vanished, and we
longed to see the famous Black Mountains of old Montenegro.

At Danilograd we marvelled at the enormous expensive bridge which seemed
to lead to nothing but a couple of tiny villages. We missed the
picturesque Turkish houses, built indeed only for to-day like their
roads, but full of unexpected corners and mysterious balconies. The
Montenegrin houses were small and simple, four walls and a roof, like
the drawing of a three-year-old child. The only thing lacking was the
curly smoke coming from the chimney. Broad streets lined with these
houses were unexhilarating in effect, and would have been more
depressing except for the bright colours with which they were painted.

When the horses were replete after their midday meal we loaded up,
adding to our numbers a taciturn man who sat on the box. We rolled on to
Podgoritza, arriving at two o'clock in a steady downpour.

Podgoritza seemed unaware of our arrival. The streets were empty, and
the Prefect's offices were tenanted only by the porter, a Turk, who
remarked that the Prefect was taking his siesta, and seemed to think
that was the end of it.

This was awful, after being Highnesses for a week, to be treated just
like ordinary people, and perhaps to lose all chance of reaching
Cettinje that night.

"Produce the Prefect," said Jo, stamping her foot, but the Turk only
smiled and suggested a visit to the adjutant's office. Back to the
carriage we went and drove to a place like a luggage depot. No adjutant,
nothing but giggling boys. Our coachman became restive and said his
horses were tired of the rain, so we deposited the old lady,
substituted a man in American clothes who seemed sympathetic, and drove
back to the Prefect's office with him. There we found a sleepy
lieutenant who ordered coffee, while our American-speaking friend
explained to him that we were very Great People, and that something
ought immediately to be done for us. So the officer promised to get the
Prefect as soon as possible, and we went to the hotel to drink more
coffee with our baggy-trousered friend, who told us that he was one of a
huge contingent of Montenegrins who had travelled from America to fight
for the little country. "Say, who are your pals?" said a nasal voice,
and the owner, a pleasant-looking man in a broad-shouldered mackintosh,
took a seat at our table. He was also a Montenegrin, and had been mining
in America for some years. More coffees were ordered. We confided to