It was getting rapidly dark now, and watch had to be kept outside.  The horses were picketed close at hand for fear of wolves, as well as Albanians.  By the time that we had finished eating, night was upon us.  It was pitch dark and no moon.  Rather reluctantly I turned out to do my share of sentry-go in the bitter cold.  But it was decidedly interesting, as one of our party began to tell stories of the usual blood-curdling nature.  On emerging from the hut, I thoughtlessly remained standing for a few seconds in the low doorway which, as the fire was blazing brightly inside, showed up my figure strongly against the surrounding gloom.  Before I knew where I was I was roughly seized by a man and thrown forcibly into the darkness.  He intimated that I must be a fool to court death in that manner.  For all we knew, he said, a dozen Albanians might be hiding around us and waiting for such an easy shot.  And when I was not allowed to smoke, I realised that we were in an enemy’s country.

Watch was kept all night by two men, one sitting on the roof, or on an elevation which commanded it, and the other patrolling round with a sharp eye on the horses.  The roof must always be watched, for the Albanians usually creep up and climb on to it—­it is always conveniently low—­they then remove a board and shoot the sleeping inmates.

During my watch I was told the following story, which brings out many interesting traits of the Montenegrin character.

A certain man named Gjolic, of the tribe of Vasovic, killed two men of his clan over a love affair, and promptly fled to Gusinje, the country just opposite Carina, and inhabited by a tribe of Albanians, famed for their blood-thirstiness and hatred of strangers.  The only passport to their land is crime, and no one but a fugitive from justice can hope to enter, or leave it, alive.  Gjolic swore to have revenge on his clan, and in this respect he was a notable exception.  He came repeatedly across the border, often in broad daylight, shooting anyone whom he met.  He soon became the terror of the whole Vasovic.  In the neighbourhood of Carina he had shot many shepherds, and last autumn he murdered a youth of sixteen.  This was too much, and two men laid their heads together.  To obtain the necessary right of entrance to Gusinje, they crossed over into Turkey and deliberately stole a cow, taking care at the same time that they should be arrested and sentenced to punishment.  Their plan acted admirably, and they effected their escape, fleeing to Gusinje, where they were received in a friendly manner.  But Gjolic was away, and for six months they waited for him in patience.  At last news came that he was on his way home, and could be expected on a certain day.  So the men went out to meet him, and began shooting fish in a river where he must pass.  Fish shooting is a common and favourite sport of the people.

“God help you,” said a voice, “has your luck been good?”

It was Gjolic who spoke.