“He is watching us.  It is far better that we should finish him now than allow him to go on and report our movements,” said the man, fingering his trigger lovingly.

On looking I saw an Albanian about six hundred yards away, half hidden behind a boulder.  The idea of shooting a man in this way did not seem quite sporting, and Dr. S. agreed with me.  The men were extremely disappointed at our refusal to allow them to shoot.  “He will follow us till we reach the wood,” they said, “and then we shall repent it.”  The Albanian shortly afterwards disappeared, and we proceeded with our packing.

About eight o’clock we left Carina, and had rather an unique experience in riding across several large snow fields which were quite hard, though the horses decidedly disliked the experiment.  About an hour’s ride brought us to a tiny church, solidly built of stone and standing on a ridge overlooking the whole country.  It is used by the shepherds who migrate annually to the pasturages in this district.  Only a few months ago the Albanians had broken into it and utterly dismantled it.  On the iron door and on the shutters huge dents and even bullet splashes were plainly visible.  Our Albanian we found here awaiting us, which was a plucky thing to do.  Our guards hailed him with the cry of “Albanian or Montenegrin?” But he answered, “Friend.”  I think that our men showed him our rifles rather ostentatiously, and, as we were all armed with magazines and had plenty of ammunition, he must have thought that we should scarcely afford the desired sport.  We did not see him again, though he took the same path which we were going to take.  This incident put us very much on our guard, and we made preparations for the further journey with mixed feelings.  Before us lay the dense wood of Vucipotok, which is the most ill-famed spot in Montenegro.  It stretches unbrokenly down to Gusinje, and the bridle path which traverses it is the border line between the two countries.

It was then settled that a guard and myself should climb a small hill overlooking the wood and its approach.  However, we saw nothing, and soon rejoined our party.  Before entering the wood, in the open, were two or three stones erected to murdered men—­it is customary in Montenegro to put up either a pile of stones or a slab of rock where the body has been found.  Inscriptions on the stones are very rare, the Vucipotok is too dangerous to waste much time in it, but wherever these stones are seen, a dead man, as often as not headless, has been found.  Such memorial stones are to be found all over the country, but not in such plentiful profusion as we saw them now.

Everyone dismounted, and with rather uncanny feelings we entered the forest.  First of all went one of our escort, and then in single file, about ten paces apart, we followed.  Rifles were held at the ready, and every boulder and tree carefully scanned.  The path was atrocious, strewn with great stones, so that walking was no easy matter.  When a particularly large boulder was reached, we would halt under its shelter to enable the horses to come up—­they were following behind under the charge of one man.  We did not exactly stroll through that wood.