Usually at the back is a small partition, behind which a rough shelf can be found, laden with the day’s milking and cheese.  The whole family sleep in the hut, no division separating the men from the women.  But the Montenegrin peasant sleeps in his clothes, so privacy is considered unnecessary.

Dr. S. was here officially to inspect the flocks, and had an appointment with the district captain.  He was not there, and shortly after our arrival a man turned up, delivering a message from the captain, somewhat in the following fashion.

“Sir, it is my privilege to be the bearer of the captain’s message.  The captain would have you know that he will do himself the honour to meet you here to-morrow in the early morning.”

The man stood smartly at the attention and saluted at the conclusion.

It is extraordinary the grandiloquent language which even the most humble peasant will use, and he speaks with the polished ease of a gentleman.

The baggy blue breeches and red jackets are not worn in these regions, and are replaced by white woollen tight-fitting trousers and jackets, bordered with black braid.  In fact, the dress strongly resembles that worn by the Albanians, except that the black braid is narrower and less elaborate, and the national cap of Montenegro is carried instead of the white head-cloth or fez.  The costume is national, and has not been altered to that of the Montenegrin proper, because it is considered warmer.  The first time that Prince Nicolas visited his new subjects a man said to him in that characteristically familiar way in which the Prince’s subjects are wont to address him:—­

“Gospodar” ("Lord,” and the universal form of address for the reigning Prince), “wilt thou not exchange thy blue breeches for our white trousers.  They would suit thee better.”

The answer of the Prince is not recorded.

Stephan called us into our shanty when the evening meal was ready.  Our host wished to slaughter a lamb, but we deferred that till the morrow, and we ate what we had brought with us.  It was, barring the smoke, a delightful experience, and its charm never diminished.  That hour spent before turning in, after supper, when the tobacco tins circulate, and the shepherds crowd in from the neighbouring huts, made an impression which it will not be easy to forget.

The fire, with its dancing flames and uneven light, shows up the ring of men squatting round it.  Everything beyond is shrouded in impenetrable gloom, throwing out the wild picturesque figures, with their bronzed and honest faces, in bold relief.  The ruddy glare rounds off all hard corners and softens every inharmonious line, flashing fitfully here and there on a steel revolver barrel.  The musical voices rise and fall, and outside the stars are shining.  All is peace and calm.

That first evening a young shepherd, strikingly handsome, with clean-cut features, went outside and sang a wild Albanian song in our honour, his weird chanting echoing in the mountains.  Then came a crackling of pistol-shots from the near distance, a novel way of applause.  With very happy feelings we rolled ourselves in our great coats and went to sleep.