Every few paces stood a memorial stone.  There was one put up to the memory of ten Montenegrins who were all shot down without seeing their enemy.  Everyone shoots at sight here, and had we met our Albanian friend of the early morning, matters would have gone sadly with him.  At one point I insisted on taking a photograph—­much to everyone’s disgust.  The spot was where a famous Kuc general had been murdered.  His head was taken in triumph to Scutari.  Oddly enough, we ate our midday meal at his grave, for his friends took his body away from here and buried it in an open place directly overlooking the valley of Gusinje.  I was rather hurried over the operation, as the Montenegrins distinctly objected to standing still, but they were all very tickled about it.

[Illustration:  THE PATH THROUGH THE VUCIPOTOK]

The Vucipotok is used by young Montenegrins as a means of showing their bravery.  They go straight through it alone, with their rifles over their backs, smoking cigarettes.  This constitutes an act of reckless daring in their eyes.  Some even go through, at some distance from the path, on the Albanian side.  We met one young man leading his horse and strolling along as unconcernedly as though he were in Cetinje—­so that we almost felt that we were being unduly impressed with a sense of danger.  But afterwards we met another party who were proceeding with greater caution than we were.  And then there were those memorial stones.

At last the wood ceased, and in a clearing we made a halt.  Our Montenegrins looked relieved.  For themselves they have no fear, but had one of us been hit, the disgrace for them would have been unspeakable.  It would have necessitated a raid into Albania of the most extensive kind, and hundreds might have fallen; the Montenegrins guard their visitors as they guard their honour, and in that case, life is only a secondary matter.

We now climbed a very steep hill.  At the top we had to dismount, as a narrow path, just wide enough for a horse, skirted along a great precipice, looking straight down about one thousand feet.  It was a wonderful view, but not to be recommended to those suffering in any way from giddiness.

We overlooked the great Vucipotok wood through which we had just passed, and the whole valley of Gusinje.  When we reached a place where we were able to turn round with comfort, we stopped for the view.  A long, narrow valley, inclosed by the Procletia or “Damnable Mountains,” through which a river could be seen flowing, lay at our feet.  This was Gusinje, the forbidden land.  With the aid of field-glasses the town of Gusinje itself could be just distinguished, a square and apparently walled-in town.[4] Very picturesque it looked in the bright sunshine, the great green woods in the foreground, the solemn and majestic snow mountains and the peaceful valley.  Yet it is inhabited by the most villainous and treacherous cut-throats in Europe, an absolutely untameable tribe, who would die to the last man to preserve their independence.