Front matter (continued 4)

We were soon out of the town, and then broke into a canter, which we kept up across the plain of Scutari till we reached our old friend the khan, at Koplik.

We felt very jolly this morning. We had made a start. There was a spice of adventure and risk in this expedition, that lent it zest, and excited us. How we were to get on at Gussinje we did not know: our guide spoke no language but his own. It was improbable that we should find any one in the mountains who could understand us. And again, how would Ali Bey and his men treat us. We had no valid excuse for visiting him. Would they know that we had interviewed the prince and war minister of Montenegro? If so, our reception might prove almost too warm. We trusted to luck, and determined to see all we could.

At Koplik we left the track by the lake, and turned to the right, towards the desolate and lofty mountain range.

These were the very mountains that the Turks at Helm seemed so afraid of, as being inhabited by the fiercest and bravest of the Arnaut tribes, addicted to plundering Turk and Montenegrin indiscriminately. With our friend, the representative of the tribe, we were, however, quite safe, certain of being received with every hospitality; and as friends of Zutni Green, every man of the tribe would be friendly to us. For the Arnaut is very grateful, is never treacherous—and once a friend is always a friend, and an excellent friend too.

We gradually reached the foot of the mountains, and then our route lay through the heart of them, for to reach Klementi we had to cross this stupendous chain. For seven hours we were nearly constantly ascending. There was no pretence at a road. We had often to dismount to haul our horses up a higher block of rock than usual, and had to use the greatest care, as we rode along some track not two feet wide with a wall of rock on one side and a precipice a thousand feet in depth on the other.

The shades of night were falling—it would be impossible to travel after dark on such a route. But the boulim-bashi had timed himself well. It was just dusk when we heard that welcome sound to the traveller—the baying of dogs. Our guide signed to us to dismount. We led our horses down an incline, when suddenly a door opened, and a blaze of light fell on us and dazzled our eyes. A gigantic Arnaut, gun in hand, came out suspiciously. He at once recognized our companion, and kissed him affectionately.

On hearing that we were English, friends of Zutni Green, he shook us kindly by the hand, and bid us enter.

"Bramiamir. Mir s'erd" (A good night to you. Be welcome) were the salutations we exchanged on entering the house. Then, according to Albanian custom, we unstrapped our arms, and handed them to our host (a sign of confidence in a friend), who proceeded to suspend them with his own on the wall.

We were seated on mats by the blazing fire, and the women pulled off our boots. It was a curious scene, highly interesting, and taking one very far indeed from Europe and civilization. A large room, the walls of rough stone, admitting the wind freely; the roof of huge, rough-hewn rafters of larch—wall and roof blackened with smoke; the floor of clay; in the centre a fire of great logs, the smoke allowed to find an exit as it could, the result being very unpleasant to unaccustomed eyes; no lamps or rushlights, but a pale and flickering light given out from a sort of iron cup, supported on a rod, into which little chips of resinous wood are occasionally thrown; the walls decorated with arms, the only ornaments in the place. A few cups, a bowl, an iron pan, and one or two other utensils, complete the ménage. This is the house of a great man, a chieftain; and we were told the name of the place is Castrati. A large family occupied the hut, for it was no more. There were several women and young men.

By the fireside there sat a very old crone, who paid no attention to what was going on, but rocked her palsied body to and fro, and mumbled constantly to herself. A little child—maybe a great-great-grandchild—whose sturdy limbs were a strong contrast to the withered legs and arms of the old woman, sat by her side. The grandame attempted now and then to stroke the little thing's head, the only sign she showed of being conscious of the world around her. All the occupants of the hut were remarkably handsome. Leslie, who so well delineates pretty childhood, should visit Albania. I verily believe no children in the world are so beautiful as these little Arnauts. Their costume is not graceful. A woollen sack is thrown over them, and their arms and legs are thickly swathed with the same material.

They are quaint little things, and the smallest has the proud, fearless, free carriage of his fine race. There was one little fellow who stood in front of us here, erect, with head well up, and hands behind his back. He stared at us for a long time with big, wondering eyes, and a wonderful smile at the corners of the mouth, and then came boldly up to investigate the material of our clothing, which was evidently new to the little mountaineer.

Dinner was soon prepared. The boulim-bashi had brought some sweet cakes with him, and some mutton, which he cut into small lumps, and stuck on a skewer. They looked for all the world like catsmeat; but, when peppered, salted, and grilled in the glowing fire, they turned out those sweet and succulent morsels so appreciated by every old campaigner, known under the name of "kybobs." According to Eastern custom the wife of the master of the house poured water over our hands from an iron jar, and then we commenced to devour our dinner with our fingers, washing it down with excellent raki.

This lady of the house, by-the-bye, created a great impression on both our hearts. She was indeed exceedingly comely. Her figure had not been spoiled by labour, as are those of most of the countrywomen, nor by the want of exercise and cramped sitting position in which the legs soon lose their shape, as is the case with most of the townswomen. Her legs were bare, not swathed in the ugly manner in usage when out of doors, and very shapely legs and ankles she possessed. Her face was oval, of a rich carnation in tint. Her mouth small, and very beautiful; but her eyes were her chief feature—long, almond-shaped, and with a voluptuous dreaminess in them. Their length owed nothing to the artificial blackening of their corners with henna. She saw we admired her, and was evidently pleased. She laughed, and made eyes at us throughout the evening; and at night, when all the inmates of the room rolled themselves up in their blankets, and stretched themselves round the fire in a circle, feet to the blaze, she brought us some mats for pillows, and tucked us in very nicely with her delicate fingers.

"Bothmir, mik" (Good health, friends), was the frequent challenge of our jovial host. He insisted on our drinking a fair amount of raki. He was not backward himself; I am sorry to say even an Arnaut will get drunk upon occasion. After dinner a happy thought struck me. I rose, and plunging my hand into our saddle-bag, produced a bottle of brandy we had brought with us from Scutari. This was a great and unaccustomed luxury to the Arnauts. I do not think they had ever tasted it before. They smacked their lips over it, and repeatedly said, "Raki Inglesi mir, mir" (The English raki is good).

At last to bed. Comfortably rolled up in blankets, in spite of insects—we did not mind anything in that line now—we slept till daybreak.

The boulim-bashi then awoke us. The fire was raked up, coffee was made, our horses were saddled, the stirrup-cup was drunk over our good-byes to our friends, and we were off.

The Arnauts are very proud. It would be a grievous insult to offer a man money in return for his hospitality. The proper thing to do is to distribute what you intend to give among the children. When you are gone, the mother goes round and collects it from her offspring; it is then put away, to be expended in sugar, salt, and other necessaries, on the next market-day at Scutari.

At this great elevation the morning was bitterly cold. The aspect was very desolate—a wilderness of rock and stone, with scanty vegetation. Far away, thousands of feet beneath us, stretched the white sheet of the Lake of Scutari, looking cold in the early morning, with the bleak grey Montenegrin mountains in the background.

From sunrise to sunset we rode over the trackless and almost inaccessible mountains. We met several men during the day, fine and fierce-looking members of the Klementi tribe. Every one had a Martini-Henry rifle and a belt of cartridges. The stories we had heard of these people from the Turks at Helm were evidently true; these weapons had never been bought. Indeed their owners had little idea of their value. One mountaineer we met pointed to his rifle, and said, "Inghilterra, sa paré?" signifying that he wished to know what was its value in England. On hearing the amount he seemed much astonished, smiled grimly, stroked the weapon, and said, "Ah! the Skipitar get them for less than that."

