ad of the local
anti-Serbian faction; the other, a human arsenal with weapons sprouting
from his person like leaves from an artichoke, was the chief of a
notorious band of _comitadjis_, as the Balkan guerrillas are called.
They walked up and down the main street of Antivari, arms over each
other's shoulders, heads close together, lost in conversation, but
glancing quickly over their shoulders every now and then to see if they
were in danger of being overheard, exactly like the plotters in a
motion-picture play. From the earnestness of their conversation, the
obvious awe in which they were held by the townspeople, and the
suspicious looks cast in their direction by the Serbian gendarmes, I
gathered that in the near future things were going to happen in that
region. Approaching them, I haltingly explained, in the few words of
Serbian at my command, that I was an American and that I wished to
photograph them. Upon comprehending my request they debated the question
for some moments, then shook their heads decisively. It was evident
that, in view of what they had in mind, they considered it imprudent to
have their pictures floating around as a possible means of
identification. But while they were discussing the matter I took the
liberty, without their knowledge, of photographing them anyway. It was
as well, perhaps, that they did not see me do it, for the _comitadji_
chieftain had a long knife, two revolvers, and four hand-grenades in
his belt and a rifle slung over his shoulder.

From Antivari to Valona by sea is about as far as from New York to
Albany by the Hudson, so that, leaving the Montenegrin port in the early
morning, we had no difficulty in reaching the Albanian one before
sunset. Before the war Valona--which, by the way, appears as Avlona on
most American-made maps--was an insignificant fishing village, but upon
Italy's occupation of Albania it became a military base of great
importance. Whenever we had touched on our journey down the coast we had
been warned against going to Valona because of the danger of contracting
fever. The town stands on the edge of a marsh bordering the shore and,
as no serious attempt has been made to drain the marsh or to clean up
the town itself, about sixty per cent of the troops stationed there are
constantly suffering from a peculiarly virulent form of malaria, similar
to the Chagres fever of the Isthmus. The danger of contracting it was
apparently considered very real, for, before w