Really many of the inns we visited in Montenegro could be aptly described by the song sung in London a few years ago of a coster describing his home.  He informed the audience that if they wanted to see his library, his kitchen, or his best spare bedroom, “You just stops where you is.”  In slightly more grammatical language, it could be well applied to these hostels.

Towards evening we were taken and presented to Voivoda Lakic Voivodic, who was sitting in semi-state before the house of a rival drinking-place.

He had a remarkably strong face, and was of powerful build.  Speedily we were introduced to his adjutant, the town captain, and other officials, and a great circle was formed of which we were the centre of attraction.  Our arms were brought out and examined with great glee and appreciation; also our field-glasses came in for their usual share of admiration, and our clothes were likewise carefully overhauled.

When we laughingly said that we hoped for some sport with the Albanians and perhaps to shoot a few, our popularity was complete; our backs were clapped, and a great scene of joy and enthusiasm took place.  Such remarks are liable to be taken rather literally in this region.

We gave the Voivoda and his adjutant a dinner one evening, the best that we could manage, though it certainly was not the kind of feast to which one would ordinarily invite a Duke.

Being five of us, our table was not big enough, so we joined on a second smaller and lower table at which the doctor and P. sat.  P. put a salt-cellar between the upper table and the lower, saying that as they now sat “below the salt,” they could behave as they liked.  It was a most uproarious meal, and later on the Voivoda retired to a bed which was just behind him to laugh himself out.

[Illustration:  CHURCH PARADE]

On Sunday we went to church—­at least we went to the church and met the Voivoda outside.  It was a very hot day and the little edifice was crowded.  We had a suspicion that the worthy Voivoda came late on purpose.  He just glanced at the crowd which had overflowed into the open space before the door, and to the relief of his staff proposed a quiet cup of coffee instead.  Under the shade of the trees, discreetly apart from the merrymakers who were celebrating the Mass of a departed comrade, we sat in the customary ring and were served with coffee.  It was a pleasant hour, and as the Voivoda, who was a bit of a wit, if somewhat irreverent, said, “This is better than inside.”

The church was about a quarter of a mile from the town and lay almost hid in a beautiful wood.  The bells, as is often the case, were hung about a hundred yards away from the church on a wood scaffolding, and on the green grass sat many groups of Montenegrins.

The occasion was a feast.  Mass was being said for the soul of a man who had recently died, and it is the custom for the dead man’s relations to give a feast to all comers.  Large dishes of roast lamb were being handed round to the men who sat in circles, the women eating apart, and much spirit was drunk.  About six priests were also present, feasting.