Such an abundance of cartridges have these highlanders managed to steal that it is a common sight to see a shepherd firing his rifle in the air, at frequent intervals, to drive his sheep. The people we passed all stopped, and questioned the boulim-bashi as to who we were, and whither we were bound. On hearing that Gussinje was our destination they looked surprised, and made that clicking noise with the tongue and teeth which with us signifies pity or annoyance—in Albania, mere wonder or admiration. The sign language of this people is so utterly different from ours that it is impossible to get on with them at first. For instance, they do not shake the head when they wish to refuse anything, but bow and wave the hand, in a manner which would lead any one to imagine they meant to accept.

It was evident they all looked on us as doomed if we entered Gussinje. So far I could not make out whether they sympathized with the rebels or not.

Towards midday we reached the summit of the range, and on turning a bluff of rock there lay beneath us one of the most magnificent gorges I had ever seen, even in the Alps. The great mountain was rent into a profound ravine, whose sides were nearly perpendicular. There were places where the precipice ran down sheer, for 4000 feet at least. Where there was any footing, grand larches and beeches, tinted with the golden shades of autumn, covered the slopes. Far below one heard the roar of the great torrent, but a purple haze lay at the bottom of the gorge, and concealed the foaming waters. This ravine forms the frontier of Montenegro and Albania. As Jones suggested, a very scientific-looking frontier too.

Our destination, the village of Klementi, was situated on the edge of the torrent, some miles higher up the valley. We now had to descend from the mountain to the bottom of the ravine. A perilous descent it was. The path, a mere goat-track, zigzagged down the precipice. It was necessary to dismount, and watch the horses carefully. They stumbled every moment, and slid rather than walked. In places the path would give a sharp turn, and here the boulim-bashi would hold on to each animal's tail as he passed the awkward corner, to prevent him going right over the edge. There were some very nasty bits, and even these mountain horses trembled with nervousness at times.

We passed a house on the bank of the torrent in the afternoon. The whole family came out to see the travellers. These people were friends of our companion. The men came out, shook hands with us, and then entered into an animated conversation with the boulim-bashi on the subject of the war. While we sat on our saddles outside the house the women brought to us refreshments, apples, cakes, and raki, first taking our hands and kissing them respectfully.

This was a very long day's journey. Now riding, and now walking, we ascended the ravine, fording the torrent several times, whenever one or the other side of it afforded the better path.

The scenery was grand, but desolate; in the higher portion of the valley the forests that clothed the lower end were wanting. Great walls of rock fell sheer into the turbulent stream; and in places great fan-shaped slopes of débris—masses of mountain broken up by hurricanes—jutted out across the gorge, damming up the waters into profound pools. These gigantic wastes of black stone, streaked as they were by patches of snow in strong contrast with their whiteness, gave an impressive weirdness and desolation to the scenery.

About an hour after dark we halted before a large two-storied hut. "Scpiia Nik Leka," said the boulim-bashi—the house of Nik Leka. Here, then, we were at last in the stronghold of the notorious Arnaut chieftain. We entered the large lower room, which in every respect was similar to that in which we passed the previous night at Castrati. There were at least fifteen people squatting round the fire—men, women, and children. A tall, splendidly-built, and very handsome man came up and greeted us. He was about fifty years of age, very dark, with a much-lined, sad-looking face. He had fine black eyes, deeply sunk, and surmounted by bushy black eyebrows. There was something exceedingly frank and noble in his look—a man one could trust.

This turned out to be the brother of Nik Leka, and, as we afterwards found, much resembled that chieftain. We sat down by the fire, and all were busy in attending to our comforts, when a door opened, and, to our astonishment, there bustled in a jolly-looking little fat Franciscan monk, a very Friar Tuck. He wore the brown frock and girdle of his order; but, like all the Franciscan missionaries in Turkey, his head was covered with a fez. He was followed by a quaint, lean, smiling old Arnaut with a lamp, a simple, goodnatured-looking being—the faithful old servant of the mission; he had been for forty years in the service of the Franciscans.

The friar came up to us and shook us by the hands in a most cordial manner. "Come up to the mission," he said; "come up to the mission, and stay with us. Ah! what joy to see Europeans up in our wilderness! Come along!" and he fairly dragged us off.

Not thirty yards distant was the mission-house, a very comfortable establishment for this country—a low building, with a small church adjoining it. At the door we were met by the three other brothers, as cordial and jolly as the first.

Never did traveller fall into better hands. They all bustled about, jabbering and laughing incessantly, doing all they could for our comfort. Maccaroni and mutton kybobs were soon prepared; and they stood round, pressing us to eat, and helping us to abundant portions as we sat at the table.

I have seldom heard men laugh so heartily and boisterously as did our jolly hosts. The feeblest joke set them off in a roar. "This," said the fat little Father Luigi, pointing to the smiling servant, "this is our Lord Mayor; he looks after our corporation—ha! ha! ha!"

The dinner over, we sat down over pipes and coffee, and talked for half the night. They were really glad to see us; never were strangers so quickly made at home as we were. Of course the conversation soon turned on the object of our journey.

"Go to Gussinje!" said Father John; "impossible! You cannot go. Why they will at once cut your throat. These Turchi at Gussinje are animals—beasts—swine. O, my dear brother Edouardo, you must not go. Why, even we dare not go there; the Arnauts dare not go. Nik Leka went there three days ago, to see Ali Bey; for that beast desires an alliance with the Klementi. Nik Leka has not returned; we fear they have killed him. If so, God help this country; for the Klementis will take their guns and yataghans, and march on Gussinje to avenge their chief."

This did not sound very encouraging to us; but we had come so far that we did not relish the idea of abandoning our project now. We knew the timid monks would most probably, with very good intentions, exaggerate the dangers. As they were the only people we could converse with, we saw it would be necessary to impress them with the absolute necessity of our progressing, else they would lend us no assistance in what they considered to be a fatal journey.

Our four hosts were Italians; Luigi came from Turin, John from Naples, and the two others from Modena. I am not a proficient at Italian, so we conversed in dog Latin, putting in an Italian word now and then, when we could not call up the Latin equivalent. It was a curious mixture, but we got on fairly well with it. I had a little conversation with Jones; he was as determined as myself to visit Gussinje if at all feasible; so we decided to dissimulate a little, in order to obtain the very necessary assistance of our friends.

I said, "I know to go to Gussinje is dangerous—very dangerous possibly; but we have been sent to see Ali Bey at all hazards, and must not go back without doing so. We have friends at Gussinje, and I do not think we run so much risk as you imagine."

The worthy monks now, of course, concluded that we were political envoys; that our mission was secret, and not to be divulged to them; but that its object was to settle the Gussinje difficulty and hinder bloodshed.

They then saw that we were right in insisting in running the risk, for it was our duty to do so. They would do likewise in our place. They looked very sad, shook their heads, and said, "Ah, my brothers, but you go to a certain death. However, as you must go, we will help you; we will write a letter in Arnaut to Ali Bey, asking whether he will see you, and send men to escort you to the town. The brother of Nik Leka will take the letter. To-morrow you can ride to the hut of Gropa, in the mountain; it is but two hours from Gussinje. There you can await the reply."

The letter was written. I did not quite like the idea of playing the amateur diplomatist in this way; but we had gone too far to go back now, and without doing this there was no chance of our seeing Gussinje.

The missionaries evidently looked upon and admired us as noble martyrs, sacrificing our lives to duty. They insisted on our drinking an abundance of wine. I suppose they thought this was our last chance of so doing. We found from them (and what they said was confirmed by others) that we had been greatly misinformed by the leaguesmen of Scutari as to the strength and nature of the organization. There were not 35,000 men at Gussinje, but between 6000 and 7000. These were all Mussulmen—Albanians and Bosnian refugees, and deserters from the Turkish army—a frightful rabble, the scum of this part of Europe. Artillery they had none.

They told us that an army of 10,000 Montenegrins, with some field artillery, was encamped in a strong position, not two hours' march from Gussinje.

