An extremely aged kavass, in the long white skirt or kirtle worn largely in Scutari, and with the British Arms emblazoned on his fez, respectfully kissed our hands, and we were told that he had been in English service for over forty years.  But he could not speak a word of any language except Albanian.

The Vice-Consul placed another kavass at our disposal to accompany us on our explorations of the town, and gave him further permission to attend us on our proposed ride to Podgorica.  This latter idea we were forced to give up ultimately, as the roads were considered too dangerous.  As a matter of fact, a big shooting affray took place in the district through which we should have traversed a few days afterwards.

Quite one of the sights is Mr. Paget’s house (of Paget’s Horse fame), situated in the heart of the town.  The clock tower affords a fine view, though the time that it keeps is startling to the new-comer.  As is known, the Turks have a time of their own, which has a difference of four hours and a half to our time.  It is misleading to get up at an early hour, say six o’clock, and find that it is already half-past ten.  And again you feel you ought to be sleeping at one o’clock at night, till you remember that it is really only about eight o’clock.