the
new American Montenegrin that we did not like Podgoritza, and he tried
to find excuses--the hour, the bad weather. The hotel-keeper came up and
intimated in awestruck tones that the Prefect had just looked in with
some friends.

Our appearance did not seem to impress the Prefect in the least, and
small wonder. He owned to having received a telegram about us, but there
was no motor-car available for that day, and he departed.

"The Prefect is only more unpleasant than Podgoritza," said Jo to the
American in the mackintosh; but he deduced dyspepsia.

The Prefect, having been to his office and having seen the lieutenant,
came back in five minutes, rather more suave in manner, and announced
impressively that he was going to give us his own carriage.

But the rain, the giggling boys, the smiling Turk, and the sudden drop
from royalty to insignificance had been rankling in Jo's mind. She sat
back haughtily and remarked--

"But the Sirdar promised us a motor-car."

"I will go and see if it is possible," said the Prefect, and he dashed
out into the rain. He returned full of apologies. All the motors were
out, but he would send his carriage round immediately. "A delightful
carriage," he added.

It arrived--a landau such as one would find at Waddingsgate-super-Mare,
so free from scars that every Montenegrin turned to look at it.

The hotel-keepers, our American friends, and the Prefect and his captain
stood pointing out its beauties, and we left them standing in the rain.

"I shall always put on side in this country," said Jo as she bit a large
mouthful of cheese.

We pounded along, and the day slowly grew darker. We passed an
encampment, where the firelight thrown up on to the trees made a weird
and jolly sight.

The hours passed by slowly. Suddenly (our coachman was probably dozing)
we ran into something. It was a carriage, a square grey thing. Our
coachman howled to it, and it started slowly forward up the steep hill.
A bright light streamed from the windows and cut a radiant path in the
foggy rains. Some one threw away a cigar-end. The wet road shining in
the glare of our pink candles, and the lightning flashing intermittently
so that the mountain-tops sprang out to disappear again in the darkness;
we felt as if we were living in the introduction of a mystery story from
the _Strand Magazine_.

At last in the misty rain we saw the aura of the lights of Cettinje. At
last we wound slowly into wet streets, pass