The general of the Black Mountaineers was Marco Milano, a man who has already made himself a name in former wars. Of him, most probably, the world will hear more some day. From all accounts he is a man of uncommon ability, one of those strong characters that inspire confidence in all whom they come across. He is an Albanian by birth, from the neighbourhood of Gussinje. Irritated by some injustice he had received at the hands of the Turks, he fled from his native land, and took refuge in the Black Mountain, where his talents soon brought him to the front. As a renegade always is, he is the bitterest foe to his race, and his voice is ever for a policy of war and aggression. This, at any rate, is his reputation in Albania.

As for the Catholic Arnauts, who the Scutarines told us were fighting for the league, not one of these people sympathized with the insurgents in the slightest degree. They knew too well that if these Mussulmen succeeded in their projects it would go hard with the Christians. At this time the mollahs in Gussinje had taken up arms, and were exciting the population to religious frenzy, preaching the death of all infidels. Ali Bey, a wise man, was indeed working hard to gain as allies the powerful Arnaut tribes. He had invited Nik Leka, the most influential chieftain of the north, to Gussinje for this object. "Nik Leka," said Padre Luigi, "will talk to him—talk as much as Ali likes—he is a regular diplomat; but fight for the beasts of Turchi—not he. He may promise to allow bands of men to go unmolested through these mountains on their way to Gussinje, but he will want an equivalent for that. The Arnauts hate the Montenegrins and Turchi alike; most probably they will shoot and plunder detached parties of both sides."

The missionaries spoke very highly of the Christian highlanders.

"Ah! they have many virtues," they said. "Good friends, good fathers, good husbands; kind to each other, truthful, hospitable, never treacherous; they are a noble people. But," continued Luigi with a sigh, "they are such savages, so utterly indifferent to human life. They have but one absorbing vice, and that is their love of murder."

This cruel vendetta of theirs, which decimates the population, is horrible. There are no really old men. Every man is murdered sooner or later. It is thus they wish to die. To die in bed is a disgrace. In battle they behead their own wounded friends; this is looked on as a favour; for to survive, maimed and unfit for war, would bring lasting reproach on a warrior and his family.

Nik Leka's brother walked off with the letter for Ali Bey at midnight. He carefully loaded his pistols and rifle before starting.

CHAPTER XVI.

The mission-house—Gropa—The mandolin—A letter from Ali Bey—A trap—Our throats in danger—Retreat—Nik Leka—Proverbs—A pleasant evening.

The next morning we were up early. The good priests would not hear of our leaving them till after the midday meal. "Gropa is but three hours or so from here," they said; "you have lots of time to stay and look over our church."

The little mission-house of Selz, as this the chief hamlet of the Klementi is called, is built on a terrace in the hill side, which commands a grand view of the ravine; gigantic bare cliffs of dark stone shut it in on every side. A small graveyard, where are buried all the monks that have died since the institution of the mission, lies to the front of the residence.

We went inside the little chapel. Very primitive and rough paintings of Biblical incidents ornamented the walls, the productions of the monks. Most of these were some 200 years old at least. The Franciscans have undoubtedly done much good in Albania. They have been here from a very remote time. They have suffered persecutions, have died the death of martyrs, but have succeeded in completely winning the affections of the wild Arnauts. As Luigi said to me, "Why, should one of us be ill-used by the Turks, the whole of the mountains would rise in our defence. We need fear nothing here now." The headquarters of the order in Albania is at Scutari, where there is a large convent. I was much struck by the evidently sincere respect and love all the mountaineers entertained for their spiritual fathers. One could see that these men must be doing good here.

Before we started for Gropa, the snow began to fall heavily. We bid adieu to our good hosts. They kissed us and wept over us, for they feared we should never return, and insisted on filling our saddle-bag with wine, maize, bread, and mutton. Gropa, which signifies in the Albanian tongue the hollow, is not a village, but a miserable one-roomed hut, situated at the extreme end of the ravine, by the source of the torrent.

The path was coated with ice, and very perilous for the horses. Our guide, a savage-looking Klementi, walked bare-footed over the sharp stones and frozen snow with utter indifference.

The hut was nearly snowed up when we reached it. It was a desolate spot. A black pine-wood rose behind it on the hill-side. An hour's walk through this would have brought us to the summit of the ridge which overlooks Gussinje. The hut was inhabited by a man, his wife, and one child. A blazing fire was made up; then converting our mutton into kybobs, we made a capital dinner. They gave us coffee, but sugar they had none. Our guide, who had lately walked bare-footed over the ice quite at his ease all the time, now placed his feet in the ashes of the fire with a like indifference. Extremities of heat and cold affected the hardy highlander very little.

Our host was a musician in his way. He took down his mandolin, and with it accompanied one of the monotonous songs of his country. The Albanian mandolin is like a small banjo with three strings, and is played not with the fingers, but a chip of hard wood or bone.

These Albanian songs are not unpleasing, barbarous as is their music. The first line of each verse is the same as the last line of the preceding verse. There is a peculiar sadness and subdued fierceness in the way they sing which is really very affecting. The song is always of war, of victories over the Karatag, feuds with the Turk, or the doings of the heroic Scanderbeg. The mandolin is peculiar to Albania. The guzla of Montenegro has but one string, and is played with a bow like a violin.

At midnight we were awakened by the entry of two men. One was the brother of Nik Leka; the other a Bosnian Mussulman, by his dress. The Arnaut clapped me on the back. "Mir, Mir," he said, "Gussinje." Then he pointed to a letter. I understood what he meant. Ali Bey had given his permission, had written a letter to the fathers to that effect, and had sent this Bosnian soldier with it to Seltz. The soldier returned to Gussinje at once, while Nik Leka's brother also left us, to carry the epistle to the Franciscan mission. All seemed now to be going well, and very delighted we were. We should see Gussinje after all.

It was early the next morning, when Father John suddenly made his appearance at the hut. He looked alarmed and anxious, and talked rapidly to our host. Something unpleasant had evidently occurred. We waited patiently till he vouchsafed to explain matters.

"I have heard from Ali Bey," he said. "Here is his letter. I will translate it to you. He writes thus:—

"'To Father John, greeting.

"'We have read—we have understood. The chiefs have assembled. If these people will be hostages, will guarantee that Marco Milano withdraw the Karatags within three days, let them come to Gussinje; if not, they had better not come.

"'From Ali Pasha.'"

This was hardly what could be called a hearty welcome. Said John, "You understand what that means. If you can guarantee that the Montenegrins withdraw their troops—"

"We cannot do that."

"Of course not. Well, if you go they will wait three days, then cut off your heads. Now Nik Leka's brother has also brought this news from Gussinje. When they heard of your arrival, some of the men said, 'We have heard of these people. They have been to Podgoritza; they are friends of the Montenegrin chiefs. They must be spies. One is a red-bearded Russian (this was Jones). They are accursed giaour traitors.' Then thirty men decided to leave Gussinje last night, and surprise and murder you here in this hut. Ali Bey heard of it, and stopped them. But Nik Leka's brother says that you had better not stay here. The Gussinians are violently excited about you; they thirst for your blood. Come back to Seltz."

We were sitting down to breakfast when we heard all this cheering and appetizing information. My back was to the door, as was Jones's, when I heard a noise outside, and the next moment I saw the Franciscan drop the meat he was holding, turn very pale, and stare in a frightened way in that direction. I turned; the doorway was blocked up by two men, evidently two of the defenders of Gussinje—one in Bosnian dress, one in Albanian festinelle. Both were armed to the teeth. Their faces were not prepossessing. There was a fierce, stern look in their eyes, which wandered anxiously and fiercely round the hut, and a determined expression in their tightly compressed lips, which meant mischief. Whether more were behind, we could not yet see.

Jones and myself were unarmed. According to the custom of the country, we had delivered our revolvers over to our host. He too, and also the priest, were without weapons. The two parties looked at each other without speaking for a moment or two. Our host's wife took her child by the hand, and looked steadily on with compressed lips, to see what would happen next. An Arnaut woman is familiar with bloodshed. However, bloodshed was not intended, it seemed. "We are envoys from Ali Pasha," said the Albanian. "Come in, then," said our host, suspiciously.

