sounded
of a sudden. "That means third cheta assemble!" shouted Krsto. All
rushed out. Sure enough a telegram had arrived saying "The Turks are
over the border! Mobilize at once!"

Every one was delighted. The men hustled into their great-coats. The
women stuffed bread and a bottle of rakia into their torbitzas. The
officers saddled their own horses, and in a very short time the
third cheta was drawn up in line on the hill-top by the church in
marching order. The commandant made a speech. They were to behave as
Montenegrin heroes. They were not to fire a shot till the word was
given, and above all they were to do nothing that would "look
crooked in the eyes of Europe." They were a wild lot, in every kind
of ragged garment. Had had a few months' drill, so marched in step
for the first twenty yards. Then they broke rank, howled a war cry
and rushed over the hill like a pack of wolves on the trail, firing
their rifles as they went. Their officer followed on horseback and
as he topped the brow, turned in his saddle and emptied his revolver
over our heads. We sat up all night, every one wild for war.
Bandages and carbolic arrived on a mule. There was in fact some
fighting on the other side of the border between Albanians and Serbs
near Bijelopolje. War, of course, did not ensue. But for some days
the frontier was all lined with troops.

Meanwhile I wanted to go on to Plevlje in Turkish territory, and had
to wait till the local governor thought safe to let me pass. While
waiting I heard here, too, more rumours about the Prince. He was
accused of having poisoned the Minister of Justice, who had died
suddenly after dining with him. The dead man's family lived here.
They said an Austrian doctor had said it was not poison. But there
was much talk about it, and folk seemed unconvinced. I never learnt
the truth of it. The route at length being open, we crossed the
swift Tara at the bottom of a deep gorge on a most primitive ferry
of seven planks lashed together in a triangle, and the Turkish
gendarmerie on the opposite bank furnished guide and horses. Krsto
had to leave his revolver behind, and having never in his life been
out without one, was as nervous as a cat and saw brigands in every
bush. At which I laughed.

Plevlje then was a strange sight. On one side were modern up-to-date
Austrian houses with a park, smart barracks and an inn. On the hills
behind it in immense letters of white stone were the initials of
Franz Jose