They entered, but seemed ill at ease, and suspicious of foul play. However, we made no advance towards our arms, and keeping a sharp eye on the men, continued to eat our kybobs. They sat by us.

The Albanian went on, the Franciscan translating,—"Ali Bey will see these Englishmen, but he does not wish them to enter the town; he cannot rely on his men. Ali Bey is but one man; he cannot protect them, if some wish evil to these men. Ali Bey and the chiefs will therefore meet them outside the town. Let them come with us."

It seemed improbable that Ali should have sent these men with another message, so soon after the first. The Albanian is deliberate in counsel, and does not alter his mind in this way as a rule.

"Do not go," whispered the Franciscan. "Do not believe them; there is some treachery." After what we had heard, we thought our friend might be right, therefore we refused to avail ourselves of their escort. Their faces fell. They talked long and eagerly to the priest and our host.

The priest said to me, "Listen to what I say, but show no surprise or alarm. Let them not think I am telling you this. They are talking to our host about you. They say you are spies, and they are endeavouring to raise his suspicions of you; they mean you evil. O amici," he said in his dog Latin, "multum est periculum per vos."

I now entered into an explanation of our journey. I showed that it was the most natural thing in the world that we had visited Montenegro; and soon disarmed any suspicion our host entertained; but the two Gussinians stuck to the point. The Bosnian turned fiercely to the Arnaut. "By Allah," he said, "they are spies. We have twenty friends in the hills behind here; since they will not come with us, we will kill them here; now is the time." I remember the very words in which Father John, with pale face, translated this to us: "Ille homo," he said, "dixit ad alium, Nunc est tempus intercidere illos homines." The Arnaut spoke. He stood up in his hut with quiet dignity, and without showing the least excitement said, "These are my guests. You think that I will assist you to kill them. They are my friends; I will defend them. Now you are armed; we are not. Possibly you may kill us; but remember, it is nearly three hours to Gussinje. Men of our tribe have seen you approach; rest assured there are many rifles of the Klementi among the rocks. If you wish to go to Ali Bey, and not rot on the Klementi hill-sides, you had better go in peace." The men looked at each other in silence; they knew the words of the Arnaut were true, and not being yet weary of existence, swallowed their coffee and sulkily left the hut. We took our revolvers and went outside, to see if any others were in sight. There were none; but on a rock that commanded an extensive view, we saw the erect form of a white-clad Arnaut, rifle in hand, scanning the ridge of the hill. The Klementis had evidently kept their eyes open. The probability is that these men had left Gussinje without the permission or cognizance of Ali Bey, and hoped with a fabricated message from the chieftain to tempt us to follow them to some spot, away from our friends the Klementis, where an ambush lay in wait for us. In their annoyance at our refusal to accompany them, they had betrayed their object.

No sooner was this adventure concluded than the occupants of the hut sat down and continued their coffee-drinking and smoking, as if nothing had happened.

Little events of this kind are every day occurrences in this wild country, and are thought nothing of.

The woman put her hand to her throat and drew it backwards and forwards, then laughed merrily, evidently chaffing us about the two separate risks we had so recently run of losing our heads.

As it was now evident that the people of Gussinje were not very anxious to entertain us, we saw there was nothing left but to return to Scutari. We were very disappointed; but what could we do?

We rode back with Father John to Seltz. The missionaries and the Lord Mayor rushed out. They were delighted to see us return in safety. "Ah! Frater Edouardo, Frater Athol, come in. My poor friends, come in and sit down. How alarmed you must have been. Fear not; here you are safe."

During dinner our story was repeated over and over again by the gesticulative little Father John, and great was the commiseration expressed for us by the kind-hearted fellows. The Lord Mayor became very warlike. "Had they hurt you, I would have taken a gun, gone to Gussinje, and shot Ali Bey—that devil!—myself," he shouted.

While we sat round the fire after our meal, the door opened. "Nik Leka!" joyfully cried out our hosts, "Nik Leka safe! Praise be to the Lord."

The celebrated Arnaut chieftain stalked in smiling, kissed each father on the cheek, shook us warmly by the hand, and sat down by the fire. He was very like his brother, a splendid specimen of a barbarian warrior; very handsome, with an expression that curiously combined great good-nature with a certain amount of latent ferocity.

He corroborated all we had heard about the feelings entertained towards us at Gussinje, and said, "You would not live long were you in that ferri—that hell over the mountains." He himself had been obliged to escape, for his life was in danger among the fanatical inhabitants.

"They are like madmen," he said, "now—starving, desperate."

He expressed intense hatred of the Turkis, as the Albanians call all Mohammedans. "Devils," he said, "robbers. 'Ku Turku vee kambet atu sdel baar' (Where the Turk puts his foot, the grass grows not)."

Nik Leka has one vanity—he likes to be called a diplomatist. Talk to him on politics, the handsome warrior puts on a very knowing and wise expression.

Our conversation ran very much on politics to-night.

The fathers said, "These Arnauts have one wish. They know that an Albanian autonomy means Mussulman fanaticism, war, and Christians driven from the plain to starve in the mountains. What they wish is, that you English would take the country. All the mountaineers discuss this and desire it. So too do the Christian townsmen. Do you think England will occupy Albania?"

This was a poser. I did not like to say England would never dream of doing such a thing, and that Austria would have a word to say in the matter, so merely pleaded ignorance as to the counsels of my country. Nik Leka nodded his head when my response was translated to him, smiled and winked at me, as much as to say, "Ah, these priests don't understand politics. We diplomatists hold our tongues."

Nik Leka told us that our old friend the bullying Bekir Kyochi, for so is spelt a name pronounced as Bektsé Tchotché, was in Gussinje with the leaguesmen. "I should say the Scutarines will not weep much if the Montenegrins take his head," I said. "Ah," wisely replied the chieftain, "we say in Albania, 'Ana e kecie nuk schet'" (The worthless pot does not break).

Nik Leka, I found, considered that the discourse of a great diplomatist should be liberally interspersed with pithy saws and proverbs. He rolled them out with unction, and repeated each two or three times till he arrived at what he considered to be a properly emphatic delivery.

He told us he would accompany us back to Scutari; we should start early on the morrow. We were in luck; we had travelled hither with the boulim-bashi of the tribe, we were to return with its head man. We conversed till a very late hour. "A veritable Tower of Babel," said Father John, with his stentorian roar. Latin, Albanian, Italian, Sclav, and English words were flying about the room, to the utter confusion of the Lord Mayor, who sat, looking very wise and sleepy, trying to make out what on earth it all meant.

I rose very high in the estimation of Nik Leka, when he heard that it was in Latin I conversed with the fathers. I was a greater diplomatist than ever in his eyes. He was a curious fellow. He would look at me thoughtfully, then suddenly jump up, shake me violently by the hand, and cry, "Mik, Mik" (You are my friend; you are my friend)—and then burst out laughing.

A very jovial evening we all spent over the log fire, drinking the fathers' wine and raki.

CHAPTER XVII.

Rosso and Effendi—A barbaric feast—Patoulis—Mead—The future of Albania—The Italia Irridenta—Sport in Meriditia—Dick Deadeye.

Very warm and affectionate were our farewells on the morrow, when we left the good Franciscans. "Ah!" said Luigi, "it is a sad thing thus to make friends, and so soon part for ever. We may meet perhaps in some other remote land. For we Franciscans are ever changing the scene of our labour—now here, now there; in the deserts, in the teeming cities; but always in regionibus infidelium."

We saddled and mounted our horses, and commenced our ride down the ravine. Nik Leka walked; he carried with him two long pistols and a Martini-Henry rifle, all, I observed, at full cock. This was all the luggage he took with him. Honour should be given where honour is due. Never did member of the equine race behave so well as did the fat little Effendi and the lean and haggard Rosso. For twelve hours out of the twenty-four from dark to dark, for six consecutive days, did these worthy animals carry us over this wilderness of rock and ice. Fodder was scarce. Rosso lived chiefly on the rare bits of timber he met on the way. He did not care much for live trees, but had a preference for the more tasty, decayed fallen wood. He was a gourmand in his way.

Effendi had a more delicate stomach; a diet of fresh fallen snow had greater charms for him than any other. We found they were of one mind, or rather stomach, in their intense relishing of maize bread.

Our return journey was rendered difficult and dangerous by the frozen snow which covered the mountains. However, just as the sun was setting we approached the hut of Castrati.

Half a mile from it we passed a woman. She stopped, and spoke to us. We at once recognized the pretty, smiling face. It was our old friend the wife of the owner of the house. She ran on before us to apprize her husband of our arrival. Nik Leka evidently saw that we admired the lady. He was much tickled, slapped me on the shoulder, and said, "Castrati mir" (Nice place, Castrati).

"Ah," I said, "Grue Castrati fort mir" (The women of Castrati very nice).

The chieftain roared with laughter. My remark was repeated over and over again in the hut this evening, and much amused every one.

On entering the hospitable house, our host and all the other inhabitants of it came forward, and gave us a very cordial welcome. They were genuinely glad to see us back safe. Nik Leka told our story. They laughed, pointed to their throats, and shook us by the hands. Our pretty hostess, speaking broken Albanian, so that we might understand her, added, "Gussinje yok mir, Castrati mir."

A lot of neighbours came in. Every one was bustling about; preparations were being evidently made for a grand feast in our honour.

The old crone in the corner was just where we had left her; I don't suppose she had moved since. She was awakened from her lethargy by the unwonted hubbub, looked peevishly round now and then, and mumbled savagely.

I must describe this evening's feast in full, so characteristic was it. The fire, as I before said, was lit in the middle of the mud floor, the smoke escaping as it could. Huge logs—I ought rather to say trees—were now piled on. A tremendous blaze was made up.

When we entered, the fire was low, a loaf of maize cooking in the embers.

The method of making these loaves is simple. When the fire has burnt long, and the floor beneath is thoroughly hot, the ashes are scraped away in the centre, the loaf is placed on the bare mud, and an iron cover, which fits closely to it, placed above it. Then the hot ashes are once more raked back till they entirely bury the loaf and its cover; and the baking commences.

Our host went out and killed the fatted sheep, and proceeded to prepare it for roasting whole. A slit was made down the belly, the entrails were taken out, the feet were tucked into the slit, which was then carefully sewed up, and a wooden spit was run right through the carcase from head to tail.

It was brought in and placed over the fire. The spit worked on two rough logs, one of the women turning it with her hand.

We commenced our dinner by coffee drinking. There is certainly but one way of making coffee—that in vogue in these regions. Let my readers attend to this receipt, and try it.

On the fire is a pot of boiling water. A small saucepan, with a long handle, just big enough to hold a coffee cup of water is taken (N.B. a small Turkish coffee cup). Into it is thrown a teaspoonful of coffee, freshly ground and freshly roasted, also a lump of sugar.

Boiling water is poured on it till the saucepan is full. Then the saucepan is put on the fire. It boils over, is taken off for ten seconds. Three times this operation is repeated, then the thick fluid is poured into the cup; and delicious it will be found to be, if you once get over your prejudice against grounds. We and all the other men squatted on our rugs round the blazing fire and roasting sheep, and commenced our dinner, the women, according to Eastern fashion, standing or sitting in the corners of the room, watching us, and waiting till we had done, when they would come in for their share of the feast. The old crone was a favoured person; a bone was occasionally thrown to her by the host while we dined, which she seized in her skeleton hands, and sucked greedily with her toothless chaps.

There was a knowing old dog by her who knew, and took a mean advantage of, her blindness and weakness, for he managed occasionally to steal a succulent morsel out of her very hands.

While the sheep was roasting we were obliged to eat little delicacies, intended, I suppose, to tickle our appetites. Our host would take "patoulis" from the ashes of the fire (a sort of rancid, heavy dripping cake), smear them thickly with honey, then on the top of all scatter large lumps of goat's-milk cheese, and hand them to us in a pressing way that permitted no refusal.

We were forced to eat so many of these that the roasting sheep, of which we knew we would have to partake freely, turned before our eyes like a horrid nightmare. Meanwhile Nik Leka looked on benignantly as he put away the cakes in a way that surprised us.

We washed down all this with a very greasy sort of mead. Though of a fairly omnibibant nature, we could hardly stomach this. At last we came to the "misch i pickun," as the roasted sheep is called. Our host cut it up with his yataghan, then proceeded to tear the flesh with his fingers. We were well looked after, and treated as honoured guests. The Arnaut would pull off some rich lump of fat, enclosing a kidney, and hand it to one of us. The meat was really very good; all its richness is kept in by this way of cooking, but probably a delicate-stomached person might not relish the idea of devouring lumps of tepid mutton fat with his fingers, without bread or salt.

I think I did very creditably at this meal. I know Jones, who finally collapsed and could do no more, looked at me with amazement. Fat and lean and crackling followed each other. Our host and Nik Leka did not leave me alone for a moment. Now and then one of them would tear off a large shred of meat, and stuff it into our saddle-bag for the next day's provision.

At last we were as replete as Homer's heroes. Indeed the whole scene carried one back to those days. The besiegers of Troy lit the fire of logs, and roasted the beasts whole, and ate till they could not stand or talk, just as did these no less savage Arnauts. Just like these too, when the banquet was over, did they show their gratitude to their host, and appreciation of his hospitality, by frequent hiccups and belchings.

The women and dogs gobbled up the remains in their corner, as we smoked our cigarettes and toasted ourselves in old raki.

We were up before daylight the next morning. It had snowed heavily in the night, so our descent to the plain was slow, and not unattended with danger. Our good-byes at Castrati before starting were affectionate and protracted. "Me teneson miku idaxtun!" (Good-bye, dear friends), were the last words of our pretty hostess, as she waved her hand to her departing admirers.

At the khan of Koplik, where we were beginning to be well known (this was our fourth visit to it), we lunched off the fragments of the sheep which our host had thrown into our saddle-bags in the exuberance of his hospitality on the previous night. It was dark long before we entered the intricate lanes of the faubourg of Scutari. So here we were once again, having failed in our attempt to reach Gussinje. However, the expedition had not been altogether a vain one. We had seen a good deal of the manners and customs of the Arnaut; had journeyed away from the main roads into the heart of the great mountains, where, I believe, none of our countrymen had ever ventured before; and again, we had learnt a good deal more of the real strength of the league than a month's inquiries at Scutari could have taught us. Not that I did not take the Franciscans' account with a few grains of salt. The fathers hated the Mussulmen, and were anxious to withdraw our sympathies from the defenders of Gussinje.

The world will hear a good deal of the doings of this Albanian League some day, so a few remarks on what, from my observations, I consider to be the real condition of affairs, will not, I think, be here out of place.

The chiefs of the association are, I believe, honest men, patriotic, and determined to carry out their programme to the death.

Ali Bey is spoken very highly of even by the Montenegrins, and if reports prove true, will show himself no indifferent general.

Nearly every Mussulman in Albania is a member of the league, and its forces are daily swollen by refugees from Bosnia and deserters from the Turkish army.

That Turkey at first secretly assisted and encouraged the movement, I think there can be no doubt. At any rate it is certain that the Porte's representatives, even her highest officers in this country, openly sympathized with it.

But the league has waxed too strong for the government, who could not crush it now were it desirous of doing so. The leaguesmen, feeling their strength, have extended their programme. Defence of their native land against foreign invasion is now not their only cry, but Autonomy, and the shaking off of the Turkish yoke are boldly discussed in the bazaars of the garrison towns.

The Montenegrin difficulty may be settled; the principality may agree to take some lands near Antivari in lieu of the Gussinje and Plava district; but there are other and more serious complications behind.

To resist the advances of Austria on the north and Greece on the south are the avowed objects of the league. It is only too probable that the dual empire will be compelled to carry her arms into this province; for a lawless, fanatical, self-ruling Albania will be far too troublesome and dangerous a neighbour for her disaffected Bosnia. An occupation of Albania is confidently spoken of by all the Austrian officers I met in Dalmatia.

But an invasion of this country will be no mere military promenade. As mountainous, and as easy of defence as Montenegro—inhabited by at least as warlike a race, and better armed, Albania may prove as hard a nut to crack, as the Black Mountain has proved to Turkey, who for hundreds of years has in vain hurled army after army to perish on those grey rocks.

I think there can be little doubt, too, that the Christian Arnauts will join the league, in case of any invasion. They, too, love their independence—for independent they practically are, the Turkish yoke never having been felt in these wild hills.

Passionately fond of war, poor and starving, as the highlanders have been since the Turco-Russian war, the certainty of plunder, if nothing else, would compel them to join one side or the other,—and which that side would be it is not difficult to say. That the Turks can effectually interfere is quite impossible. Any one who knows how high-strung the Mussulman sentiment now is, how insubordinate the generally obedient ill-treated Turkish soldier has now become, can easily foresee what would be the natural result of a Turkish general leading his men to fight against their co-religionists, in order to force them to deliver their country to the giaour. They would mutiny, lay down their arms, fraternize with the men they had been incited to slay. It would be the tale of Mehemet Ali over again.

I see some wild story went the round of the European papers, to the effect that Muktar Pasha had led a force against Gussinje, and had been assassinated. As a matter of fact he was, to my knowledge, nowhere near Gussinje at the time. But such would be the fate of any commander who led Turkish troops on so unholy an errand.

The Montenegrins have openly declared that they will treat the soldiers of the league as rebels, giving no quarter. They are very sanguine; but in my opinion if the Black Mountaineers and the Albanians are allowed to settle their quarrel by themselves, no other power intervening, we may hear of Ali Bey at Cettinje, before we hear of Marco Milano at Gussinje.

How the Albanian difficulty will end it is difficult to see. That the troubles of this lawless province of Turkey may indirectly lead to serious complications is more than likely.

Beyond the Adriatic, too, lies another power, that is eagerly watching the progress of matters—Italy.

The Italia Irridenta party is very anxious that the government should lay a claim to Albania, when the day of Turkey's dismemberment comes.

All Italians consider that their country has been slighted and left in the cold in the recent adjustment of oriental affairs. The Austrians, without striking a blow, have acquired Bosnia and Herzegovina. England and France have assumed a sort of protectorate over Egypt, even Greece has gained territory.

That Italy is casting covetous eyes on Albania is certain; and equally certain is it, that she would be seriously annoyed if Austria should occupy the whole eastern Adriatic shore, from Trieste to the Ægean.

In Albania, one half of the inhabitants are Roman Catholics. The priests, who here have great influence, are all Italians by birth.

These are accused of intriguing in the interest of their government, of sowing seeds of rebellion among their flocks. On this point I am not capable of giving an opinion. The Franciscan missionaries I met seemed to be anything but friendly disposed towards the rulers of their native land.

That the Italians have carried on intrigues down the whole East Adriatic coast is certain. At the present moment the Albanian League are in doubt whether to offer the princedom of their country, when they have liberated it, to Ali Pasha, Midhat Pasha, or to a prince of the house of Savoy. Whatever may eventuate, there is one thing very certain; this is, that neither Mussulman nor Christian in Albania are likely ever again to take up arms in defence of the Turkish Government. They are sick of it.

The Mohammedans see that it is impotent to forward their interests in any way. The Arnauts, who fought well for Turkey in the last war, have been treated with great ingratitude ever since. They will only fight in the future in independent defence of their country against the foreigner.

If we are to believe the latest news from these regions; most of the Christian clans have at last decided to join the league. When I was in the country they were in a wavering and undecided state.

If this news be true, there is every prospect of a long-protracted and ferocious war, for the Albanians are a terrible foe, and not easily to be crushed when they once rise in earnest to defend their country, as history has more than once showed. With such a leader as Ali Pasha seems to be—of great ability, of intense zeal, ambitious to be a second Scanderbeg—the autonomy of Albania may not be far off, and probably may not be so very undesirable a thing.

For here we have a people in religion, sentiment, and race, utterly differing from those Greeks and Sclavs, to whose mercies Mr. Gladstone would like to see their native land delivered. They are a people quite apart from the other eastern Adriatic peoples—a noble race, that deserves its opportunity quite as much as do Montenegro and Bulgaria. This question is attracting little attention now, but I should not be surprised to find that before long this attempt of a brave people to acquire its independence will gain the sympathies of the English.

Ingratitude is not an Albanian vice. It might happen that an Albanian principality might prove, in some future time, an ally not to be despised.

I will conclude these remarks by once more repeating, that any one who travels in these countries with unbiassed mind must be of opinion that the Albanians are quite as likely—to say the least of it—to prove capable of self-government, as are any of the southern Sclav peoples, and that unless it be deemed best that Austria, or some other great power, occupy the country, it would be well that autonomy were granted to them, and exceedingly unwise to deliver them over to Greece and the neighbouring Slav states, who have quite enough to do in looking after their own affairs.

On arriving at Toshli's, Brown, Robinson, our landlords, and other friends, expressed their delight, and even astonishment, at seeing us once more with our heads securely planted on our shoulders.

We exchanged experiences with Brown and Robinson. They chaffed us a little on our failure in Gussinje; but we found that we could return the compliment. When they left us for the Miridite mountains they (Robinson especially) were exceedingly sanguine as to the success of their sporting expedition. They would return to Scutari with a train of mules laden with the skins of the beasts they had slain. They were going to make such a bag as had never been heard of in Albania.

Now that they had returned they were remarkably reserved as to their doings in the mountains. They came back empty-handed—of course because they could not procure horses to carry the spoil.

At last—first from one, and then from the other—the true story leaked out. Their sport had been a dismal failure. They found that the highlands were, to say the least, chilly at this late season.

Marco struck, and would proceed no further into the snow-covered wilderness, for our Arnaut follower had a liking for warmth, and a not unnatural hatred and fear of the fierce brigands of the Meriditia, who are the terror of all the country in the vicinity of their mountain fastnesses.

Under these circumstances they returned to the lowlands, and visited the seaport of Alessio, and some other neighbouring towns. The chief events of their expedition were the great hospitality they received from a Roman Catholic bishop in one place, and from a self-elected pasha, an ex-brigand, in another.

Another follower had been added to our party during our absence. This was one of those Bohemian dogs one occasionally comes across in cities. A disreputable improvident, albeit clever and good-natured animal. He had a profound contempt for orientals, and we were told invariably made the acquaintance of any Europeans who visited Scutari. He generally managed to pick up something at the consulates, but lived a very hand-to-mouth sort of life; he was liked as a jolly fellow by the decent dogs of Scutari. If any canine that ever prided himself on his respectability scorned to associate with him, he, at any rate, had cause to repent, if he audibly expressed his disgust in the vagabond's presence. When the frontier commission was in Albania, this dog attached himself to the English delegates, and was by them named "Dick Deadeye," from his striking personal resemblance to that discontented mariner on board H.M.S. "Pinafore." Dick Deadeye was out of town when we were last at Scutari; but as soon as he returned and heard that Englishmen were in the town, he hurried off to Toshli's, called on Robinson and Brown, and kindly offered to accompany us whithersoever we might wish to go.

A very affectionate old friend he turned out to be; very useful, too. When the savage Albanian dogs would rush out from some wayside farm-house to yelp at the strangers' heels, Dick Deadeye would soon settle them.

The season was now far advanced; snow fell nearly every other day; and it was evident that it would be difficult, and very unpleasant, to travel further in this roadless country this year. Some of our party, too, wished to be in London by Christmas. So, after holding a somewhat stormy counsel, we decided to leave Scutari in three days' time, and march to the port of Dulcigno, where we should just arrive in time to meet the coasting steamer from Corfu to Trieste.

CHAPTER XVIII.

The coffin—A pasha's death—Horse-dealing—The postman—Brigands—An hotel bill—Down the Bojana—Dulcigno—Pirates—Farewell.

We spent these last three days in purchasing arms and other curiosities. Between us we collected a very arsenal of strange weapons of every kind. A carpenter at the bazaar constructed a box for us in which to pack them. This box was about six feet in length, and somewhat more than two feet in breadth. It looked uncommonly like a coffin. The ever-ingenious Robinson, when it arrived at Toshli's spent a whole evening in painting a ghastly-looking mummy on the cover, and other horrible ornaments on its sides. As may be imagined, it created some interest on our journey.

The day after our return to Scutari the pasha very suddenly died, whereupon the whole city rejoiced much and openly, and indulged in more raki than was good for it.

The doctors attributed his decease to apoplexy. It seems he had drunk a cup of coffee, when suddenly he complained of intense pain, and vomited. In ten minutes he was no more. Turkish pashas are strangely subject to this curious and fatal illness, which, in nearly all cases, follows the drinking of a cup of coffee or sherbet.

Perhaps it is in consequence of the well-known antipathy between these beverages and the pashaic stomach that so many of these distinguished men have taken to Veuve Cliquot, notwithstanding the Koran's strict ordinance. No one in Scutari for a moment doubted that poison was the true cause of the mysterious complaint. Of course there was no post-mortem. The Mussulman has a superstitious objection to any mutilation of the human body, in life or death.

Our faithful companions, Rosso and Effendi, had next to be sold. We marched them up and down the bazaar day after day, Marco loudly dilating on their many virtues. No one seemed very anxious to purchase at our price. The dealer who had sold us Rosso offered us one-fifth of the sum we had paid for him originally. Yet we had decidedly improved the animal's condition.

At last we managed to sell Effendi to the Austrian consul. But Rosso hung on our hands to the very morning of our departure. No one would have him at any price, even his original owner retracted his offer. Should we be obliged to leave the poor animal a homeless vagabond, to wander about the streets of Scutari in search of a master, begging for crusts to keep life within those pathetic ribs? It seemed like it.

Brown, in despair, wandered through the alleys of the bazaar, eagerly informing the merchants that he had a red horse for sale.

"Rosso Vendetta," as he expressed it, which, if it means anything, means a sanguinary blood-feud. The quiet Christian merchants must have imagined that the Englishman was running amuck, and was about to slaughter them all.

At the last moment the khanji of the khan where Rosso was lodged and fed came to us, and offered us 200 piastres—about 30s.—for our noble steed. We had to accept it, for the animal was hardly worth taking to England with us.

It was a bright sunny morning when we bid a final adieu to our numerous friends at Scutari, and started for the coast. We had sent the coffin and our other baggage on in advance, on the backs of the mules of the British consulate postman. There is no post-office or postal service of any kind in North Albania, so letters are sent to the coast in this way, to be taken up by the passing steamers.

The office of letter-carrier is of some importance in this country, for it is in the gift of the government, the carriers having the monopoly of the transport of all goods from town to town. As there are no roads, and hence no carts in North Albania, everything has to be carried on the backs of horses or mules; this of course accounts for the very high prices of all imported goods.

Each carrier owns some twenty horses, and his calling would be an exceedingly lucrative one were it not for the heavy black-mail levied on him by the brigands.

The carrier to Dulcigno to whom we had entrusted our baggage, had, we were told, been stopped on his road three times within the last few months.

The whole business is managed very quietly. On some lonely portion of the way, a picturesque gentleman, armed to the teeth, suddenly appears, and in few words persuades the drivers to deliver up their charge. These in a philosophically resigned manner accept their ill-luck; discussion they know would be useless, as the muzzles of several long Albanian guns peep ominously from the rocks above.

We paid Toshli's bill, which was quite a curiosity in its way.

Our landlord had been to some conventual school in his youth, and had acquired the rudiments of the classic tongues. He now utilized his knowledge, by setting down the many items of his account in what he imagined was Latin.

Occasionally, where his memory of that language failed him, he would put down the name of some comestible in Greek.

He must have taken great trouble in the composition of this document; he came up with it smiling, evidently very proud of it, and remarked that as we did not understand Albanian, he had done his best to make it intelligible for us.

The total looked enormous, calculated as it was in piastres, more like a national debt than an hotel bill. We shuddered as we contemplated the four figures of the total. However, a little calculation showed us that we were not about to be burdened with an impossible debt, which might keep us here in pawn for the rest of our days.

The port of Dulcigno is situated half a day's march north of the mouth of the Bojana, the river that takes off the waters of the Lake of Scutari to the sea.

The pleasantest way of making the journey, we were told, was to descend the river by boat to a certain bend near the sea, and thence go on on foot.

We accordingly hired a londra which lay alongside the quay by the bazaar.

Our landlords, the Boulem-Bashi of Klementi, and some of our other friends, came to see us off. After a good deal of hand shaking the four Englishmen, Marco, Dick Deadeye, and two Albanian boatmen, embarked, and we were soon descending the river on the top of a strong current.

It would be a very good speculation to run a small steamer to Scutari.

The navigation of the Bojana is easy, and the imports into Scutari from abroad are considerable. But I suppose this would be an infringement of the monopoly granted to the carriers; and it will be long ere the authorities perceive the advantages of this mode of transport over the slow, expensive, and dangerous carriage on the backs of mules and horses, across a land unprovided with roads.

Dick Deadeye was in a very melancholy state of mind during this voyage. He lost his appetite, and grumbled to himself a good deal.

He had before this descended the Bojana with Frankish friends, and knew that there was a great water further on, associated in his mind with partings and sorrow; for whenever his companions reached its shores, they would go away from him in a big londra, never to return.

He looked very plaintively at us all the day, for he knew that the cruel old story was to be repeated.

Early in the afternoon we reached the bend in the river that had been described to us, so once more shouldered our guns and commenced our march. Our way lay across a flat country covered with a dense jungle of thorn. The road was if possible more abominable than any other we had met with during our whole journey.

It was not till late at night that we reached Dulcigno, and took up our quarters in a dirty little khan, for this port possesses no such thing as an hotel. We cooked some beef, and after a good supper retired to a hay-loft, where we were able to make ourselves very comfortable for the night.

The next morning we were able to inspect Dulcigno. A very picturesque little place it is, built at the foot of a fine valley, which opens on the sea. There is no harbour, properly speaking—merely an unprotected roadstead. We were told that the Austrian Lloyd's steamers did not touch here now, but anchored off a valley some two hours further north, where there was better shelter. When the wind blows strong on shore, the steamer cannot touch even there.

Dulcigno is a town of about 6000 inhabitants. These are for the most part Mussulmen. They have a peculiarly ferocious look, and seem to have little occupation.

Dulcigno was once a prosperous place, for many a ship was here launched and equipped for piratical purposes. Her sailors were renowned as being the bravest and most ferocious buccaneers of the Mediterranean. We have now come to look upon piracy as such an extinct profession, in the Mediterranean at least, that it seems strange to remember that it is, after all, but a few years since this was the ostensible occupation of the whole population of this coast. Many of the discontented, wild-looking fishermen we saw mending their nets on the shingle beach well remembered the good old times, and had themselves taken a part in seizing some stately Italian schooner, or bright-coloured Dalmatian felucca. We found the carrier and his string of horses just starting for the spot off which the Austrian Lloyd anchors, to unload or take on board goods for and from Scutari. As several of the horses were without burdens, we were able to ride. The road from Dulcigno to the little bay to which we were bound was across the most fertile and cultivated country we had yet seen in Albania. We passed through very forests of olives; groves of oranges covered the steep hills that sloped down to the calm Adriatic; pretty white houses, built in the Italian style, were seen rising from the groves; and the people we met on the way had a prosperous look about them, which astonished us, and reminded us that we were approaching civilization.

At last we came on a valley whose slopes were entirely covered with olives. At the foot of this valley, the two hills that formed it projected into the sea, terminating in precipitous cliffs, thus forming a little shingle-fringed bay. This was our destination. By the shore were pitched three or four tents, where were encamped a body of soldiers—I presume, on coast-guard duty; for their officer had rather a queer discussion with Marco as to the contents of our coffin. He wished to have it opened. Marco indignantly refused to allow anything of the sort to be done. "They are Englishmen," he said. This, he thought, was a sufficient explanation. The good fellow had one definite and fixed idea, at any rate, on the subject of Englishmen. He considered that they were a worthy and eccentric people, who had no country of their own, but who, by divine right, were entitled to do exactly what they liked in any country, not being subject to any laws whatever. This idea, I have found, is shared with him by many of my travelling countrymen.

There was a shrill whistle, and the steamer suddenly appeared round the southern point.

We placed our baggage in a boat, bid adieu to Marco, who kissed our hands over and over again, and wept to see us go; enjoined him to see Dick Deadeye safely back to Scutari—and embarked. Poor Dick Deadeye was inconsolable. It required Marco and two soldiers to hold him back from jumping into the boat after us. The wailings of the poor old dog were most pathetic.

I suppose that he is now vagabondizing about the capital once more, philosophizing on the inconstancy of human friendship. By this time, probably, he has re-attached himself to his old friends the frontier commissioners, who, I believe, were to renew their labours this May. Our general appearance, our baggage, especially the coffin with its painted lid, caused some amusement on the steamer.

I will not enter into the incidents of our return journey. For seven days we steamed along the wild coast, and among the rocky islands, till we reached Trieste, whence we took train for Calais, and so back to London. It was just after that heavy snowstorm that extended over nearly half of Europe.

From Trieste to London the whole country was deeply buried. At Venice the snow was two feet deep. In Paris all traffic had been stopped. London was little better.

And now I must bid farewell to those that have followed me thus far; and to those that seek a tourist-unexplored, not over-inaccessible country, for a summer tour, let me strongly recommend these interesting lands of ancient Illyria.

FINIS.

LONDON: GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, PRINTERS, ST. JOHN'S SQUARE.

A Catalogue of American and Foreign Books Published or Imported by Messrs. Sampson Low & Co. can be had on application.

Crown Buildings, 188, Fleet Street, London, April, 1880.

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ALPHABETICAL LIST.

A Classified Educational Catalogue of Works published in Great Britain. Demy 8vo, cloth extra. Second Edition, revised and corrected to Christmas, 1879, 5s.

About (Edmond). See "The Story of an Honest Man."

About Some Fellows. By an Eton Boy, Author of "A Day of my Life." Cloth limp, square 16mo, 2s. 6d.

Adventures of Captain Mago. A Phœnician's Explorations 1000 years B.C. By Leon Cahun. Numerous Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 7s. 6d.; plainer binding, 5s.

Adventures of a Young Naturalist. By Lucien Biart, with 117 beautiful Illustrations on Wood. Edited and adapted by Parker Gillmore. Post 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, New Edition, 7s. 6d.

Afghan Knife (The). A Novel. By Robert Armitage Sterndale, Author of "Seonee." Small post 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.

Afghanistan and the Afghans. Being a Brief Review of the History of the Country, and Account of its People. By H. W. Bellew, C.S.I. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.

Alcott (Louisa M.) Jimmy's Cruise in the "Pinafore." With 9 Illustrations. Second Edition. Small post 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.

—— Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag. Square 16mo, 2s. 6d. (Rose Library, 1s.)

—— Little Men: Life at Plumfield with Jo's Boys. Small post 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, 3s. 6d. (Rose Library, Double vol. 2s.)

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Alcott (Louisa M.) Old-Fashioned Girl. Best Edition, small post 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 3s. 6d. (Rose Library, 2s.)

—— Work and Beginning Again. A Story of Experience. 1 vol., small post 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. Several Illustrations. (Rose Library, 2 vols., 1s. each.)

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Andersen (Hans Christian) Fairy Tales. With Illustrations in Colours by E. V. B. Royal 4to, cloth, 25s.

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Art of Reading Aloud (The) in Pulpit, Lecture Room, or Private Reunions. By G. Vandenhoff, M.A. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.

Art Treasures in the South Kensington Museum. Published, with the sanction of the Science and Art Department, in Monthly Parts, each containing 8 Plates, price 1s. In this series are included representations of Decorative Art of all countries and all times from objects in the South Kensington Museum, under the following classes:—

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Autobiography of Sir G. Gilbert Scott, R.A., F.S.A., &c. Edited by his Son, G. Gilbert Scott. With an Introduction by the Dean of Chichester, and a Funeral Sermon, preached in Westminster Abbey, by the Dean of Westminster. Also, Portrait on steel from the portrait of the Author by G. Richmond, R.A. 1 vol., demy 8vo, cloth extra, 18s.

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The Story of the Chevalier Bayard. By M. De Berville.

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The Essays of Abraham Cowley, including all his Prose Works.

Abdallah; or the Four Leaves. By Edouard Laboullaye.

Table-Talk and Opinions of Napoleon Buonaparte.

Vathek: An Oriental Romance. By William Beckford.

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Words of Wellington: Maxims and Opinions of the Great Duke.

Dr. Johnson's Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia. With Notes.

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The Religio Medici, Hydriotaphia, and the Letter to a Friend. By Sir Thomas Browne, Knt.

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British Philosophers.

Buckle (Henry Thomas) The Life and Writings of. By Alfred Henry Huth. With Portrait. 2 vols., demy 8vo.

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Carbon Process (A Manual of). See Liesegang.

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Chant Book Companion to the Book of Common Prayer. Consisting of upwards of 550 Chants for the Daily Psalms and for the Canticles; also Kyrie Eleisons, and Music for the Hymns in Holy Communion, &c. Compiled and Arranged under the Musical Editorship of C. J. Vincent, Mus. Bac. Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d.; Organist's Edition, fcap. 4to, 5s.

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Child's Play, with 16 Coloured Drawings by E. V. B. Printed on thick paper, with tints, 7s. 6d.

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Bacon. Professor Fowler, Professor of Logic in Oxford.

Berkeley. Professor T. H. Green, Professor of Moral Philosophy, Oxford.

Hamilton. Professor Monk, Professor of Moral Philosophy, Dublin.

J. S. Mill. Miss Helen Taylor, Editor of "The Works of Buckle," &c.

Mansel. Rev. J. H. Huckin, D.D., Head Master of Repton.

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Austin. Mr. Harry Johnson, B.A., late Scholar of Queen's College, Oxford.

Hartley. } Mr. E. S. Bowen, B.A., late Scholar

James Mill. } of New College, Oxford.

Shaftesbury. } Professor

Hutcheson. } Fowler.

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—— A Strange Friendship. Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s.

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Five Years in Minnesota. By Maurice Farrar, M.A. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.

Flooding of the Sahara (The). See Mackenzie.

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Denmark and Iceland. Russia. Canada.

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Franc (Maude Jeane). The following form one Series, small post 8vo, in uniform cloth bindings:—

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